2.More than anything, Abraham Amsterdam wanted to be famous.
More specifically, he wanted to be famously funny. Not the famously funny man who wore a leather jacket and shouted profanely about “how it all really is.” Not the famously funny man who boasted a Hawaiian shirt and a guitar and sang parody songs about pizza and boogers. Not the famously funny man who wore a toilet as a hat and declared himself a “shithead.” Abraham wanted to be the kind of famously funny man who smoked a cigar the size of a Cadillac and who spoke in a language of machine-gun-like acrobatic quips, puns, and jabs. The kind who was friends with gangsters. The kind who had always been old even when he was eight. The kind you pictured welcoming you at the gates of Las Vegas. That is, if Las Vegas had gates, and was at all like a heaven, which was definitely not the case, but Abraham knew nothing about the real Las Vegas. However, what Abraham did know was that all he wanted was to be the emperor of every room he graced with his hilarious presence. An urban oracle, who, at their very worst, was stuck with being celebrated as the very best. Whose flaws were gifts.
Abraham had, of course, never tasted a cigar. But he loved to eat pretzel rods. Every time he chomped at one, he’d visualize exhaling a billowing cloud of smoke, wistfully flowing from his mouth and nose. That imaginary cigar would be accompanied by an imaginary ingeniously constructed one-liner that would leave all the imaginary people in the room on the floor, gasping in the midst of their guffaws.
In real life Abraham didn’t know such one-liners. In real life Abraham wasn’t funny. If there was any talent for humor that existed in him, he had not yet figured out how to summon it. But that didn’t stop Abraham. He would puff and bite, trying his best to embody his ideal future self while his mother cleaned dishes and cried and his father stared at the wall.
Abraham’s deep desire for fame grew every day. He’d absolutely lose himself in a never-ending fantastical parade of self-celebration and inspired performances from stage, to screen, to talk show. No one ever not laughing at what he said and did. Rounds of applause as he entered and exited restaurants, grocery stores, and amusement park rides. Feverish adoration from beautiful girlfriends, wives, and ex-wives. Children who worshipped him, yet also understood that he didn’t belong to them. He belonged to the world. He’d be able to leave behind everything he didn’t like. He’d never have to look at everything he hated looking at. He’d never have to listen to the clanking of dishes drowning out his mother’s sobs. He’d never have to look at his father staring at the wall.
The bright lights of his big-city future blinded him to his deadened repetitive present. His father insulting his mother’s cooking. His mother obsessively taking his temperature. His father cursing their bills like they were people. His mother talking so loud on the phone he couldn’t hear the TV, about relatives he had never heard of before. His father’s pathetic pride in finding a ladder that had been hiding in plain sight for two weeks. His mother taking forever to apply her makeup while he and his father waited in the car. The swell of his father’s silent rage. His father running back into the house. His father calling his mother a fucking bitch. His mother demanding a divorce. His father granting the request. The silent ride to the dinner, or the party, or the horrible function right after. Then, once at the dinner, or party, or horrible function, pretending that none of it had happened. Pretending their destructive emotional responsibility not only didn’t exist, but also pretending that it wasn’t the only interesting thing about them.
Someday Abraham would live in a spotlight. Outside of that spotlight would be the darkness he left behind. The mediocrity that invaded every minute of his life. He would choose anything and everything that would be allowed to walk into his light and be seen. His parents would not be invited. Nor any other member of his family. Not even Uncle Richard. Nor his teachers. Nor his friends, for Abraham had none to speak of. But his fans would be. Yes, his fans would be, and Abraham expected a lot of them. Fans: far better than friends. Fans asked no questions and gave no answers. All they did was worship. All they saw was what you let them see. And they knew better than to want to see more. What would that be like? To be adored? To be liked at all? He was sure it would be glorious.
Abraham had just learned about Jesus Christ. How he started Christianity, and Christians believed he was the Son of God even though he was also a Jew, and that the Romans executed him. They executed Jesus by nailing him to a cross, and then left him hanging to die for all to see. Abraham thought of Jesus Christ hanging from that cross. He wondered how Jesus really felt. Surely some pain. Probably some sadness. Maybe even fear. But as the people cried at his feet, Jesus must have felt popular. That’s when you know people like you. When they show up to see you die. On the other hand, the Romans were there, too, and they hated him. So maybe he didn’t feel so liked. But if he really was the Son of God and God talked to him, that probably made him feel the most famous he could possibly feel.
Abraham didn’t know much more about the Jesus story. Except that he made some Jews mad. And they told the Romans and they killed him and that made Christians hate Jews. But what about the Romans? You’d think Christians would hate Romans more. Funny, huh? Christians hate Jews but lots of Christians live in Rome, so how do they not hate themselves even more than they hate Jews? And why don’t other Christians who don’t live in Rome hate Romans more than Jews? People must really just want to hate Jews, Abraham thought.
But not if they’re funny. If a Jew is funny, people forget they’re a Jew and they could be loved. If a Jew is funny, he or she could become famous. He or she could become quite popular. ’Cause that’s what fame really is. Popularity. Popularity on a grand scale. And that’s the second thing Abraham wanted the most. To be popular.
Abraham wondered if he even had it in him. Did he even have what it took to be liked by everyone? Was popularity in his genes? Was his mother popular? She dismissed his question with a smirk. “How do I know? I didn’t care. I just was who I was. I had friends. I went to the parties. Boys beat each other up to impress me. One of the boys even followed me around and then started leaving me death threats that said if I didn’t go steady with him he’d kill me. But these are the things that happened back then. We were innocent. We were wholesome. I knew I was a pretty girl and the handsome boys knew they were handsome boys who were desperately in love with me. But I didn’t care. I could care less about their feelings, and they could care less about mine. They just wanted to lose their virginity to me, and sure, some of them did. But I never embarrassed myself, and neither did they. We knew who we were. If that’s popular, then yes, I was popular. Very popular. Probably the most popular person in my school. But I didn’t pay attention to that sort of thing.”
Abraham asked his dad. He had to repeat the question several times before his father even realized he was there. “Dad, were you popular?” His father’s bloodshot eyes came to life. They turned into his young eyes. Eyes that saw joyful things. He smiled for the first time in years upon years. Sure, there were smiles in public. But they weren’t real smiles. They were just put on so people wouldn’t ask him what was wrong. He knew if anyone asked him that, he’d soon be asking himself that, and that might be it. But this smile he was smiling was real. “Popular? Hell yes, I was. I was the most popular boy in school. Everyone wanted to be my friend. Everyone. I used to hold interviews to see who deserved to be my friend and I’d get the pick of the litter of kids. The coolest kids. And we did the coolest things. And back then, cool was fun. Not dangerous like it is today. Nowadays all the ‘cool’ kids have guns, and they do heroin, and lose their virginity at eleven. When I was young, the cool kids held each other’s hands, and skipped through fields. I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen a field. Let alone skipped through one. Let alone skipped at all. I don’t know if I’d even remember how to skip. So don’t ask me, Abe. Please, promise me. Never ask me to skip. It’ll only remind me of what was and what will never be again.”
Wow. Abraham was ecstatic. Both of his parents had been popular. It was in them and that meant it was in him. He had popular genes. There was hope. Childhood might not be one giant shit pie after all.
It was perfect timing to learn about his popular genetics. No better time, actually, to put his genes into practice. It was the first day back from Christmas vacation. It was a new day. A new year. The actual New Year. Not Rosh Hashanah or the school year, but the actual brand-new year. The New Year everyone knew and everyone loved. And this New Year was not just the New Year—it was going to be the New Year. The New Year of the new Abraham. This was the first New Year that Abraham made his first New Year’s resolution.
He had just learned, for the first time, what New Year’s resolutions were, the week before, from his grandpa Mel. Grandpa Mel had been released some months before from the mental hospital and came to visit with Grandma Mimi. At one point Grandma Mimi went to go use the bathroom and, upon her exit, Grandpa Mel quietly informed Abraham and his parents that his New Year’s resolution was to murder Grandma Mimi and take her money and spend that money on a “set of hot tits, ass, and pussy, who only knows the word yes.” He then proceeded to punctuate his resolution with taking a shit on their kitchen floor. And as Grandpa Mel was being dragged away in a straitjacket, Abraham asked his mother what he had meant by “New Year’s resolution.” Abraham’s mother told him that it was something people promised themselves they’d do or not do, or give up, or start doing in the New Year that usually they ended up not accomplishing, but, once in a great while, they did. Abraham had decided that his first New Year’s resolution that he would ever make would be to be popular, and, unlike Grandpa Mel, he’d see it through.
The next day Abraham’s dad drove him to school. Just like he did every day. Right before Abraham got out of the car, his father would say the same thing: “Don’t kill yourself. No matter how good of an idea it seems.” Abraham bounced out of the car. He was beyond excited. This was a new day. A whole new world. A world with a resolution. This was the day. This was the day everything was going to change.
He walked through the door. Everyone was rushing to and from their lockers. It didn’t seem like there was one person who wasn’t thrilled to be back. New boots were shown off. Fake fighting ensued. Aggressive flirtations enraptured new hearts. Joyful voices and laughter rattled his ears. Yet none of this noise was for him. Not one eye of any of the many present even mistakenly wandered in his direction. Invisibility smacked Abraham like a two-ton plate of steel in the whole of his body. He wondered if he had suddenly died. Was he a ghost? He felt a hollowness so intense that he looked for his own body dead on the ground. In fact: part of him wished he had dropped dead and his soul had exited his body. That way he could walk the halls unnoticed and hear what people said about him. But his corpse wasn’t on the ground. Abraham was not a ghost and he was relieved. Not just because he was still alive, but because he knew deep down that if he was a ghost, and walked the halls to hear what people said about him, what Abraham would hear would be nothing at all.
Classes were boring but easy. You didn’t have to worry about anyone not paying attention to you because no one was paying attention to anything. There was the one time that Mr. Kaminsky, the math teacher and soccer coach, had a mental breakdown. He took an empty Pepsi can and split it open and then sliced his hand with it and proceeded to write his grocery list in blood on the chalkboard. None of the kids noticed until he was halfway through, and blood had soaked his arm and the right side of his shirt.
The hardest time was lunch. Lunch was a true demonstration of your identity. It’s where everyone learned where they belonged. It’s where great decisions were made of who you were, not so much by you, but by who surrounded you. Each table was packed with people who knew what people they were and who they could and should sit with. Lunch was an oasis of friendship, no matter how unstable those friendships were. All the jockeying for position never could fully corrupt unadulterated togetherness. However, there were those few who were alone. Rogues with no belonging. Bodies of sadness faced with the cold hard facts of aloneness. Abraham was no one, with no place to go, and nobody wanted him. Not one table welcomed him.
But Abraham was ready to show everyone the new him. “Today’s a new day,” Abraham said to himself. “A new year. A new year with a New Year’s resolution.”
And with this, newfound purpose. With this new knowledge of his superior genetics, Abraham stepped to the holy mountain. The table no one dared to sit at unless they received that oh-so-sought-after invite. The table of all tables. The popular boys’ table.
Abraham sat down. No one of his social stature had ever dared, and surely there would be harsh consequences. But Abraham was unwelcome at every lunch table. And if Abraham was going to be unwelcome at every lunch table, Abraham figured he might as well be unwelcome at the best table. Abraham sat at the end. A tension filled the room. Everyone looked at Abraham. Watching without noticeably looking in anticipation of what could only be the biggest disaster ever witnessed within the walls of the school. The weight of all the popular boys shifted. Yet, much like the rest of the student body, the only looks they gave to Abraham were barely in his direction. The closer the popular boys’ eyes came to gazing upon him, the harder their eyes would become. Abraham knew that they knew how badly he wanted them to look at him. Today they would. Today they would look at him more than they had the whole year.
As the boys sat there, they laughed. Two, three, four at a time. And their laughs were mean. Abraham wanted in on that meanness. He wanted to feel meanness in his body. Meanness was power. Power that would be felt from classroom to classroom, extending through the whole school. It’s what would make the girls like him. It’s what would make the teachers fear him. It’s what would make his parents be proud that their son was not some lonely loser, lost in his dreams, weird and strange, waiting by the phone to hear about weekend sleepover plans that would never come.
Today would be the day. Today would be the day that the boys would see him. Really look at him and invite him into their meanness. They would because he was funny. They would because deep down they would sense that one day Abraham would be famous and the funniest person in the world.
Abraham just needed them to look at him. Really look at him. He stared at the boys and thought, Look at me. Look at me. LOOK AT ME. He repeated it in his head so loud that the thoughts would scream out in his gaze. LOOK AT ME, GODDAMMIT! And then:
“Look at Amsterdam. He’s staring at us like a fucking psycho.”
Prayers answered. The head of the clan, Greg Gillstein, had seen him. And not only that! He was talking about him! Abraham was noticed. The first step to his resolution had been achieved.
The second notice came from the second-in-command, Josh Goldman: “Yeah. He does look like he wants to eat us.”
“Maybe he wants to eat us?” asked Rory Wolf, identical twin brother to Brian Wolf, who promptly replied:
“Yeah, or fuck us.”
The table laughed in cruel unison. Greg Gillstein’s eyes narrowed in on Abraham. Abraham imagined Greg taking aim at him with his eyes and zapping him with lasers that would melt him into the floor in a pool of hilarity. Abraham wouldn’t be hurt. He’d relish his melted state. He would be fine. And everyone in the cafeteria would somehow know, and they’d laugh like they were laughing at Elmer Fudd or Yosemite Sam melting. Then Abraham would heal and go back to normal and everyone would applaud and Abraham would bow and take the throne as the funniest person alive.
But no lasers were zapped. Just a knife of a question:
“So which is it, Amsterdam? You gonna eat us or fuck us?” As luck would have it, as this question was being asked of him, Abraham was in the midst of the first chews of his kosher bologna sandwich. And if Greg’s crew thought their leader’s question was funny, they were gonna LOVE the answer. But the answer would not come in words. It would come in the form of one of the greatest physical-comedy routines ever performed in a school cafeteria. It would come in the form of a fake, flawlessly acted, choking tour de force. Abraham grabbed his throat. He began to writhe. He smacked at his own chest. Pushing on it in a self-Heimlich. Abraham pretended to plead for help. As his gasps and convulsions grew, so did the laughter, all culminating with Abraham collapsing onto the floor. His face purposefully purple. Nothing moving except his left leg, twitching.
The popular tribe stood up, and applauded like they had just seen themselves dunk a basketball, which they all dreamed of doing, but would never do. Abraham swallowed the mashed-up sandwich, rose to his feet, and took a bow.
“Holy shit, that was funny, Amsterdam,” screamed Josh Goldman.
“Yeah, you’re funny when you die, Amsterdam,” quipped Greg Gillstein through his sly chuckles.
Abraham had done it. He had gotten the praise he so badly wanted. He had gotten the only eyes he wanted on him. He had captured their undivided attention. Today was a success. No matter what else happened, today Abraham Amsterdam had won. But what happened next was beyond Abraham’s wildest imagination. It was good right now. Real good. But it was about to get even better:
“Come and play with us outside, Amsterdam,” Greg Gillstein said. “It’s muddy as fuck out in the field today. You like mud, don’t you, Amsterdam?”
Abraham put his hands on his waist. “Do I like mud? Why, that’s my middle name.”
The smiles left his audience’s faces. They clearly were more into physical comedy and weren’t so much for wit. But that was okay. The invitation to play was still in play.
Mrs. Metzger blew the whistle, signaling everyone’s exodus to the playground, and, more importantly, the field. The muddy field that awaited its new king’s arrival.
All the popular boys walked with enthusiasm. Abraham trailed behind them. They all whispered to each other, glancing back at their new star member. Obviously they’re so excited that they just got such a funny friend they can hardly contain themselves, thought Abraham. This is probably some kind of initiation. Who knows, maybe I’ll even get a tattoo with a safety pin before the day is out. As they reached the field, the boys took off their Air Jordans. Made sense. The field was so muddy they would surely be ruined. Abraham chose to keep his shoes on. His shoes were just old Adidas. Maybe if his shoes got muddy enough, his mother would finally take him for some Air Jordans.
The mud gripped his feet like a new desperate friend that knew who Abraham had just become. Maybe the mud wanted Abraham to teach it a thing or two about being liked.
The boys surrounded him. They started patting him on the back. They were laughing. The harder the laughter got, the harder the pats got, until the laughter almost became screaming and the pats almost became hitting. Abraham laughed with them. Trying to pass off that he knew what they found so funny. But he didn’t know. But the mud knew. And the mud was ready to embrace him as the screams turned into a battle cry and the hitting became a gripping and a pushing and pulling. Abraham sank. It felt soft and warm as the boys piled on top of him, one after the other, pushing him down further. He sank and sank. And as he sank he swore that he heard the mud whisper to him.
“Stay here. Please stay here. You’re soft like me. It’s good to be soft. Soft like me. We belong together. You’re soft like me. Please don’t leave. Be warm. Be soft with me. Stay, pretty please.”
But he couldn’t stay. His audience was waiting. As the boys leapt off him, Abraham continued to toss around in the mud. He did a showstopping routine where he would stand up and then slip like the mud was a giant banana peel. Simple, classic. Every time he slipped, the amount of mud on his body doubled.
As Abraham slipped again and again and again, the boys applauded more and more and more. Their applause then came in the form of their feet stomping against the mud as they kicked more dirt onto Abraham. Brown clumps of approval splattered against every inch of his body. It was like a grand theatre of old, when the crowds would throw gold. This was Abraham’s brown gold. He was overjoyed.
Now it was time for the routine to end. A great comedian knows when to leave them wanting more. Abraham stood up. He looked at those popular faces, salivating in anticipation. He took a deep breath and with that did one final half-back-flip slip, pile driving his head down into the wet earth. As he landed he felt a crack in his neck. Yikes! That would hurt in the morning. But it was all worth it. A cracked neck was worth spreading this much joy and gaining this much popularity. His head was totally submerged. I must look like a real ostrich right now. He giggled. Finally, with one great yank, he freed himself. He spit dirt from his mouth in an exaggerated way. A brilliant muddy spit-take to end all spit-takes. He then cleared his eyes. Ready to take his bow. Ready for his standing ovation . . . but . . . there was none. No one was there.
Abraham was confused. Why had his new best friends left? Did they miss the grand finale? Surely not. That would be crazy. How could they not see through that which had brought them such intense joy? Lunch must be over, he thought. He must not have heard Mrs. Metzger’s whistle because his ears were clogged with soil. He started to walk in the direction of the school, and as he walked away, he swore he could hear the mud whisper again.
“You should have stayed with me.”
And as he walked further, he swore he heard the mud crying.
The rest of the day passed. It seemed to dart by in a flash. Abraham floated from class to class in a bubble of bliss. As the bell rang, Abraham walked out of school and saw Greg Gillstein, Josh Goldman, and the Wolf twins giving each other a series of heartfelt farewells. Abraham felt so grateful that he could now look at these boys with new eyes. New eyes for his new friends that he for so long had felt so separate from. Here was his new gang. His new family. How lucky he was. But he wasn’t just lucky. He was funny. He was the funniest. He was popular. Finally he had achieved his long-deserved popularity. This popularity would be his dress rehearsal for his all-too-overwhelming fame. And by the time that fame would come around, Abraham would be all too ready for it. As his new family got in the cars of their families, Abraham called to them:
“That was really fun, guys.”
The boys all looked at him. Then they looked at each other. Then they laughed. Then they left.
Abraham’s father was waiting for him. Abraham got in the car. Abraham’s father asked a question that he had never asked before. Abraham thought it a coincidence his dad should choose this day to ask. Maybe his father sensed something. Maybe his father could feel that his son had changed. That he was now a whole new person who now should be talked to in a completely different way. Abraham’s father even looked at him.
“How was school today?”
Abraham smiled so hard he felt like his mouth might break his face.
“Dad . . . today was the greatest day of my life.”