MERIT BADGE: BAR MITZVAH
“Today, I am a man.”
I’m the one at the podium now, everyone staring up at me. My voice is even. My hands are steady.
I finally admitted to my dad that I was afraid of getting shaky and passing out. He gave me ten milligrams of atenolol to take. It’s a beta blocker. Apparently it prevents your body from responding to adrenaline. All the big musicians in major orchestras use it because it keeps their hands from trembling.
“Take it,” he said. “You’ll be fine.”
I hack my way doggedly through the sections that are in Hebrew. I’m not going to lie—there are a few bumpy moments, lots of starting and stopping and glances at the rabbi for guidance. At one particularly sticky point I pause and say, “I’m really sorry, everyone. I’ve had a pretty eventful few weeks.” This is greeted with an appreciative chuckle from certain quarters of the assembled and a raised eyebrow from my mother. From the back comes a voice: “You can do it, little dude!”
More laughter.
“Thank you, Patrick,” I reply, and slog on. I’ll admit to being somewhat touched that he’s attending, and that he went so far as to make a special alteration to his Mohawk for the occasion: shaving a five-inch strip out of it at the crown of his head so the yarmulke has a place to sit.
Terri is here too, and a few of her friends who I assume were curious about what a bar mitzvah looks like. I’m guessing that my event has a higher stripper turnout than is generally the case. I’ll say this: My grandfather seems pretty pleased with that part of the guest list.
I kludge my way through the Hebrew jungle and emerge on the other side with what I’d call a C+, or maybe a B- with credit for sheer effort. Not Talmudic scholar material, but not Shabbat short bus, either.
Then it’s time for my speech. You have to give a speech to demonstrate how mature and thoughtful you are. With the Hebrew part all I wanted to do was survive. But I really, really wanted to say something in my speech, something with weight and substance, something that might actually make people think that I’m, well, mature and thoughtful.
You’d think I’d have something to talk about, considering the past weeks’ fun. But the more I tried, the less I could make sense of my own thoughts. So I end up delivering the speech I had prepared a long time ago, a generic blah about how the environment is precious and everyone should get along and there should be no more war. Rabbi Abramovitz stands next to me, smiling, eyes closed, nodding sagely. Probably thinking, Oh, for fuck’s sake, why can’t these kids ever say anything interesting?
I glance up now from the podium. I’m nearly done. Josh is watching me solemnly. Lisa is fidgeting. My mom has her smile. My dad looks bemused. There are some cousins and my aunt and uncle from Connecticut and my grandfather from Florida, and assorted family friends.
Danny is here. Paul is here. Steve is here. Sarah and Eric are here, sitting together, holding hands.
Lesley isn’t.
Before the ceremony got started I asked Josh if she’d called or texted or anything. Then I asked him again. And then again a few minutes later, at which point he promised me that if she did, I’d be the first to know, and if I asked him again . . .
“What?” I said, waiting for the threat.
“Nothing. Just go get bar mitzvahed.”
Maybe she’ll show up late, I told myself. But inside I knew that she wouldn’t. And somehow I know she’s gone from my life forever.
I finish. There is applause. I step off the podium to hugs and congratulations, a bar mitzvah at last. My dad says, “You were steady as a rock! That beta blocker really worked, huh?”
“Sure did,” I say, and thank him. It seems ungrateful to tell him that the pill is still wrapped in tin foil in my pocket, untouched.