Portnoy’s Complaint

Kay and I climb into the back seat, with the dog. Kay's dog! To whom she talks as though he's human! Wow, she really is a goy. What a stupid thing, to talk to a dog- except Kay isn't stupid! In fact, I think she's smarter really than I am. And yet talks to a dog? "As far as dogs are concerned, Mr. and Mrs. Campbell, we Jews by and large-" Oh, forget it. Not necessary. You are ignoring anyway (or trying awfully hard to) that eloquent appendage called your nose. Not to mention the Afro-Jewish hairpiece. Of course they know. Sorry, but there's no escaping destiny, bubi, a man's cartilage is his fate. But I don't want to escape! Well, that's nice too-because you can't. Oh, but yes I can-if I should want to! But you said you don't want to. But if I did!

As soon as I enter the house I begin (on the sly, and somewhat to my own surprise) to sniff: what will the odor be like? Mashed potatoes? An old lady's dress? Fresh cement? I sniff and I sniff, trying to catch the scent. There! is that it, is that Christianity I smell, or just the dog? Everything I see, taste, touch, I think, "Goyish!" My first morning I squeeze half an inch of Pepsodent down the drain rather than put my brush where Kay's mother or father may have touched the bristles with which they cleanse their own goyische molars. True! The soap on the sink is bubbly with foam from somebody's hands. Whose? Mary's? Should I just take hold of it and begin to wash, or should I maybe run a little water over it first, just to be safe. But safe from what? Schmuck, maybe you want to get a piece of soap to wash the soap with! I tiptoe to the toilet, I peer over into the bowl: "Well, there it is, boy, a real goyische toilet bowl. The genuine article. Where your girl friend's father drops his gentile turds. What do you think, hub? Pretty impressive." Obsessed? Spellbound!

Next I have to decide whether or not to line the seat. It isn't a matter of hygiene, I'm sure the place is clean, spotless in its own particular antiseptic goy way: the question is, what if it's warm yet from a Campbell behind-from her mother! Mary! Mother also of Jesus Christ! If only for the sake of my family, maybe I should put a little paper around the rim; it doesn't cost anything, and who will ever know?

I will! I will! So down I go-and it is warm! Yi, seventeen years old and I am rubbing asses with the enemy! How far I have traveled since September! By the waters of Babylon, there we sat down, yea, we wept when we remembered Zion! And yea is right! On the can I am besieged by doubt and regret, I am suddenly languishing with all my heart for home… When my father drives out to buy "real apple cider" at the roadside farmer's market off in Union, I won't be with him! And how can Hannah and Morty go to the Weequahic-Hillside game Thanks- giving morning without me along to make them laugh? Jesus, I hope we win (which is to say, lose by less than 21 points). Beat Hillside, you bastards! Double U, Double E, Q U A, H I C! Bernie, Sidney, Leon, "Ushie," come on, backfield, FIGHT!

Aye-aye ki-ike-us,

Nobody likes us,

We are the boys of Weequahic High-

Aye-aye ki-ucch-us,

Kish mir in tuchis,

We are the boys of Weequahic High!

Come on-hold that line, make that point, kick 'em in the kishkas, go team go!

See, I'm missing my chance to be clever and quik-witted in the stands! To show off my sarcastic and mocking tongue! And after the game, missing the historical Thanksgiving meal prepared by my mother, that freckled and red-headed descendant of Polish Jews! Oh, how the blood will flow out of their faces, what a deathly silence will prevail, when she holds up the huge drumstick, and cries, "Here! For guess who!" and Guess-who is found to be AWOL! Why have I deserted my family? Maybe around the table we don't look like a painting by Norman Rockwell, but we have a good time, too, don't you worry! We don't go back to the Plymouth Rock) no Indian ever brought maize to any member of our family as far as we know-but just smell that stuffing! And look, cylinders of cranberry sauce at either end of the table! And the turkey's name, "Tom"! Why then can't I believe I am eating my dinner in America, that America is where I am, instead of some other place to which I will one day travel, as my father and I must travel every November out to that hayseed and his wife in Union, New Jersey (the two of them in overalls), for real Thanksgiving apple cider.