Simon Rich - Spoiled Brats - Stories

Simon laughs out loud.

“Good luck with that,” he says.

“Thank you,” I say. It is nice, I think, for Simon to be so supportive, given that we have had some problems.

“I was being sarcastic,” he says.

I squint at him with confusion.

“I do not understand,” I say. “You do not think that I will have success?”

Simon refills his coffee vat and smirks.

“Who’s going to hire you? You’ve got no education, no experience, no skills.”

“Simon,” Claire says, “that’s rude.”

“It’s not rude,” he says. “It’s realistic. I mean, for God’s sake, Hersch, you barely even know how to speak English.”

My face begins suddenly to burn. It is painful to hear my great-great-grandson say these things. I know I am not so clever. I did not go to kindergarten like a fancy man. But I am not as worthless as he says.

“I have experience with pickling,” I inform him.

Simon laughs again, and I can see his teeth glinting in the light. They remind me of rat’s fangs, their tips caked with yellow clumps of food. I know he is related to me, but I feel like he is different species. For first time all week, I am thankful that Sarah is gone. I would not like her to meet this creature, to see what has become of our shared dream.

“If you want some cash,” Simon says, “I’ve got plenty.”

He opens a drawer, pulls out a wad of banknotes, and tosses them in my direction. I let the bills flutter to the floor. By this point, my whole face is tingling.

“I told you,” I say through gritted teeth, “I am not one who takes charity.”

“Well,” Simon says, “you better get used to it. Because it’s the only way you’re going to survive.”

My jaw clenches tight and my hands begin to tremble. I stand up from table and look him in his eyes.

“I would sooner live on streets,” I say, “than with one who disrespects me.”

“Fine,” he says. “Whatever.”

I gather all my possessions (left shoe and right shoe) and march right down the stairs. When I open front door, I can see that the sky has turned gray and the clouds are beginning to drip. I do not care, though. I cannot stay inside another moment. I am about to step through door when I feel tiny hand gripping my elbow. It is Claire.

“Herschel, come on,” she says. “Simon didn’t mean all that. He’s just hungover.”

I point my finger at her face.

“Tell him that I hope his teeth fall out, except for one, so that he may get toothaches!”

“Herschel, come on. You don’t mean that curse.”

“I do,” I say. “I mean curse.”

I start to step through door, but she grabs me once again.

“Herschel, this is ridiculous!” she says. “You don’t know anybody in Brooklyn, or where anything is, or how anything works.”

I reach into pocket and take out my seven Indian pennies.

“I have seven cents more than when I first came to this land. I have started from scratch here before. I can start here from scratch once again.”

“Herschel, trust me, you’ll never make it.”

I would never violence a woman. But when she says these words, I feel the urge to do so.

“Do you know who you are speaking with?” I say, my voice like the growl of an animal. “I am Herschel Rich!”

She swallows. The rain is pouring down now and I must shout to be heard.

“I crossed an ocean without pants!” I remind her. “I am not going to lie down in coffin! I am going to climb up this city until I have conquered my dream!”

I point at the brownstone down the block, the one Simon told me is for sale.

“How much is that building costing?”

“I don’t know, Herschel. Probably, like, two million dollars.”

“Tell Simon that I will earn the two millions first — and buy the big house before he can! And I will start new line of descendants without him. I may be old man of twenty-seven. But there is still grease in my bucket. There is still plenty of grease.”

I put the seven pennies back in pocket and walk on through the rain. In the distance, I can see the Statue of Liberty. I figure that is as good a direction as any. I button my wool and march forward.

Even though I possess seven pennies, I know I must be careful about spending them. New York is expensive city. There is no telling how long they will last.

The trick to surviving with low funds is to not have such high standards. For example, in Slupsk, you could buy bowl of milk for three rubles. But they would sell you milk for just two rubles if you drank it directly from goat. It was not easy drinking from the goat, because she was strong and had problems with her anger. Still, a ruble is a ruble, and I always made sure to refuse bowl. As the saying goes in Slupsk: “Sometimes you must drink milk right out of the goat, because it costs two rubles instead of the three rubles.”

I think about this saying as I walk the streets of Brooklyn. There are so many decadent restaurants, each one more luxurious than the last. I pass one named in honor of the pirate Long John Silver, which serves assorted treasures from the sea. Then I pass one that serves chicken that is crisped, in the style of Kentucky. Most amazing to me is a large white castle that sells Salisbury steaks between breads. Their food is so rich I can smell it from the street. My stomach is rumbling, but I know that these places are beyond me. Their signs are spelled out with electric flashing lights. If I want to survive, I must find someplace more humble.

Eventually, after hours of walking, I find simple market. I can tell from its bare green sign and drab brick walls that it is modest and affordable. I take out my pennies and go inside, grateful to have come across this “Whole Foods.”

I select my potato and wait in line to buy. It is on the small side but very clean, without any filth on its skin. I am very excited to eat it.

A woman in man’s clothes calls me over to her cash register.

“Will you need a bag?” she asks as I hand her my meal.

“No,” I say. “I have pocket.”

“That’s the spirit!” she says. “I wish everyone were as eco as you.”

“Is fine,” I say. I am very hungry and want her to hurry with her movements. Eventually, she sets down my potato and weighs it. Then she looks at her screen and tells me the price.

I do not remember losing consciousness, but I am able now to piece together events. First I hear price of potato. Then I begin to shake. My vision blurs and I hear sound of screaming. After long time, I realize that it is my own voice. I am the one who is screaming. I fall on ground and lose some time. When I wake up, the woman is kneeling over me.

“Sir,” she says, “would you like us to call someone?”

I glare at her. By this point, my shock has turned to rage.

“I want you to call the police,” I say. “And arrest yourself for robbery. ”

I point my finger at her face.

“How can you sleep at night charging eight dimes for potato from the ground? You are so greedy, so evil — like a monster!”

I gesture wide with my arms.

“This store is run by monsters!”

At this point, something strange happens, which is that the other customers in the Whole Foods start applauding. I am very confused. I decide it is best idea to flee.

I run through a door in the back and find myself in area with trash. I am catching my breath when I hear the sound of laughter.

“Whoa,” a young man says. “Score.”

I look and see a gang of bearded hobos. They are scavenging through trash bin, picking out packages of food.

“Check the sell-by date,” one says. “I bet these things aren’t even stale.”

It is amazing, I think, that these bums have so happy a spirit. I decide it is safe to introduce myself. I step out of the shadows and hold up my palms in show of peace.