Life of Yeshiva Guy

“It’s too hard”, he complains plaintively. “He, G-d, will understand. My son, he is a Rabbi. In Brooklyn. He is Lubavitch. (Here, he serenades me with the first few bars of Yechi to prove it. Great. A chiloni taxi cab driver Meshichist. Just what my night needed). For him, it is easy. For me, not so easy”. “Ah”, I nod my head, wisely. Like I know the score. Except I don’t. As long as he thinks I do, I guess. I am, however, interested in understanding this cabbie a little better. So I continue the conversation.

I rip into him. “So explain to me again why you think He will understand your chillul Shabbos, your blatant violation of His laws, and worse, your denial of Him. You do realize that this- I indicate his bare head- isn’t what He wants.” A bit harsh? Perhaps… I’ve had enough of being gentle with politically hawkish but religiously dovish cab drivers who think they’re good people. Maybe they are. But to claim they are doing His will at the same time… It gets my goat, it does.

“Well, I am good, I do what he wants. I give tzedakah. Also, I learn Torah, sometimes. Look.” He holds up a laminated pamphlet version of some Chabad sefer that he supposedly studies in his off time. More likely he glances at it every now and then and uses it for show and tell purposes in order to extract a larger tip from his Chareidi clientele.

I tell him that’s wonderful. And ask him again, for the third time, why he believes the G-d he believes in is going to give him a free pass. Nothing is free. The cab ride certainly isn’t free- in fact, it took three minutes of hostage-rescue-style negotiation to secure a rate that would have matched the meter, had we used that. (Why didn’t we use the meter in the first place? Because it’s “broken”. Much like this fellow’s logic abilities, and my grammar.) But I digress. He, like so many others in this broken world we inhabit, has mastered Orwellian doublethought. Somehow, he believes in Torah, in it’s validity, it’s legitimacy. In its, in our, heritage. But not all of it. Only the easy parts. Doublethought.

Finally, he answers my question, or attempts to. “I simply can’t keep the Torah. It’s too difficult. Shabbos, Kashrut, all that. And I think that if I’m a good person, He’ll understand. He knows how hard it (Torah) is, how impossible. I just can’t do it. So why should I? For you, for people like my son, it’s easy”.

Right. Like I don’t have my own nisyonos, my own failings. I’m all too cognizant of the many nisyonos I fail, and the too few that I pass. Like I don’t rise and fall, every day, like the sun. Like I don’t sometimes feel that it’s only a matter of time until the yetzer hora gets me on a biggie, and then it will be too late. Oh, I know it’s hard. I need him to tell me this? And just to be clear, he initiated the conversation. He started the schmuess. Not I. I was just stuck next to him in the passenger seat. A hostage.

I truly don’t know what to tell him. How do you explain to someone the fallacy of such an obviously inherent contradiction in logic, in belief, in weltanschauung? What is the therapy for a patient experiencing hallucinations? The brain can instantly workaround any logical argument with a fresh creation by the brain.

“Oh, so you’re seeing purple dragons on the table in front of you? Try putting your hand through the dragon!” An effective strategy, right? Wrong. The brain will explain that this dragon is a substance-less dragon. Either that, or the brain fools the sense of touch much the same way it fools the sense of sight. Maybe not. I’m no psychiatrist, that’s for sure. I don’t know the precise mechanics of how people fool themselves. I just know that it works, and works well. Whatever you want to believe, as long as you aren’t constricted by absolute intellectual honesty, go ahead and believe it. Don’t worry about the logic issues. Your brain will create the necessary constructs to let you sleep at night. Be sure of that, if not the lie.

So I leave him with a pithy, cliched answer. Sadly, cliched is the best I can muster in my depressed state. (These types of people occasionally get me down, get me depressed.) I tell him that the Creator knows the catch-22 he’s created for himself, and that he’s already supplied an exit strategy. That the truth is there if he’s looking for it. That truth seekers will always find what they’re seeking. Perhaps if I’d been in a more comfortable state of mind…oh well. Spilt milk.

Stepping out of the cab, I tip five shekels more than necessary (I know, a sucker is born every minute, but still, that doesn’t mean we throw manners out the window).

I thoroughly enjoy the rest of my evening. Exiting the venue, however, my phone manages to sneak out of my pocket and worms it’s way onto the counter, unbeknown to me. The attendant, a kindly Russian chiloni fellow with a wonderful walrus mustache, spots it just before I leave. Calling me over, he presses it into my hand and bids me a good evening. But not before delivering a show stopper of a line, neatly packaged into two words. “Yetzer Hora” he tells me, in his brutal Russian accent, gesturing to my phone. Numbed, I stop and stare. I hadn’t even been sure that he was Jewish. “What is it?”, he asks silently with a lift of his eyebrows. He has no clue what his innocuous comment meant to me.

“Nothing”, I answer, turning and leaving.

He’s pointed out something I knew already, but preferred not to think about. Or thought about, but created enough constructs that it became a non-issue.

I, too, am a hostage to doublethought.

Maybe we all are.

At the Machane Yehudah shuk. One of the fifty or so nut (pitzuchim) stands.

Diras are great places. Similar to the precursor, dorm rooms, the dira is our home away from home. Really, though, they are so much more than a mere dorm room. Or even than home. Don’t get me wrong- most guys adore those non-dira intervals they refer to as Bein Hazmanim when we abandon our diras and head home. We go home, and we enjoy it. Aside from the familial aspect, there are numerous strictly physical benefits. Among them are instantly hot showers, the lack of the endless jockeying for them, visible floors, a wonderful deficiency of the adorable four legged creatures they call “juks” in the local vernacular, mattresses with each coil intact, light bulbs in the sockets, and many more.  I’m not even going to discuss the food ma’alos; trust me, there ain’t nothing like sitting down to a homemade meal after a long flight and much longer stretch of sub-standard greasy schwarmas and falafels.

Disclaimer out of the way, and mandatory hat tip to Mommy’s cooking aside, diras really are wonderful places. Ask any yungerman- whether he was or wasn’t the masmid type in Israel, he’ll surely fondly recollect those good ‘ole times the oilam refers to as Dira Days. Oftentimes, out of earshot of the wife, of course, he’ll even wax nostalgically about those times gone by.

So what’s so great about the dira? I can hear all the mothers and wives in the crowd clamoring even now. The answer, however, is perhaps even beyond my descriptive and hasbarah skills. To properly convey the sense of camraderie, the closeness that develops from living in such close quarters for so long, the matzav of adventure, is not within the bounds imposed upon this author by his humble keyboard or wit. L’maaseh, though, es shtayt “…Hishtadel lihyos ish“, so I will make my hishtadlus. Here goes nutthin’.

Try to imagine coming home after a long day of work. Tired, exhausted, you just want to plop into bed. At home, that’s likely what will happen. In the dira, however, there is likely a k’nocking discussion taking place about the latest hafganah, patchkeville, or other current raid. Don’t care to join in? That’s OK…two chevra in the kitchen are cooking up what appears to be a toxic looking batch of cholent…or is it pasta? Which is it? We’ll never know. Don’t ask the chefs- little chance they have any clue. Instead, just down it; it’s surprisingly tasty. As they say, ignorance is bliss. If you aren’t hungry (unlikely- we generally exist in a state of perpetual hunger) then there are a few boyz in one of the bedrooms whispering. What’s going on? Well, if you’re one of the crowd, they’ll let you in on the secret. It turns out that one of the chevra is getting engaged tomorrow night. Silly him, he still believes no one knows. Again, ignorance is bliss. And if all else fails, there are always those odd diras that have live entertainment in the form of donkeys… Finally hitting the sack, you can completely ignore the three springs poking into your back, since you’re too tired to notice.

At home, of course, you’d be worried about who is going to wake you up for zman…never fear, however, in the dira. Even if you are capable of sleeping through the onslaught of dinging and zinging aarm clocks, the “pega rah“- dira speak for the vekker- will be sure to wake you exactly three minutes before zman. This way, you get to spring out of bed, fulfilling every nuance of the first siman in Shulchan Aruch. No, not b’davka. None of that blessed post-shluf dreamy state for you. The good news, of course, is that the kitchen, and associated caffeine, isn’t hours away by foot. Or down a flight of steps. It’s just a few short seconds away. Then, too, there is the ma’aleh of being able to stroll directly into the kitchen no matter the state of your dress, or lack thereof. Boxers, shorts, just sweats, anything goes. We’re all guys, remember?

Krias shema and a cuppa later, you’re ready to begin your day at the local shteeble. Not directly related to dira life, but a close cousin, is the local shteeble. Be it Zichron Moshe, Meah Shearim, Bais Yisroel, or Har Tzvi, every shchuna in Yerushalayim has one. These little batei knesiyos house ongoing minyanim, almost round the clock. To catch an empty house (no minyanim going) in these shuls would really require one to come at a time “shelo yom v’shelo laylah“. Almost. Part of the beauty of these houses of worship is the informal way they pray. The paths to G-d are as infinite as Him Himself, and no one is makir this more so than the Yerushalayimer Yidden. Interested in doing an express Pesukei D’Zimrah? No problem, feel free. Have access to the patented “shniyah shemonah esrei“? Go for it. Want to spend hours on your devotions, repeating every milah of K”S? No one’ll look twice. Like the streets of Manhattan, as long as you don’t murder anyone you’re good to go. Any and all meshugoyim are cordially invited and encouraged to attend services. You know those signs outside of those Temples with prayer times? Well, the shtiblach use a different method of disseminating their zmanim. Here, we use live hawkers. Typically wizened gabayim with flawless European Yiddish, anyone at all is welcome to take them over, be it a soldier in his uniform, or a regular yeshiva guy not in uniform.

After davening you walk back to the dira. Depending on the length of your shacharis, by now you’ve no doubt been accosted by no less than five schnorrers, so you have totally exhausted what little pocket change you had jingling around from last night’s burger joint sortie. Too bad…a bagel from AviChayil or Nechama or Sova Semochos would’ve been nice. Next time. The good news, again, is that someone in the dira is sure to have some form of sustenance, be it a bowl of cereal or a spare rugelah. Schnorring some, you quickly wolf it down, and you’re off to seder. Now, really, how could you get away with that at home? Meals at home, including breakfast, are a major chalos: they require washing, bentching, thanking the hostess (Mommy), and cleaning up. None of which is mandatory or even suggested in the dira. Especially the cleaning up part.

These are some of the reasons that bochurim love the dira life. It’s a mix of hakuna matata, the shlilus of “marbeh nechosim, etc.” and a couple of other things. Wives and mothers take note;  the next time you see your brother, son, or nephew giving a krechtz during Bein Hazmanim, or husband during the zman, hold your tongue. You’ll know what he’s sighing about.

He misses the Dira Days.

Fastest beggar in the shuk. Taken outside the open shuk at the entrance on Yaffo. I’m told he’s a shtickel regular.

His eyes focus unsteadily, slowly, on me. Brighten. He greets me with a slurred, slow “A Guten“. He’s a nice guy, this yungerman. A little on the slow side, but nice. Typical yeshivish kuk for a forty year old; his black eyebrows are a bit whitened from the flecks of dandruff that spot it, and his ruddy complexion has been reddened prematurely by one too many l’chaims. I schmooze with him for a few minutes. We don’t have too much to talk about; after all, twenty plus years, in addition to somewhat different upbringings, separate us. Not someone I’d term as being particularly intellectual either, the schmooze mainly revolves around my Bein Hazmanim plans. He wants to know when I’m going back, what I’m doing, chasunas, trips, etc. I tell him, not making any effort to embellish or even dramatize the details. There isn’t all that much to tell in the first place, to be honest. His listless expression tells me all I need to know- he has the same level of interest in being mamshich (continuing) the schmooze as I do. I finish off a little abruptly with a cursory “Hatzlacha“, and turn away.

Walking back to my seat and chavrusa, I pause, then resume walking, slightly slower. I’m trying to figure out exactly why it is I continue this little friendship/schmoozing partnership with a fellow I don’t have anything in common with, and truthfully, don’t particularly like. Well, don’t like might be harsh. But it’s apparent to me that he doesn’t enjoy what he does. He takes no pride in what should be and is the most amazing, joyous job in the world. True, “Al tachazik atzmecha, etc.”, but that shouldn’t suck all the joie de vivre out of his visage, right? He seems as if he’s laboring to fulfill a task that he isn’t required to perform. He’s done his fair share, certainly… “Lo alecha hamlacha ligmor“, and all that. Is it out of some perverted sense of noblesse oblige? (Yeah, I know, this one is heavy on the Avos and the French ma’amorim. Tough noogies, I’m in the mood).
I don’t know. Whatever it is, though, he’s gotta do something about it…I’m starting to get tired of his mournful face. But getting back to our question…

Do I speak with him out of pity? I think not. It’s more than I don’t consider myself to be such a major ba’al chessed; I know that I don’t suffer people that I don’t relate to at all very well. So what is it?

I reach my seat and chavrusa, and slide onto the hard oak seat. Leaning back, I leaf to the relevant section where the acharon is discussing the sugya we’ve been learning. And then, just as I’m about to dive back into the yam shel Torah, I figure it out.

It isn’t that I pity him. Halevai I should be so magnamious to spend time schmoozing with uninteresting people. Nope…the pshat is pashut.

I pity me.

I’m worried that I’ll wind up one day like this guy; an uninteresting fellow in a dead-end yeshiva who’s lost the chiyus he used to have for life and learning. Who knows no other way than the mehalech hachayim he’s used to and is too lazy or helpless to find another. I pity the me that might become him. So I spend time speaking with him now, as a sort of subconsious insurance policy against being that guy.

Amatuer psychoanalyzation over, I return to the yellow pages in front of me. At least for now, for me, I can find chiyus in them. Baruch Hashem. And Baruch Hashem I can take pride in that, and in the work I do, the most important work in the world. At least for now.