David Grossman: A Horse Walks Into a Bar

The audience follows the split screen of joke and joker, drawn to them both.

“In the end he had no choice, he started threatening the parrot: ‘If you don’t stop, I’ll lock you up in the closet!’ The parrot just got even more whacked out and starting cussing in Yiddish, too—” He stops and laughs out loud, slapping his thigh softly: “Seriously, Netanya, you’re gonna love this, there’s no way you don’t love this.”

The crowd stares at him. A few pairs of eyes squint, preparing for the quick flight of hand to face.

“Anyway, the guy grabs the parrot, throws him in the closet, and locks the door. The parrot, from inside, lets out such a load of filth that the guy wants to die, he’s so embarrassed. Finally he can’t take it anymore, he opens the closet and grabs the parrot with both hands. The parrot screams, he curses, he bites, he slanders, he even libels, and the guy takes him to the kitchen, opens the freezer, throws him in, and slams the door.”

The room is silent. A few wary smiles here and there. People seem focused on the man’s hands, which circle around each other in a slow loop like a snake uncoiling.

“The guy puts his ear to the freezer and hears curses from inside, scratching, wings flapping. After a while it goes quiet. A minute, another minute, nothing. Silence. Not a peep. He starts getting worried, his conscience acts up, maybe the parrot’s frozen to death in there, hypothermia or some shit. He opens the freezer door, prepared for the worst, and the parrot steps out with his feet trembling, climbs up onto the guy’s shoulder, and says: ‘Sir, words cannot express the depth of my apologies. From here on out my master shall not hear even one uncultured utterance depart my lips.’ The guy looks at the parrot and can’t believe his ears. Then the parrot says: ‘By the way, sir, what exactly did the chicken do?’ ”

The crowd laughs. A big held-in breath that bursts out in laughter. They laugh in part, I think, to save the man onstage from his own hands. What sort of peculiar contract is emerging here, and what is my role in it? The pale young couple leans over on their table. Their lips protrude tensely, almost passionately. Perhaps they’re hoping he’ll hit himself again? Dovaleh listens to the laughter, head tilted and forehead wrinkled. “Oh well.” He sighs, after gauging the volume and duration. “I guess that’s all I’m gonna get out of them. Apparently you’re dealing with a demanding, sophisticated crowd here, Dovi. Some of them might even be lefties, which requires a more opinionated attitude, with touches of self-righteousness.” Then he riles himself up with a yell: “ Where were we?! We covered birthdays, which as you know are a day of reckoning, of soul-searching, at least for those who have a soul, and I’ll tell you that personally, in my state, I just don’t have the resources to maintain one. Seriously, souls demand nonstop upkeep, don’t they? It never ends! Every single day, all day long, you gotta haul it in for servicing. Am I right or am I right?”

Beer glasses are raised in confirmation. I seem to be the only one still under the influence of the hand that hovered over his face; I, and perhaps a very small woman sitting not far from me, who’s been staring at him in wonder since the moment he walked onstage, struggling to believe that such a creature could exist in the world. “Am I right or am I right?” he yells again, and a few grunts and lows of agreement emerge. “Am I right or am I right?” he thunders as loud as he can, and they scream: “You’re right! You’re right!” It seems the louder they get, the happier he is. He enjoys fanning the flames, stimulating some kind of vulgar, corrupt gland, and I suddenly know in the clearest and simplest way that I do not want or need to be here.

“Because the fucking soul flip-flops on us the whole time, have you noticed? Have you noticed that, Netanya?” They roar back: they have noticed! “First it wants this, then it wants the other. One second it lights you up with euphoria and fireworks, the next it whacks you upside the head with a club. One minute it’s horny, the next it’s freaking out and geeking out and let me out! How can anyone live with it, I’m asking you, and who needs it anyway?” He fumes, and I look around, and again it seems that apart from me and that woman, who is exceptionally tiny, almost a midget, everyone looks perfectly satisfied. What the hell am I doing here? And what sort of obligation do I have toward someone who I went to private tutoring sessions with forty-something years ago? I’m giving him five more minutes, on the dot, and after that, if there isn’t any kind of plot twist, I’m leaving.

Somehow, on the phone, there was something attractive about his offer, and I can’t deny that he does have his moments onstage, too. When he hit himself, there was something there, I’m not sure what, some sort of alluring abyss that opened up. And the guy is no idiot. He never was, and I’m sure I’m missing something in him tonight, too, some signal I have trouble putting my finger on, something inside him that’s calling out to me.

I start preparing for a quick departure. No, he can’t complain. I made the effort, I came from Jerusalem, listened to him for almost half an hour, I found no youth and no devotion, and now it’s time to cut my losses.

He delivers another enthusiastic tirade against “the messed-up idea of the immor-fucking-tality of the soul.” It turns out that if he could choose, he wouldn’t think twice before picking the body. “Picture a body, unencumbered!” he shouts. “No thoughts, no memories, just a dumb body prancing around in a meadow like a zombie, eating and drinking and fucking mindlessly.” And here he illustrates, skipping back and forth as he merrily thrusts his hips and grins. I signal the waitress for my check. I can do without the honor of being his guest. I don’t want to owe him anything. I walk around this world like a pincushion as it is. It was a big mistake to come here. He picks up my gesture to the waitress, and his face falls, really collapses.

“No, seriously!” he exclaims, and speeds up his speech. “Do you understand what it means these days to keep up a soul? It’s a luxury, no shit! Do the math and you’ll see it costs you more than magnesium wheels! I’m talking about a base-model soul, not some Shakespeare or Chekhov or Kafka—great stuff, by the way, so I’m told, I personally haven’t read any—I’ll make an emotional confession now, I am severely dyslexic, terminally, I swear, it was discovered when I was still a fetus, the doctor who diagnosed me suggested my parents consider abortion—”

The crowd laughs. I don’t. I vaguely remember that he used to mention books I’d heard of and knew I’d be tested on in a couple of years when I matriculated, but he talked about them as if he’d actually read them. Crime and Punishment was one, and if I’m not mistaken there was also The Trial or The Castle. Now, onstage, he spews out a stream of titles and authors, assuring the audience he’s never read any of them. I start to get an itch on my upper back, and I wonder if he’s just ingratiating himself with the crowd, hawking some kind of down-home folksiness, or whether he’s scheming something that will end up targeting me. I give the waitress an impatient look.

“Because what am I, at the end of the day?” he screams. “I’m a bottom-feeder, am I not?” And here he turns to me with his whole body and shoots me a bitter smile: “Because what is stand-up, after all? Have you ever considered that? Take it from me, Netanya, when it comes right down to it, it’s a pretty pathetic form of entertainment, let’s be honest. Do you know why? Because you can smell our sweat! Our effort to make you laugh! That’s why!” He sniffs his armpits and grimaces, and the audience laughs a little, confused. I straighten up in my chair and cross my arms over my chest, because I believe this is a declaration of war.