Simon Rich - Spoiled Brats - Stories

“That’s awesome,” Simon says.

We swivel toward him. He is facing the bar, his pupils darting back and forth in obvious search for celebrities.

“That’s awesome,” he says again. “Hey — who wants a Manhattan?”

“I’ll just have a beer, please,” Claire says.

“Gotcha. What about you, Hersch?”

“I do not drink alcohols,” I remind him.

“Gotcha.”

He gets up from table and heads for the bar, his purple scarf fluttering behind him like a tail. I try to speak more with Claire, but it is impossible. The person in charge of the music machine has gone crazy. He is playing two records at the same time, mixing the songs together so that it all sounds horrible. The room is so loud and crowded, it reminds me of when I was in steerage. I wanted to survive, but there also was a part of me that prayed for the sweet release of death. Eventually, Simon returns with the liquors.

“Sorry that took so long,” he says, handing Claire a murky brown drink.

“You wanted a Manhattan, too, right, sweetie?”

I can see she is annoyed. She swallows her drink, grimaces, and then goes to the bar by herself. By the time she returns, holding beer, Simon has launched into story about Ice Chimps. I cannot understand most of his words, but the gist of it is that, years ago, he said a joke at a table and a famous man laughed at his joke. That is his whole story. But it takes him nearly fifteen minutes to say it. For the first time since meeting Simon, I start to wonder if he is possibly retarded. He talks like my cousin Moishe, who was born with triangle head. His stories go on forever and have no meaning.

Simon is about to tell another story about his beloved Ice Chimps when a tall goy with long tie walks over to our table. I can tell he is drunk, because he is swaying back and forth and has red cheeks.

“Hey, girl,” he says to Claire. “How’s your night going?”

Claire ignores the stranger, but he sits down next to her as if they are intimates. I quickly move aside, so that Simon can confront the man. But to my great surprise Simon does not seem to notice the drunk’s brazen insults.

“What’s your name?” he asks Claire. He is smiling, but there is violence in his eyes.

“I’m having a drink with my boyfriend,” Claire says.

The man laughs.

“Doesn’t mean you can’t tell me your name.”

I look at Simon. He has picked up an alcohols menu and is squinting at it.

“I’m in finance,” the man slurs. I notice that he has inched closer to Claire. Their legs are almost touching. I nudge Simon, but he continues to stare at the alcohols menu. It is at this point that I realize what is happening: Simon sees the drunk but is pretending not to — so he can avoid combat.

“I asked you for your name,” the drunk says again. “What’s the matter? You deaf or something?”

He lays his hand on Claire’s thigh as if she is his wife. She glances at Simon, her eyes wide with panic. Simon’s arms are twitching slightly and his jaw is clenched with fear. But his eyes remain fixed on his little menu.

Now, I am not the bravest person. As boy in Slupsk, I was afraid to wrestle bears, and only sometimes wrestled bears. And once, when doctor knifed out my appendix, I asked for aspirin pill. But I cannot just sit there while a man dishonors woman.

I lean across the table so the goy can see my eyes.

“She does not want to socialize with you,” I say.

He laughs once more, his moist lips curling into grin.

“Who the fuck are you?”

“She does not want to socialize,” I repeat. “Please leave our table.”

At this point, Simon has no choice but to look up from his drinks menu. His face is pale with fear.

“Herschel,” he whispers. “Calm down.”

I ignore him.

“Leave our table,” I tell the drunk again. “Or I will violence you.”

The drunk reaches across the table and grips my shoulder.

“Do you have any idea who you’re fucking with? My friend owns this place.”

“Leave our table,” I say again. “Or I will violence you.”

The man laughs out loud, and I sigh. I do not enjoy fighting, but sometimes there is no choice. I punch the man’s face, throw him on ground, kick his face, punch his head, and smash glass into his head. There are some screams and then the Negro giant throws me out the door. My brain hits ground and I lose time. When I wake up, Claire is kneeling beside me.

“Are you okay?” she asks.

I am in some pain but manage to make smile.

“Is fine,” I say to her. “It was pieces of the cake.”

That night, on couch, with bag of ice on head, I realize something: I have stayed in Simon’s home for one week’s time and still have not contributed to household. I have never been one to live on handouts. Enough is enough, I decide. It is time to make things right.

I go to Simon’s office, find pencil and paper, and make list of consumptions. It is very upsetting to see it written out. In just seven days, I have eaten four pieces bread, half jar of sour cream, and two canned tunas. I have also bathed three times, twice with cold water and once with warm. Plus, of course, I have taken pencil and paper, to record all these debts.

I go through the items line by line and write down guesses at the prices. When I add it all up, it comes nearly to one dollar.

I search my pockets, but all I can find is seven Indian pennies. Outside, the sun is rising. I go to the kitchen and wait for Simon to wake.

Six hours later, he enters. He is naked except for underpants and undershirt, which reads, DALTON HOMECOMING CLASS OF 2002. He turns on his coffee device and stares at it.

“Come on,” he says to the machine as it brews coffee for him automatically. “Let’s go. ”

In about ten seconds the pot is full. He exhales with relief and pours its contents into giant vessel.

I figure this is as good a time as any. I clear my throat, take out my list, and start to explain about my debts. Before I can get any words out, though, he waves his hand in my face.

“Herschel, please, don’t talk to me right now. I’ve got a splitting headache.”

He is drinking out of coffee bucket when Claire enters kitchen.

I gasp. She is almost completely naked, in underclothes that expose both of her calves. I face the wall and close my eyes to give her proper privacy.

“It’s okay, Hersch,” she says, laughing. “You can look.”

I turn around very slowly. Claire’s shirt is bright red, the color of fancy French lipstick. Over her chest, words spell out CLAREMONT RIDING ACADEMY. I can see her entire forearms, all the way up to the elbows.

“My God,” I whisper.

Claire giggles — and I feel my face swell up with blood. Simon glares at both of us and finishes his coffee.

“You were saying?” he grumbles at me.

I clear my throat and look down at my list.

“It is generous of you to house me,” I say. “But, as I have told you, I am not one who takes charity.”

“It’s not charity,” Claire says. “We love having you around!”

“Yeah,” Simon says. “We love it.”

I watch as Claire opens the cupboard and reaches for mug on top shelf. As she stretches to grab it, her red shirt climbs slowly up her body. I turn away as quickly as I can, but it is too late. I have seen the nude small of her back. My throat goes dry and for long time I cannot breathe. How could Simon allow her to parade in this way? It is very hard to continue speaking like nothing strange has happened, but somehow I manage to keep going.

“I have decided to search for new job,” I announce. “When I have savings, I will repay you for the breads and creams I have eaten, and rent myself a home of my own.”