Greetings. It’s Sheretz here, coming at you live from the grimy grounds of glorious Geulah. I’ve been randomly tasked by the JHI (Juk’im Hasbarah Initiative) to tell the Olam HaTorah (that’s you) a little bit about living life as a Blattella asahinai (that us).

The fact is, we are the most misunderstood species on the planet. Being as our Creator did not bless us with particularly appealing looks, it has been our lot to be maligned, abused- both mentally and physically, and yes, even crushed for no other crime than our mere existence.
Why, just the other day I attended the levayah of my dear Uncle Sheketz, who was crushed by our worst enemy, a particularly violent fellow named Hashkeim L’Hargo. That was in the dira across the street. Sheketz was such a nice guy…sniffle. But back to the Hasbarah. We live peaceful, mostly sedentary lives. The laser-like movements with which you see us speed around are our default mode- we aren’t running, per se. Oh! Look at that! Hang on one sec there…

I quickly skitter across the kitchen floor. Safe! Made it underneath the kitchen sink. Boy, those bochurim sure do leave a ton of food on the ground. Why can’t they ever clean up after themselves? Better for me and my kind, I guess.

I peek out between the sink pipe and Sano bottle they store here. Sano is an industrial strength floor cleaner (sponga liquid); it’s a pretty good guess that it won’t be used at least until Friday afternoon, an hour before Shabbos, if ever. I still have another couple days until then, so d’vaylah it makes for fine cover. Surveying the room, I’m entranced by the forgotten mush of crushed hamburger/french fries that some guy dropped on the floor and didn’t clean up. Abandoned in the corner, the grilled onions are calling my name.

I make a mad dash for it. Currently 3:28AM, the dira should be quiet. Unfortunately for us Juk’im, it is Sof Zman. In ordinary dira/families, this doesn’t mean anything. For me, it means that there are homo sapiens, or worse (bochurim), ready to crush me at any given moment. It’s a tough life.

Rush, run, fast, faster. Here we are. Camouflaged by the brown burger, I can munch contentedly away while I hold forth. Back to you…

Being a Juk is tough. Take my life, for instance. I live in a bochurim’s dira. While there are several moredige maalos meyuched to bochurim diras in living here, for the most part I deal with same great Nisayon every other Juk contends with: Not getting crushed. Think that’s funny? Let’s see you run around all day, scavenging for food, terrified of the Florsheim encased foot that may rain down death upon you from Shomayim at any moment.

You do get used to it. Like Air Force enlistees that can distinguish bombers by their engine sounds, I’ve learned to differentiate the  bochurim’s strides until I know who is coming before they’ve even entered the dira. Like now, l’moshel. I can hear Greasy Guy unlocking the door and coming in. He’s muttering under his breath about the lack of proper air conditioning, coupled with the scarcity of minyanim tonight in ZeMo. He isn’t in a good mood. I can discern that, too, from the pace and velocity his beaten up Rockports are hitting the ground. His footfalls give him. I’ll have to make sure to stay away from him. Usually, he doesn’t mind an occasional glimpse of me; in fact, I sometimes wonder if he doesn’t harbor some sort of secret affinity for me. No doubt his mother didn’t let him take home stray dogs or something. But no one likes us when they’re in a bad mood.

Other guys, like The Total Tomim, different. He’s actually my favorite resident of this abode we share. You see, he never notices me. Should he ever end up squashing one of my brethren, it will have been totally by accident. The downside of Total Tomim is that he never leaves over any scraps; all he eats is bread and water (although he does occasionally dip it into chummous or something).

Ahhh. That burger was scrumptious. I think I’ll wrap up with a bit of melted ice cream (pareve, of course) that has found its way beneath the fridge. Which brings us back to utter squalor of my home. It’s one of the perks of being in a bochurim’s dira.

In fact, amongst us Juk’im, bochurim diras are the most highly sought after real estate on the market, second only to Malchei Yisroel falafel shops. When the tivuch agent, Kol HaRomeis Al Ha’Aretz, informed me of the opening, I grabbed it, sight unseen.

There we are. Wow. I’d forgotten how good chocolate pareve ice cream was. Last time I had it was under the old olam in the dira, some two Zmanim ago. That’s another thing about us. While our appetite are immense, and our specific propensity for junk food is enormous, we don’t typically have the y’cholus to satisfy our food cravings on demand.

Uh oh.

I hear Showerless Shloime coming. Shloime hates showering- he holds it’s Bittul Torah, and does so only l’kavod Shabbos. As it happens, he’s also a mad masmid. But Showerless Shloime has also become somewhat of a nemesis of mine. Either because of some form of prisoner’s compassion gone wrong (we’re both m’shubad to the same meshugas- chazershtalling), or perhaps out of basic kinah, the man hates me. I confess I don’t understand the hatred, but that’s galus, right?

Anyway, here he comes. I better sign off for now, before he busts me. Or crushes me…ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

Regards,

-Sheretz

(This post partly inspired by this tweet from fellow YG Halapedia).

He moves disjointedly. His right arm juts out from his elbow at the oddest angle. Where the veiny wrist meets his hand, it seems to be in a permanent 90 degree angle of sorts, pointing directly at you.

He wears shorts. Always. Thin brown, hairy legs stick out, and exaggerate the stiffness of his stride. The beaten gray Reeboks he wears are covered with soot and grime and white and orange and all sorts of fearsome materials and unappetizing colors.

His face is fixed in the cruelest of leers. There is nothing untoward about this leer, though, or for that matter about this person. No criminal aspect. Then too, he doesn’t play favorites.

Everyone who walks into the bakery is graced with this passive examination; an exam that takes place entirely through the optics of autism.

It was awkward, that first time.

I remember walking in and spotting him and his leer; he was clad in his standard navy shorts and sky blue tee, and was staring at me from the spacious rear section of the store. On the tee, numerous flour stains were in evidence, betraying an intimacy with the baking process that made me queasy. Strolling around the patron’s part of bakery, I perused the assorted wicker platters filled to the brim with various baked goods, politely pretending not to notice him. A relative of the owner, no doubt. Here today and gone tomorrow.

Today, months later, he still stares. It’s still awkward.

Now, I move in and out of the establishment with purposeful movements; I’m a busy bochur. Sometimes I avoid him, and his gruesome glare. Sometimes not. When he is there, anywhere in sight, I’m somehow especially careful wielding the sticky tongs and selecting my sugared pastry confections. It’s in and out, these days.

But sometimes, when I have time, I wonder what it is like for him. The faceless multitudes who invade his space, day in, day out. The thousands who stare back at him; the hundreds who have no time for him and snap at his clumsy attempts to hand them change. What does he think of them? Like his look, is the leer betraying his leeriness- of them?

Is it, after all, awkward… For him?

“For my part, I travel not to go anywhere, but to go. I travel for travel’s sake. The great affair is to move.”

-Robert Louis Stevenson

It’s a weekday evening, but I’m bound for Tel Aviv on a sherut- a shared taxi. Sheruts are larger van style affairs with a boxy exterior and roomy interior. Kind of like an airplane, only everyone is seated in much closer quarters to each other. The reason I’m headed to sin city on stam a night is simple; the zman hasn’t begun yet. I’m maximizing my Bein Hazmanim time, albeit in Eretz Yisroel. No, nothing nefarious is taking place. My activity is totally innocuous, although totally unproductive. Then again, that’s what Bein Hazmanim is for, right?

Squished into the back left corner, I can feel the ache begin. I’m up close against the window. The passing scenery, although pretty at times, has nothing to do with it. Part of the sherut experience is a first come first serve policy when it comes to the seating arrangements. There is no travel agent to call, no help desk to ring. You sit where there is an available seat. As it happens, this was the last seat left. And it is next to a female. Gritting my teeth and plugging myself into mindless muzak, I settle in for the hour plus ride to TA’s tachanah hamerkazit- the central bus station.

Fifteen minutes go by, and an interesting dynamic penetrates the strains of Gershovsky and my strained mind. I realize that the entire back row- a family of African Americans- is paying avid attention to the swarthy fellow with the beak nose sitting directly in front of me. Hmm. This could be interesting. I discreetly (I could be a Mossad agent, seriously) hit the pause button on my iPod, and listen in.

Turns out that the guy in front of me is a tour guide. Apparently, he prides himself on knowing every nook and cranny of the old city. He’s also in the midst of pitching them the services of the second best tour guide in Israel for the forthcoming day- a close friend of his, as luck has it. He, sadly, won’t be available; his nephew is getting married, and all the shekalim in the world couldn’t persuade him to miss it. I suspect otherwise, but keep my mouth shut.

At this point, it is salient to interject the following point. I’m wearing my hat and jacket, and I have not yet communicated with anyone, including the nahag, in anything except Ivrit. Not knowing how this might play out, I stick to Ivrit when the guide twists around and asks me to pass up the payment for the ride.

As our journey continues, the guide begins to wax scholarly about the distinguishing characteristics of the various branch Semitic languages. He also explains that Arabic and Hebrew, for the above reason, are close cousins, and words are often very similar. To demonstrate, he invokes the tired example of Shalom Aleichem and Saaalam al Aqum. The family is sitting and nodding like a bunch of amazed university students. He has them in palm of his hand. I imagine he’s looking forward to something else a little extra making his way into his hand at the end of the day, but again, I keep quiet.

But as he continues droning on about boring language distinctions, I decide it’s about time to stir things up a little.

Addressing the guide in Ivrit, I politely note that I couldn’t help but overhearing his little monologue, and while I couldn’t catch all of it (may HKB”H forgive me for that one), it sounded like he had been discussing the term Shalom Aleichem. Yes, he wags his head eagerly, he had been speaking about it. Well, I ask him, was he familiar with the reason Orthodox Jews use the term Shalom Aleichem? No, he answers, shaking his head in dismay. Seriously, the guy should have been on Broadway. In that case, says I, would he like to hear it? Definitely.

Taking my time, I slowly explain to him the shtickel. That one of G-d’s names is “Shalom”, and that we are actually saying “G-d be with you”. Or in the common vernacular, “Go with G-d”. The hemshich of the vort (why the other fellow answers the reverse) I decide I’ll leave for another time. As it is, I’m worried I’ve given myself away for the Tapuach I am already. But at vort’s end, he appears content, and thanking me in Ivrit, he rotates himsef back to face the family.

Switching to English now, he repeats what I just said, word for word. I’m impressed with his near perfect recall. After finishing, he casts a sidelong glance in my direction, and he tacks on that this vort was, in fact one he knew, of course, but that this gentleman sitting here (me) kindly reminded him of it.

What?! Ah chutzpah.

Keeping quiet, I bide my time.

Just as we are all exiting the vehicle, I cheerily wish the guide and his charges an enjoyable trip, in the best Southern-Midwestern accent I can muster.

Our poor guide snaps his head around in my direction and yes, yes, his face turns ashen.

The family erupts in hearty chuckles; they chap the matzav.

Don’t mess with Yeshiva Guys.

Note: I must apologize in advance for the pretentious writing style used. I feel that due to the heavy nature of the topic at hand, any attempt to deal with it in an offhand, light manner would only serve to detract from its weightiness.

It is deep, and searing. Elemental, in ways I will not, cannot, describe, but those of you who have experienced this sort of pain can understand, and know all too well how to relate to this sort of pain.

I speak of real, true emotional agony. Boruch Hashem, many go through life without experiencing this. And even the people who do occasion encountering this emotion more frequently often enough shelve it deep in the closet of their minds, where they dust it off and examine it only twice, or thrice per decade. This is out of necessity, more often than not. For after all, who among us can stare into that abyss for long, and not be adversely affected in the most basic way?

The pain I speak of, and for, is not specific. It has no particular name, nor are there any criteria by which it can be defined. It is better this way, I think. It should not be lightened by pithy tags or convenient handles.

There are many within our community and many without who know this sort of pain, R”L. Today, however, I speak of one sort in particular. Some of the people who have met with and live with this agony are the older single men and women in our community. They, perhaps more than anyone else, are most familiar with this foe. They do battle with it daily. No vacation, no sick leave, no Shabbos or Yom Tov.

I hear every day of yet another older individual not yet married.

I confess plainly, I cannot think about them. I dare not. Quickly, I file their names in the musty box that resides deep in my mind’s closet, and shove it back, back where it belongs. Back where I need not think about it, or them.

This is wrong.

Painful as it may be for me, for us, I refer back to elemental pain. I have, perhaps, experienced it on a passing level. Perhaps not. But they, these Yidden- and I do not adjectivize them here for lack of a suitable term; heroes does not do justice to the mountains they’ve climbed in life, or to the peaks they scale and stare at us from- they know no respite from it.

I do not point fingers. I do not say, “Why is everyone silent”?

They, we, are not. True enough, the pages of Jewish dailies throughout the world are awash with the “crisis”. Good. Let them be. But the natural corollary, aside from the desensitization it engenders, is the alleviation of personal achrayus it provides. See; others are handling it. Shidduch groups abound. The Letters to the Editor page is rife with their plight. Look, it even has a name. Now we must be making progress.

Am I bitter, too bitter? Maybe.

Imagine how they feel.

The truth is, we think, that we are not at fault. We don’t know people, or if we do, we don’t know enough people.
Anyway, single people, as everyone knows, are notoriously difficult to deal with. A professional shadchan is called for anyway.

The facts, however, are not so. We do know people. And if the pain affected you, even just on a fractional level, you would be working the phones, all day, every day.

So I guess I am pointing fingers. We are all responsible. We are all culpable.

In closing, I ask only this:

Have you actually picked up the phone yet? Just once, have you lifted the telephone receiver and placed a call? Do you realize that people around the world are desperate to hear the ring of the phone, your ring? Anyone’s ring? I think it not hyperbolic to state that someone’s life may depend on it.

Make the call.

Someone’s life depends it.

Disembarking for a layover is never enjoyable. I find this fact to be more annoyingly true when the layover is only two hours long, and you still need Shacharis, and, (more l’maasehdik), a coffee…

My grumpy mood doesn’t help me navigate the security line- it seems to take forever. Watching the little conveyor belt whisking away people’s wallets and watches into a little black hole isn’t helping entertainment wise, so I chat up the guy in shorts and tee next to me. We talk about nothing until it is his turn to send his life into nothingness.

Clearing security, my first task is to get my system up and running. After hitting the airport’s Starbucks kiosk- and sweet talking the barista into giving me a free cuppa- I study the kiosk’s soy milk carton. No hechsher. Dang. Of course, I completely forgot to stash the creamer they gave out one hour before we landed, so I’m fresh out of luck, and coffee options. To me, black coffee is only drinkable in emergency situations, or by coffee snobs who hate it anyway, but drink it to impress you. Tossing the grande Columbian brew in the trash, I amble over to the room that a fellow bochur had indicated we’d be doing the morning prayers thing in.

I didn’t know it, but my thus far dull day was about to get a little more interesting. Walking through the room’s open doorway, my mind barely registers the monochromatic airport gray plaque hanging there. Multi-Faith Prayer Room, it reads in unmemorable lettering. Setting my tefillin down on my carry-on, I look about the room.

Out of the fifteen or so chevra gathered, twelve are Chassidish bochurim (they’re here to learn- or party- in the Mir, I discover later). Of the remaining five, a harmless enough English fellow (no, that isn’t an oxymoron) in his mid twenties- who seems to be in shanah rishona, judging by the wife who insists on pacing the Snap-n-Go up and down just outside the room- is unhurriedly going about his pre-prayer business. I admire his detached aloofness. Me, I’m going to people watch until the last possible second before Brachos.

Two more chassidim, traveling businessmen both, look like they walked right out of Kiryas Yoel- that is, until I spot the (WS) Journals poking out of their attaché cases. So much for stereotypes.

Another solitary yiddele, large and mildly heavyset, is thumbing through his emails on a late model Blackberry. Another phone adorns his Gucci belt, right hand side. Wisps of brown hair turning white poke out from underneath his leather yarmulke, and it and his blue striped shirt give him away as a Baalebos. But from where, from which city, I muse to myself? Rattling off the various options in my head, I settle on Teaneck. Don’t ask me why- I have a feeling about these things. Just when I’m about to move my gaze on to the last yid left, I spot it. Yes, yes, yes! Innocuous, and totally unassuming, almost invisible underneath the phone in his hand and almost obscured by the winding tefillin straps is a no-longer shiny gold ring on his left hand’s ring finger. Bingo. Teaneck it is. I instantly name him Sol. I know, I’m stereotypical myself that way. Sue me.

With a small nod to myself (I make a practice out of not patting myself on the back in public- looks strange), I shift my gaze on to the last object of interest, as he is. Sitting in a corner, he’s a quiet, balding fellow cross legged on one of the cheap plastic folding chairs provided. He seems to be patiently reading through a fading red Chumash, or something. I’m not quite sure what it is, but something strikes me as a little off about the fellow. Then I chap. His shoes. Or lack thereof. He’s wearing some sort of sandal/slip-on arrangement. No doubt he knows it’s assur to daven with only sandals on… so what’s going on? I casually stroll over and strategically position myself behind him (well, it wasn’t so strategic, but I always wanted to do something strategic, so let it roll). Peering over his shoulder, I gasp. He’s reading a New Testament. Aha.

Shaking my head, I walk back to my tefillin zekel, and begin donning the little black cubes I know and love… when it hits me hard. Almost throwing them off, I run over to the oldest chossid there, and explain to him that we’ve got to leave the room, asap- forget about davening there. He doesn’t understand what I want from his life. Calming myself down, I explain to him that the room we are occupying l’chorah has the din of a church, being kavuah for tefillah of other faiths. A lively debate ensues, with all the bochurim offering their clueless shittos.

“Shtussim- es iz nisht kein kloister“, (Ridiculous, it isn’t a church), one of them opines assertively. “Oh”, I respond politely,- I’m always polite like that- “How do you possess such confidence in this matter- do you know of a Rov/Posek who davens in these rooms? Or are you familiar with the relevant siman in Shulchan Aruch?”, I ask him, in slightly less eloquent Yiddish. I know that I certainly am not familiar with the simanim. The soft-spoken Shanah-Rishona’nik isn’t either, but he’s got a more solid suggestion. He believes we should call someone else and ask. To that end, he attempts to track down the number of a local Posek we can dial. It isn’t even 8AM yet. Good luck with that, I wish him silently.

Meanwhile, Sol, my ringed friend from Teaneck, has inserted himself into the argument. He’s quite upset at this delay, caused by a meddling Yeshiva Bochur (me), no less. “What’s the issue? There’s no tzeilem here!” Well, clearly, he knows what he’s talking about. Again, I inquire as to whether he is familiar with the specific Halacha, and whether or not the room or building must have a tzeilim to qualify as a church. He admits he doesn’t know, but remains dourly disgruntled nonetheless. Oh well. We aim to please, and especially Sols from Teaneck, but you know…

Moving right along, a married Chosid, thirty something years old, with an assured air about him briskly strides in. Quickly apprising himself of the situation, he sides with me. That settles it. We all pack out, leaving a disgruntled Sol to pack up his Talis and Tefillin, and the nice Christian on the chair. He has barely looked up the entire time, although I notice the faintest traces of an amused smile hovering about him lips. Maybe it’s my imagination.

We setup shop just outside the room, and finally begin Shacharis. Just after I finish brochos, I hear Sol challenging the chossid. Still upset, he wants to know exactly why we’ve left the room. The chossid, unperturbed, explains to him, totally calmly and completely rationally, that there is a simple reason he won’t daven in such a room. And this, my dear friends, was easily the highlight of the trip…

The chossid explains; “I could never daven in such a tumah’dik room; way too many klipos“.

Sol explodes.

And so, I got to save the day, and watch Sol explode. Could you imagine a more enjoyable trip?

Update: Finally got around to asking a posek. It may be assur, but not for the reason indicated in this post. Ha.