“What’s the first thing you say up there onstage during your bar mitzvah?” asks Josh.
Above my head, the grass is rising and falling with each step Josh takes.
“Josh, would you please put me down?”
“Nope. What’s the first thing you say up there, other than all the Hebrew stuff?”
“I don’t know.”
The grass is over my head because Josh has me slung over his shoulder and is carrying me back to the house. To be honest, it’s actually not that uncomfortable, now that I’ve stopped struggling.
“What you say,” says Josh, “is ‘Today, I am a man.’”
“Oh. Right. Which is pretty stupid.”
“Yeah, I’d say so. Are you a man?”
“Um . . . no?”
“No, you’re not. You’re still a boy.”
“Thanks.”
“It’s a simple statement of fact.”
“Yes, I’m aware of that.”
An orange lawn sprinkler drifts by overhead, followed by an abandoned chewie toy. We must be crossing the Elofsons’ yard. Josh could carry me like this for an hour in any direction and the scenery would look about the same: huge suburban lawns, wooded areas, broad, quiet streets, parks, golf courses, more lawns. The Golden Ghetto, one of the wealthiest communities in the country. My parents make fun of it and tell me how sheltered and coddled I am and how much better New York is. But I was born here, and I’ll be honest—I like it.
“You know,” says Josh, “when our ancestors got bar mitzvahed, it really meant that they were men, that they were ready.”
“Yeah, and they died when they were, like, seventeen.”
“That doesn’t matter. The community saw them as men. They saw themselves as men. I don’t think you can honestly say that about yourself.”
“Again, thanks.”
I spot a new-looking golf ball partially hidden in the lush grass. Dave Erickson must have been practicing his chip shots again, making his way from yard to yard along the creek. No one minds around here.
“And I’m not talking about your voice being low or having hair on your balls.”
“Josh . . .”
“I’m talking about being a man, the things that make you a man.”
“Yeah, I got that.”
I’m not exactly sure what those things are to Josh, but I’m a bit worried I might be finding out.
An upside-down rosebush passes on my right. We’re now in our backyard. The swing set comes into view, and then the garden, and then we’re walking up the twelve wooden steps to the back porch. From my vantage point I realize that they could use a coat of paint.
When we get to the porch, Josh flips me off his shoulder and deposits me neatly into one of the patio chairs.
“Don’t move.” He heads to the sliding door and pauses. “You want a lemonade?”
He reemerges a minute later with two tall lemonades, the condensation beading on the glasses. He hands me one, pulls a chair around to face me, and sits.
“Cheers.” He knocks his glass against mine.
“I want to make something clear,” he says after a sip. “I’m not blaming you.”
“For not having hairy balls?”
“You know what I mean. It’s really Dad’s fault. He’s not a bad guy, but I mean, what is he going to teach you? How to identify a Bach recording?”
I wince at the reference. Two years ago I had come home in tears, having learned an important life lesson: When the music teacher plays some classical music and challenges his students to identify it, don’t be the kid who eagerly shoots his hand up and says, “That’s Glenn Gould playing Bach’s Goldberg Variations.” And absolutely don’t dig yourself in deeper by adding—with the total certainty of someone who’s parroting his father—“It’s really the best rendition.”
The teasing was vicious. It was weeks before I could walk the halls without someone sneering, “It’s really the best rendition.”
“It’s my fault,” continues Josh. “I’ve been a crappy older brother.”
I don’t rush to disagree, and then realize that maybe now is a good time to start doing so.
“No, you’ve been a . . . good older brother. You really have. You don’t have to do anything else. Really.”
“No. I should have been there for you, and I haven’t because I’ve been so caught up in my own crap. There are things you need to know. Things I wish I had known. Things I wish someone could have taught me.”
How not to get expelled? I nearly say, but my instinct for self-preservation wins out.
“I mean, look at you,” says Josh.
I look at me.
“When’s the last time you did any exercise?”
“I have gym every day.”
“I’m not talking about kickball. Or jerking off.”
“I don’t jerk off!”
“Really? I didn’t know you were born without a dick.”
“I play soccer.”
“Okay, so the last exercise you did was last summer.”
“So what? So I’m not a jock.”
“Not a jock? You’re in the chess club.”
“I’m not in the chess club. I occasionally play chess. Some of the people I play with are in the chess club. It’s a false syllogism to suggest that indicates I’m in—”
“Did you just say ‘syllogism’?’”
“What? No. Maybe.”
“This is exactly my point. You’re in the chess club—”
“I’m not in the chess club.”
“—and you use words like ‘syllogism.’”
“What, I’m not manly if I use big words?”
“You still play D&D.”
I don’t have an answer for that. He sits back and crosses his arms, triumphant: check and mate.
It’s true. Danny, Steve, Paul, and I have been playing faithfully for four years, introduced to it by the assistant librarian. The librarian vanished after a few months, at which point our parents sat us down individually for awkward conversations about whether or not he’d ever done anything that made us feel uncomfortable. That’s when Josh taught me the term pedophile, which he described in traumatic detail. But the four of us keep playing secretly. When we talk about it at school—if ever—we use code. We all instinctively understand where D&D players are ranked in the junior high school social hierarchy and that it’s probably time to hang up our dice. Still, you don’t just walk away from an honestly earned level-nineteen half-elf cleric.
“Isaac,” says Josh, “you can’t keep being a nervous little kid who runs to Mom for everything.”
“I don’t run to Mom for everything. Sometimes I run to Dad.”
“You know why you’re such a smartass? Because you’re weak, and scared of everything. You want to keep being a scared smartass?” he says. “Huh?” he adds when I don’t respond.
“Hold on, I’m trying to think up a smartass answer.”
He snorts and sits back in his chair. “You’re smarter than me, Isaac. You’re certainly smarter than I was at your age. And you know what you’re like? All those supersmart, weakass Jews who got slaughtered by the Nazis.”
There it is, finally. I’m surprised it took him so long to get to it. Josh, who my dad says always wants to refight the Second World War. Josh, who transformed himself into SuperJew—the single most effective thing he ever did to annoy my parents—and who used to go around Edina wearing a yarmulke. A black one with skulls and crossbones on it.
“The world doesn’t need any more weak Jews.”
I’m not sure what an appropriate response is to that, so I say nothing. I sip at my lemonade, avoiding his gaze, watching a squirrel skitter nervously along the branches of the tree that rises above the deck, the leaves making shooshing and rustling noises as he agitates his way along. I can feel Josh watching me.
“How’s your lemonade?” he asks.
“Fine, I guess.”
“Good.”
He takes another drink of his lemonade, observing me, thinking. He’s silent long enough that I finally look over at him. His expression makes me even more nervous.
He finishes his drink and puts his glass down, then turns in his chair so that he’s square to me. “Isaac,” he says, “we’ve got a very short time until your bar mitzvah.”
“I know.”
“And you know what we’re going to do?”
Oh no.
“Josh, all I need to do is memorize my haphtarah.”
“We’re going to make you into a man.”
“Josh, no. Please. I just want to go and watch my haphtarah DVD—”
“You know, in primitive cultures, the boys would have to go on a quest or pass some sort of painful challenge before they could be declared a true man.”
“That’s fantastic, Josh.”
“They’d put them out in the wilderness to fend for themselves, to fight other villagers—”
“We live in the suburbs.”
“There’s ritual tattooing . . .”
“Great.”
“ . . . fasting . . .”
“I’m not fasting.”
“ . . . scarification . . .”
“I’m gonna go now.”
I put my glass down and stand up. He grabs my upper arm as I try to slide away and swings me back around. He grabs my other arm with his other hand. I squirm. He holds fast.
“Isaac.”
“What?” I’m not looking at him.
“Isaac,” he repeats. “Look at me.”
“Josh . . .”
He gives me a shake. “Look at me.”
I look. He’s staring into my eyes with an earnest, determined expression, and it’s giving me goose bumps. My heart starts to thump.
“It’s time, Isaac.”
“Oh, God.”
“It’s time.”
“No, I really don’t think it is.”
“It’s time.”
“Time for what?”
“Time for you to become a man.”