Life of Yeshiva Guy

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?

Gave me the chills, it did.

A question that has bothered me tremendously. Until now.

Check out Shtetl Vision for the answer.

Legend attributes the following maaseh to Yankel Miller, the notorious letzt/badchen from Monsey. I do not sanction doing this yourself, for more than one reason. Anyway…

Yankel went over to a particular fellow on the first night of sefira, just before the counting of the Omer.

Affecting a tone of dismay, he begged the yid to be motzi him with the bracha. The fellow answered Yankel as most would.

“Yankel, meshugenne, it’s the first night. There’s no way in the world that you could need someone to be motzi you”!

“OK,” he replied.

“In that case, it’s my pleasure to be motzi you.”

K.O.