6.The room was the coldest room the Amsterdam family had ever been in.
It was a stagnant cold. A cold that wasn’t freezing but crept under the skin and into the bones. The kind of cold that got you sick. The Amsterdams stood there shivering as the cold filled them with anxiety on top of the already existing greater anxiety resulting from them not knowing where they were, how they got there, and the fact that Abraham was not with them.
All the other Amsterdams were there, though. Well . . . all except Grandpa Mel, who was still institutionalized. There was Grandma Golda, Grandpa Moshe, Grandma Mimi, step-Grandpa Leonard, Uncle Sid and Aunt Felicia, and their sons, Dustin, Justin, and Sid Jr. Also of course Uncle Jerry and Aunt Gerry, and their daughters, Lily, Jenny, Jori, and Nikki. Surprisingly Uncle Richard was also there, who was known to usually avoid whole family gatherings. Lastly there was Carol and Irv, Abraham’s mother and father. Abraham, Carol and Irv’s only son, was nowhere to be found.
“Anyone remember how we got here?” asked Aunt Gerry.
“Anyone know where the hell we are?!” asked Grandma Golda.
“Where’s Abraham?! Did anyone see Abraham?!” asked Carol.
“Maybe he’s in the bathroom?” Irv Amsterdam hypothesized.
Uncle Richard stayed silent in the corner. He knew better than to interject.
Uncle Sid scratched his head. “The last thing I remember was I was eating some chopped liver. I took a bite. It was delicious, then I blinked and now I’m here.”
Aunt Felicia was far from pleased with the reveal of this useless information by her husband. “Sid! What did I tell you?! Lay off the chopped liver! You had your fill yesterday, and I made it to last till the weekend.”
Uncle Sid smacked his thigh. “What’s the use of food if you can’t eat it? I deserve that liver after the week I had,” and with this Uncle Sid pointed to his foot.
Aunt Felicia’s tone changed from frustration to pity. She put her hand on her husband’s shoulder and announced, “Sid had three toes removed.”
Everyone gasped. Everyone except Uncle Jerry, who shrugged his shoulders.
Upon seeing his brother-in-law dismiss him, Uncle Sid clenched his fists. “What? You shrug your shoulders? I tell you I had appendages removed from my body and all I get is a shrug?”
Uncle Jerry answered with another shrug. “You’re lucky it’s just toes.”
Uncle Sid took a step forward. “Just toes, huh? Let me ask you a question, Jerry—do you have all of your toes?”
Uncle Jerry placed his hands on his waist like Superman. “Of course I do. I take excellent care of my body.”
Uncle Sid gave Uncle Jerry a bow. “Well, congratulations, Mr. Olympics, why don’t you write a book so we can all read it and learn to not only be just as healthy as you, but just as bad with money, too.”
Uncle Jerry raised a fist. “Don’t insult me in front of my children!”
Uncle Sid began inching even closer toward Uncle Jerry, his face diabetic red. “Let me explain to you what looking at your foot and only seeing two toes feels like, Jerry. Let’s say you’re having a great day. Great sleep the night before. No traffic all day. The weather’s not too hot, not too cool. Loads of intelligent conversation, both with people you know and with strangers. You come home and you get a kiss from your wife like you haven’t had in a while. She’s actually happy to see you. What’s on the menu? Your favorite dinner. Your favorite program’s on TV that night. The kids don’t fight. They seem grateful for the life you’ve provided them. Everything is sublime. Then the day comes to a close. You’re getting ready for another soothing night of slumber. You take off your shirt, your pants, your socks, and OH THAT’S RIGHT YOU HAVE FEWER TOES THAN A GODDAMN BIRD!”
Just then the door to the room opened. Silence filled the space. A silence so silent you could hear the beads of sweat that were rolling down Uncle Sid’s forehead. The silence was accompanied by a man. A classically handsome man, in the Gentile sense. A man who seemed to be from another time. A time when cigarettes were healthy. The type of man who made people like the Amsterdams very nervous. A man who hid his hatred for the sake of propriety. A true all-American.
The man sat down in a chair across the room. He flashed a smile all of the Amsterdams wished they themselves could flash. A smile no Jew could smile. A smile that assured everyone everything would be all right. A smile like apple pie. “Hello, everyone. Thank you for joining us this afternoon. I hope this all hasn’t been too much for you. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Harry. Welcome to The Agency.”
The Amsterdams looked at each other, puzzled.
“Agency? What kind of an agency?” asked Grandma Mimi.
The smile stayed plastered on Harry’s face. “Oh, we deal in various matters of a confidential nature.”
“You don’t look much like a Harry,” pointed out Grandma Golda.
Harry chuckled. “Yes, I know. I look more like a Randolph or even a James, but those aren’t my names, and as a matter of fact, neither is Harry. But, you see, my name hardly matters, because in an hour you won’t remember any of this.”
“What the hell kind of mishigas is this?” asked Grandpa Moshe. “Not remember? How would we not remember? Especially me. I got one of the best memories around. I never forget a face, a name, or a phone number. I know every phone number by heart of everyone I know. Tell me that ain’t a good memory.”
Harry gave another chuckle. “I’m sure your memory is as sharp as a Ginsu. It’s just we have technology designed to erase certain memories from the conscious mind. This technology was employed moments ago, which is why you don’t remember how you arrived at our offices. Don’t worry, our methods of memory erasure are absolutely safe. Only pinpointed memories are removed. There is no collateral memory loss or brain damage. You will only forget that you were here and that we had this meeting. However, at the same time, the contents of our discussion will be implanted into your subconscious so that you can carry out what I will now ask of you. That is, if you agree to the proposal. Make sense?”
Carol Amsterdam stomped her foot. “Okay, Mr. Mind Twist. I’ve had about enough of this bullshit. Not all of us are here. My son, Abraham. Where is he?”
Irv Amsterdam echoed his wife. “Yeah, where is Abraham, you shyster! You’re lucky I’m a pacifist or I’d knock your teeth from here to Wyoming!”
The rest of the family joined in on the protest. All except Uncle Richard, who remained silent in the corner, and the cousins who for some time now had collectively buried their faces in their hands in utter humiliation. But everyone else was up in arms. Uncle Jerry stepped up onto a chair. Then Uncle Sid also stepped up onto a chair. Uncle Jerry then accused Uncle Sid of always copying him. Aunt Felicia and Aunt Gerry screamed at them to get down. The grandpas and grandmas grabbed their chests.
Harry clapped his hands for their attention, and then caressed the air like a conductor. “Mr. and Mrs. Amsterdam, we do not have your son. I promise you he is safe at home, fast asleep. He will not wake until your return, and none of you will remember that you ever left.”
Carol Amsterdam grabbed the sides of her head. She pulled at her hair, hoping it might shake her from this nightmare. Irv put his hand on her shoulder. He realized it had been some time since he had comforted his wife in any way. He wondered why that was. Did he not love her anymore? Or was he just used to her being self-sufficient?
“Why was Abraham not brought here with us?” Carol muttered through clenched teeth.
Harry leaned forward. His dark eyebrows raised up his handsome forehead as his inviting eyes widened. “Well, Mrs. Amsterdam, your son is the reason I brought you all here. I want to talk to the whole family about Abraham. We think he’s special.”
Uncle Sid had had enough. “Special, huh? You sound like a grade-A pedophile to me. That’s probably what this place is. One of those pedophile safe havens for the rich and powerful.”
Harry gave another chuckle. “I assure you, sir, that is not the case. Our organization has been studying Abraham and we have concluded that he has great potential. We think Abraham is a boy who can do great things. He has the makings of a great comedian. A great entertainer. Someone who can bring the world joy in these horribly troubled times.”
Irv Amsterdam was now intrigued. “Well, what is this? Are you going to give him some sort of scholarship?”
Harry leaned back. He could relax now that he was no longer being accused of being a child molester. “No, Mr. Amsterdam. Given Abraham’s predisposition for genius we don’t think that will be necessary. We operate in more of an . . . overseeing type of capacity.”
“Overseeing?” step-Grandpa Leonard asked.
Harry looked away, hiding whatever true expression was in his eyes. “Allow me to explain, and I warn you this is going to sound quite strange. The reason we have brought you all here is that we would like you to help Abraham become the special person we know he can be. The special man who will entertain the world. Who will lift people out of their misery and mundanity. Who will become a great, famous man. However, this is not something that just happens on its own. Abraham will have to be . . . pushed.”
Carol Amsterdam scratched her head. “Well, I’ve been thinking of enrolling him in some children’s acting classes.”
Harry bowed his head in reverence. “That’s not exactly what I mean, Mrs. Amsterdam. Although by all means enroll him. No, what I’m asking is that you all give Abraham the opposite of any sort of support, from time to time. We’ve found that children are more likely to lead extraordinary lives if they experience unpleasant childhoods.”
Carol Amsterdam gasped. “Are you asking me to abuse my son?!”
Uncle Sid slapped his knee. “See? I told you this goy was a pedophile!”
Harry gave another uncomfortable chuckle. “I’m not talking about any abuse. Of course not. That would be going too far. We don’t want Abraham to become a serial killer or a domestic terrorist. By all means show the boy love occasionally. But some good old-fashioned mistreatment, peppered throughout the day, will put Abraham on the road to greatness, Mrs. Amsterdam. And this of course goes for all of you. This is a family effort.”
“So let me get this straight,” said Carol Amsterdam. “When we leave here you’re going to erase our memories, but you’ll make sure in the back of our minds we all remember you telling us to treat Abraham like shit, so he becomes a famous comedian?”
Harry politely nodded. “Basically, yes.”
“Why would we agree to this?” asked Irv Amsterdam.
Harry rang a bell. The door again opened, and again a man walked into the room. However, this man was not all-American. Nor was he a stranger. This was a man known to every member of the Amsterdam family. A man they unanimously respected. A man who the men of the Amsterdam family secretly wanted to be, and someone all the women of the family secretly wanted to fuck. This man was none other than the manager of the Goldenwide First National Bank: Mr. Fishel Braverman.
Fishel Braverman looked as elegant as ever. No less elegant than when he routinely greeted and “congratulated” any member of the Amsterdam family upon depositing a check. His silken suit draped his statuesque physique. His hair was combed back in luscious waves that made bald men want to commit suicide. His diamond-studded cuff links reflected the fluorescent lights of the room, giving the effect of sunlight.
Mr. Braverman gave a smile and a wink as he reached out his manicured hands and embraced the Amsterdams like the rabbi of finance he was. “My favorite people! All in one place together! How lucky can one happy bank manager get, and how happy can one lucky bank manager be?”
Fishel Braverman’s glee filled the room as much as the light from his cuff links. For all of the shocking things the Amsterdams only moments ago had been faced with, it was impossible to resist Mr. Braverman’s otherworldly charm.
“Yes, everyone is here! Well, everyone except Abraham, of course. Oh, Abraham. What a boy, huh? Well, you know better than me.”
Fishel let out a blast of laughter. “Yes, the man of the hour, who ironically isn’t here to celebrate his recent turn of very good fortune. Carol and Irv, your boy is going to give the world more joy than it deserves, but, like my friend Harry right here just said, in order for this to occur, Abraham’s got to be pushed in the right direction, and sometimes being pushed doesn’t feel comfortable. Sometimes it can even hurt. But it’s not how much the pushing hurts. It’s about what you get pushed into. And with just the right amount of pushing, Abraham will be pushed into greatness. And make no mistake, that ‘greatness’ includes not only fame . . . but fortune. And not only fortune for Abraham. Fortune for everyone. My fine friends, if you help us make your son the star he deserves to be so he can do his very important part of keeping humanity sane with the gift of laughter, we at the Goldenwide First National Bank will deposit twenty million dollars into each of your accounts.”
The Amsterdams gasped. Twenty million dollars?! Was this real? How could it be? No such sum of money was ever thought possible by any of them. If anyone else would have proposed this to them, they would have been laughed out of the room. But this was Fishel Braverman. One of the most respected men of their community. Again, if it had been anyone else, the Amsterdams would surely have passed it off as a ridiculous joke. But Fishel Braverman was not one to joke. He was a gregarious man, but he was also a serious man, and more than anyone else they knew, he was an honest man.
“Twenty million dollars, Fishel?” asked Irv Amsterdam.
“That’s right, Irv.” And with this he again flashed his heart-warming smile. “Twenty million dollars. Not too shabby, huh, guys?”
Uncle Sid put his hand up. “Well, even if we each get this twenty million dollars . . . as soon as we agree, this goyim here said he’s going to erase our memories. So how will we remember that you owe us that twenty million dollars? Aren’t we all going to think it’s strange that we all suddenly each get this magical money out of nowhere?”
Fishel Braverman was happy. His favorite customers had not let him down. They were, as always, smart as hell. “Well, Sid, that’s an excellent point. In two years you will all have a strong impulse to play the lottery, and after doing so you will experience a family miracle—the first family in history to win three hundred and eighty million dollars. Which divided amongst the nineteen of you is twenty million dollars each. Of course this money will have been in your accounts all along. And just like everything else that has been discussed today, all of this information will be stored in your subconscious. You will remember without knowing you remember.”
The Amsterdams checked in with each other. This was beginning to sound like not such a bad idea. “So how exactly are we to ‘mistreat’ the boy?” Grandpa Moshe softly inquired.
“Nothing too severe. Dismissing major achievements. Calling him stupid and lazy more often. Carol and Irv, you should certainly not get along at all. There should be minor arguments constantly, and huge, screaming arguments once or twice a week. Do your best, without being obvious, to make Abraham feel like the only reason both of you are still together is because of him. Irv, make sure to be resentful of Abraham for this. Think of him as competition. But at the same time: detach. Drift off into the memories of who you were before. And Carol, really cling to him. Almost make him feel like he’s your husband. Make him carry your emotional baggage. And this next tactic is for everyone: make sure to put down Abraham’s hopes and dreams. Adults, you can do this by reminding him of how slim his chances are of making it in such a difficult field, and strongly encourage him to have a plan B. Now to all of you cousins, you just need to make him think that he doesn’t have enough talent. Make fun of him. Rope his friends into it, and one of you could even spread a rumor or two about him at school. Tell everyone that he lets the dog lick him ‘down there.’ Something like that. Again, nothing too extreme. Just enough to push him in the right direction.”
The Amsterdams were dubious, even though it was Fishel Braverman who was presenting them with the offer. However, most of all, the Amsterdams were in shock. In shock that they were considering any of this at all. The family stepped aside to talk amongst themselves.
“Well, what do you think? Do we believe any of this?” asked Carol.
“I don’t know. This is crazy. Mind erasure? Twenty million dollars? Child abuse?” replied Irv.
“It’s not abuse. Fishel was very clear about that,” said Grandpa Moshe.
“But why is Fishel even here? Is he friends with this goy?” asked Grandma Mimi.
“Maybe the goy’s got something on him and is forcing him to lie to us?” wondered Aunt Gerry.
“But if he’s telling the truth, we’ll never feel bad about any of it,” said Uncle Jerry.
“If it’s real, it is a lot of money,” added step-Grandpa Leonard. “I could reopen my deli.”
Aunt Felicia leaned in. “I could get a full body lift every two years at least.”
“We could buy the whole condo, Moshe. We could finally kick out Ida Roth,” said Grandma Golda.
“No more having to listen to her brag about how much she won at the greyhound track that day. No more having to lie about liking the pictures of her ugly grandchildren,” said Grandpa Moshe.
Dustin, Justin, Sid Jr., Lily, Jenny, Jorie, and Nikki were all salivating, coming up with every moronic purchase idea from a roller coaster in the backyard to a dog that’s trained to put your makeup on.
Uncle Richard was torn. He cared deeply for his nephew. But twenty million dollars was twenty million dollars, and with twenty million dollars he could travel far away from this godforsaken family.
“Also, don’t forget, we’re helping Abraham achieve his dreams. I think if he was here and he knew about this deal, he’d tell us to say yes,” said Uncle Jerry.
“That’s right. You don’t think Abraham would choose for us to do whatever it takes so that he can be a famous comedian and so his family could be millionaires? Of course he would. He wouldn’t give it a second thought,” said Grandma Mimi.
“All it is is just ignoring him and calling him stupid now and then,” said Irv.
“Yeah, and Mr. Braverman was clear there would be no need for molestation. Which is a relief,” said Uncle Sid.
“So . . . what do we think? Do we do this? Do we say yes?” asked Aunt Gerry.
“I don’t want to hurt him. He’s my only son,” cried Carol.
“But honey, we won’t be hurting him. We’ll be making his dreams come true. Look at it this way: the worse we treat him, the better life will treat him,” said Irv as he again tried the foreign act of comforting his wife.
The Amsterdams engaged in what seemed like days of neurotic negotiations. The family all worried in their various ways that something bad would eventually develop as a result of the “pushing.” That they would go too far as they did with everything else. For if there was one thing that every member of the Amsterdam family had in common it was that they all excelled in the art of “going too far and ruining everything.” But money was money. And no matter how much one could lie to themselves and say that money didn’t fix almost everything, this was not a lie that any Amsterdam ever told themselves or anybody else.
As they argued, Harry placed his hand on Fishel’s perfect shoulder. Fishel looked into Harry’s blue eyes, and Harry glared into his. There was something in Harry’s glare, and if the Amsterdams were not fully immersed in their own discussion they would have seen this glare turn Mr. Braverman’s face completely chalk white. Mr. Braverman must have felt the change in his color, because he then promptly pinched his cheeks and lightly patted his face to get them back to their normal rosier hue. He then cleared his throat to get his favorite family’s attention, as Harry hid his face to giggle to himself.
“Well, folks, are we close to a verdict here? Don’t mean to rush you, but Abraham will be waking up soon, and we should get you all home so he’s not there alone.”
And with that, the Amsterdams agreed. It was best for everyone involved. Best for Abraham. Best for the family. Best even for Mr. Braverman. The last thing they’d ever want to do is make the great Fishel Braverman feel like he’d failed. So yes it was. They would push Abraham into greatness. They would help him carve his own face into the Mount Rushmore of Comedy. And in so doing they would become richer than all of their wildest dreams combined. As their boy made millions laugh, they’d spend millions and laugh, and they would all finally best the subtle misery that flowed through the tiny blood vessels of their Jewish brains. The worry that had buried itself in their bones since the fleeing of their ancestors would be exorcised. And the real estate!!! A house in every country. A condo in every city. And these would be investments. Investments that would grow as Abraham grew more and more cherished and beloved.
With that, Harry pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket. A contract.
“Congratulations, ladies and gentlemen.” He then smiled one last smile. “You’ve made the right decision.”
Two hours later everyone returned home, with no memory of what had transpired. Abraham was still asleep in his bed. An hour later he awoke to his parents screaming at each other, in the middle of a fight about what was better: Saran wrap or tinfoil.
Soon after their forgotten encounter, Fishel Braverman, manager of the Goldenwide First National Bank, mysteriously disappeared.
Two years later the Amsterdams won the lottery.
Fifteen years after that Abraham became a famous comedian.