Call Me Ishmael

I think it started when I told Tali, my friends Harry and Gili’s daughter, that I would give her $20 if, during the course of one week at school, every time someone addressed her as Tali, she would answer ‘call me Ishmael’. It was, of course, based on the honor system and it got to the point that every shabbos dinner, both Tali and her sister Nava would implore me to think of something to say at school.

In exchange for money. It became a thing.

Somehow, it evolved to me offering to pay $180 to anyone who could work my name into their bar mitsvah or bat mitsvah speech. It was tacitly understood that this had to be done in a creative way.

It goes without saying that the genesis of this offer arose from an oversized ego and healthy dollop of vanity but there was no harm done and all the participants seemed to enjoy it.

Plus there was the matter of the money: which I paid promptly and happily.

One witty wag, no doubt aided by a parent or two, when reading from slips of paper which were purportedly greetings from absent guests, gleefully announced “Ron Zevy, call your doctor, your herpes test results have arrived.”

Even the rabbi laughed at that one.

Anyway, it got to be a thing and even my neighbours would send me video of an event I was not even invited to in order to prove that their son or daughter had, in fact, uttered my name.

So pay up buddy.

Nava, from her kibbutz in Israel, asked how much if she named one of her goats Ron.

But luckily, other than itinerant goats, I had grown to an age where my friend’s kids were now having weddings and while my offer was still on the table, an insert in a wedding speech would take a lot more moxie- especially after I made it clear that including me in the thanking out of town guests part of the speech would not count.

So, I was in the clear. Or so I thought.

I flew home early from Florida this year in order to attend a family wedding- my cousin’s son Adam- and to see my friend Neil who, tragically, had been diagnosed with stage 4 cancer.

I was not looking forward to either. I don’t like weddings.

I just don’t.

I'm certain it is because I am a longtime single, cynical asshole. I make no excuses.

But if I have to hear another person say “you complete me” I think I'm going to shoot myself.

So, most of the time, I don't go.

When invited, I adhere to Nancy Reagan’s famous proclamation- just say no.’

When Adam invited me I said no. The wedding was in late March and I had no intention of leaving the warm confines of Boca for a night of endless speeches and eardrum breaking music.

Try to come, he said, the food will be great.

Yeah, like I'm going to leave my pool for a piece of salmon almandine.

But then Neil took a turn for the worse so I quickly packed and got on a flight.

Because, you know, he owed me money.

My cousin Morris, who had promised not to tell one of his infamous jokes, began his speech with a joke. It was, no word of a lie, a dick joke. Now I'm not going to bore you with the details but you might have heard it. It is the joke about a bunch of guys who submit their achievements to the Guinness World Book of Records and one of the guys tries to win for having the smallest dick. He doesn’t win and the punchline when he discovers who the record holder is him saying “who the fuck is Ron Zevy?”

Now my cousin Morris said who the hell instead of who the fuck because, you know, he’s a classy guy.

I have to be honest, it got a big laugh. And even bigger when he said “Ron, you owe me $180.”

Even the rabbi, ok, reform rabbi, laughed.

My friend Neil asked me how my book launch had gone. He was thin and gaunt but with his mountain man beard now gone, he actually looked pretty good. He was the kind of guy who really cared about other people and he wasn't going to let my hospital visit be an uncomfortable one.

Later, on the phone, when I asked him how his numbers were he said “don't ask me about fucking numbers. How are sales?”

Sales are shit I told him.

It’s a stupid title, he said. It doesn't capture the essence of the book.

This wasn't deathbed honesty. This was how he spoke. Unfiltered. Unfettered. Most of his advice, of which there was plenty, was unsolicited.

I offered up another title suggestion. Better, he said, but not great.

Then he hung up.

My designer, Tatiana couldn't understand. Why were we changing the title? I told her I wanted to try something new.

But the book is already printed she said. I know.

It is in the bookstores.

I know.

You just had a signing at Barnes and Noble.

I asked her to give me a couple of new designs. Just to see. I didn’t play the cancer card.

Elena is Neil’s daughter. She is a medical resident studying to become a forensic psychiatrist.

She used to work at TumbleBooks in the summer and still likes to address me as ‘bossman.’ It is Friday night. Her father passed away the night before and since the funeral is not until Sunday, the official mourning, the Jewish shiva, has not started. We are supposed to keep our grief in suspension.

We are going around the table telling Neil stories. There are no shortages. He got hit in the eye with a groundball the day before his wedding in a softball game his fiancee and soon to be ex wife begged him not to play in. I wrote a story about it. His stories could have filled a book.

Elena tells me that talking to me about my books was a good distraction for him in the hospital.

So that was nice.

I had emailed her Tatiana’s new cover Did you show it to him, I asked.

Yup, she replied. I even asked him if it captured the essence of the book What did he say?

You’re not going to like it, she said grinning widely What did he say?

You have to understand, she explained, this was near the end, he had trouble getting words out. So he took a deep breath and said “to be honest, I never read it.”

Rest in peace my friend.

Rest with the knowledge that your kids are carrying on your tradition.

A few nights later, when recounting the story to yet another group, I said that Neil actually read a lot of my stories. His highest praise would be to say “that’s cute.”

I used to send him my stories and he used to send me his paintings. I'm kinda disappointed that you didn’t mention how much I supported his art during your eulogy I said to Elena.

“To be honest Uncle Ronnie,” she replied “I didn't know that you paid at funerals too.”

The End