Don’t act ignorant, I told them.
I let go of The Levinson, but The Levinson didn’t let go of me. I said, How many Israelites at Aptakisic have pennyguns?
The Levinson said, “All of us, Gurion.” “We delivered your instructions to all of us,” Pinker added. “Almost all of us,” Mr. Goldblum corrected, in a low, conspiratorial tone.
I said, What do you mean almost? What’s the tone?
Mr. Goldblum popped his eyes out at Pinker and The Levinson.
The Levinson and Pinker winked at Mr. Goldblum. “Well there’s a…there’s a new one we’re not friends with,” said The Levinson, “and we don’t know about him. He might be an Israelite, but he also might just be a Jew.” “He only started school this week,” said Mr. Goldblum. “He’s orthodox.” “Co-Captain Baxter knocked his hat off.”
That’s Eliyahu of Brooklyn, I said, and there are no more Jews, only Israelites. So don’t get toney just cause someone who dresses sharper than you knows more—
“It’s not cause he’s Orthodox.” “Nathan Feingold’s Orthodox.” “And he’s a really good buddy.” “It’s just we didn’t know him, right guys?” “Right.” “Yeah.” “He’s new.” “We didn’t know him.”
I know him, I said. And he’s your brother, and if you saw him get his hat knocked off and didn’t do anything about it, you should be ashamed and repentent. Not toney.
“We didn’t see him get his hat knocked off.” “We just heard about it.” “And if you say he’s our brother, then he’s our brother.” “And if you know him, then maybe he has a pennygun.” “We can’t say for sure.” “We can’t say for sure, but we’re not being toney about him, Gurion. Really.”
And it was true. At least it seemed to have become true: the tone was gone.
Do you have them on you? I said. Your weapons?
“We keep them at home,” The Levinson said. “We’re waiting.”
For what? I said.
“More instructions.”
There aren’t any more, I said.
“You’re instructing us to stop waiting?”
Sure, I said.
Then Shpritzy came out of the Quiet Room. He had a fat lip and a temple-bruise. His shirt was torn on the sleeve-seam. Besides that, he looked just like the rest of them.
“So who messed you up?” said Nakamook.
“Don’t say!” said the four. Shpritzy didn’t say.
I’m Gurion, I said to him.
“Finally,” he said.
He sat down in the middle of his friends. They were, the five of them: Shpritzy, The Levinson, Mr. Goldblum, GlassMan, and Pinker. They leaned into each other, back-slapping.
Nakamook said to me, “Why’s it okay for them to betray your Instructions?”
I said, They didn’t.
“How’s that?” he said.
Their document’s different.
“Different,” said Nakamook.
From yours, I said.
“Why different?” he said.
They’re, I said, Israelites.
“Okay,” he said. “So what, though?” he said.
You’re not, I said.
“But so what, though?” he said.
So I didn’t want you spreading my instructions.
“Spreading them to who?”
Others.
“Other goys.”
Goyim.
“Goyim, whatever. Other goyim like who? Like Vincie? Main Man? Goyim like Leevon?”
Hey—
“Or no, you mean goyim like Botha and Slokum, right? Like Floyd and Desormie? Acer and Berman? Pinge and Brodsky? — no, not Brodsky; not a goy, Brodsky. Not Berman, either.”
Listen—
“Right — I know. It’s okay. I know. I’m making it too complicated. Just goyim, right? All of the goyim. Any of the goyim. Vincie and Slokum, Main Man and Botha, Leevon and Floyd and Sandy. Same difference.”
Benji.
“What?”
I—
“Why would I spread your instructions, anyway?” he said.
I didn’t say you would — it’s just theirs say to spread them.
“These five little Cubs-fan knuckleheads here.”
Yes, I said, but—
“These little guys you don’t know — theirs say to spread them.”
Yes, I said.
“And mine not only doesn’t say spread them. Mine says burn this document or we’re enemies,” said Benji.
I know what yours says. I wrote it, I said. I wrote both of them, I said.
“Mine says if I don’t burn it we’re enemies,” he said. “Theirs say, ‘Strangers, please spread this to other strangers.’”
Other Israelites, I said.
“Other Israelite strangers.”
Yes, already. So what? I said. I said, Why don’t you just take it as a compliment, Benji?
“A compliment?” he said.
A compliment, I said. I said, You’re the only non-Israelite I ever gave it to.
“You didn’t, though,” he said. “You didn’t give it to me.”
I—
“You changed it,” he said.
But—
“You didn’t?”
I did. That’s established. We’ve long since established that. I did it for you though. Because you’re you.
“Nakamook the goy. Gentile me.”
Nakamook the friend. My best friend Benji.
“A mensch among the goyim, but a goy nonetheless.”
The only non-Israelite to whom I’d give Ulpan.
“Ulpan?”
That’s what it’s called. I changed the title of yours.
“Whose is better?” he said.
That’s, I said. That’s a weird question. I don’t think it makes… It depends on who—
“To you,” he said. “To Gurion. Whose is better? The one you gave strangers to spread to strangers, or the one you gave the goy containing the threat?”
In answer, I shrugged = I don’t want to lie to you.
“He shrugs. He’s speechless. He stammers and shrugs.”
Back off now, I said.
“‘Back off now,’ he says.”
What do you want from me? I said.
“What do you think I fucken want, man.”
You’re not an Israelite. I can’t do anything about that, Benji.
“Jesus fucking Christ.”
You want contrition? You want me to apologize? Cause you’re not an Israelite? Because I am?
A tube above us flickered and made him look dead.
Benji said, “Tch.” He said, “Nevermind.” He pulled the pencil-stub out of his hand with his teeth. “Flesh wound,” he said, and forced a laugh. He folded it up in a “Say No” brochure from the D.A.R.E. shelf by the door, said, “Relic in an envelope.” Another forced laugh and he left into Main Hall.
I had done, from the beginning, the best I could. Why couldn’t he see that? Why can’t he see that? Why can’t he see my side of things? I thought. But he did, I knew — he did see my side. And so I attempted to see his side and saw it, and saw that I’d seen it — I’d always seen it; I hadn’t missed anything — I just wasn’t on it. Benji’d get over it. He’d have to get over it. It wasn’t a thing I had to get over.
I pressed all my fingers against all my fingers while cracking sounds echoed all across Main Hall; Benji was flying at ceiling-hung EXIT plaques, overhead-punching them off their cheap mounts.
My fingers wouldn’t break.
The cracking sounds stopped.
For three or four seconds, Main Hall was quiet.
Then Benji set off the fire alarm.
The sky was always prettiest when I hadn’t known I’d see it. It seemed less round, more like a blanket. The clouds all looked sewn in and deliberate.
As soon as we got outside, I felt watched.
For mid-November, it wasn’t cold. The air didn’t make steam of our breath or crust our gooze, but still I was coatless and I shivered a little.