Simon Rich - Spoiled Brats - Stories

Simon nods.

“They’re called panic attacks,” he says. “I get them all the time. They probably run in the family.”

He takes out silver flask.

“Try some of this,” he says.

“Do I look like Irishman?”

“Just think of it as medicine.”

I close my eyes, hold my nose, and drink from the bottle. The taste is horrible, but after several swallows, I must admit, my breathing becomes easier.

“I do not understand what is happening to me,” I confess to Simon. “Tonight I ate eleven cans of herring, one after the other. Then I took hot bath with soap, like fancy king. But I could not enjoy it. My heart kept racing. Whenever I closed my eyes, I saw the dying men of Slupsk. I imagined them pointing at me with angry faces, cursing me for having so much pleasure.”

“Sounds like you’re getting a guilt complex.”

“What is guilt complex?”

“It’s something that happens to rich people.”

“What is the cure?”

Simon shrugs. “You could donate some money to charity.”

“Yes, okay, but that is not going to happen, so tell me other options.”

Simon thinks. “Well, you could try to make a difference somehow.”

I think of Claire and the people in the Vortex Factory and how they are trying to change the world. “I have no MFA,” I say, “or PhD.”

“You could go get one,” he suggests. “I mean, they’re expensive, but I’m sure you could afford it.”

“I would rather have more jewels,” I admit.

I sit down on stoop and massage my temples.

“Perhaps I will become freegan?” I suggest. “Can freegans eat herring?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Never mind.” It is very cold, and so I decide to take more sips from flask. “Perhaps we pray.”

Simon raises his eyebrows.

“What?”

“We must pray,” I tell him. “That is why we feel guilt. We have received so many blessings, far more than we deserve, and it is wrong that we have not said thanks to God.”

“Herschel, I already told you. I don’t believe in that stuff. Besides…”

He averts his eyes.

“What is it?” I say.

He looks down at his feet.

“Well, I’ve never done it before. I’m not even sure I know how.”

I lay my palm upon his shoulder.

“There is no wrong way to pray to Hashem,” I tell him. “Just speak what is in your heart.”

Simon remains still for long time. Then he nods slowly, closes his eyes, and kneels.

“Why are you kneeling?” I shout. “Are you Christian now? Stand up before God sees you!”

He jumps to his feet.

“I thought you said there was no wrong way to pray?”

“Yes, well, okay, but you cannot kneel! That is like slapping God’s face. It is horrible what you have done.”

I spit on the ground.

“Sorry,” he says.

“Is fine, is fine,” I say.

I catch my breath and lay my palm again upon his shoulder.

“Just close your eyes,” I tell him. “And speak your heart. Remember, there is no wrong way to pray.”

Simon nods, closes his eyes, and begins to speak.

“Dear God—”

“Are you insane?” I shout. “You would slap God’s face with English words?”

Simon throws up his hands in frustration.

“You said there were no wrong words!”

“Is terrible thing that you have done.”

“Okay, okay,” he says. “I’m sorry. Let me try again.”

I lay my palms once more upon his shoulders.

“There is no wrong way,” I remind him.

He nods, hesitates, and then tries for the third time.

“Okay. Um… Baruch atah Adonai Eloheinu melekh ha’olam… ha’motzi lehem… min ha-aretz? ” He smiles at me. “Was that all right?”

“That was prayer for bread,” I say. “It makes no sense why you would say it. Where is the bread? I see no bread here. That was madness, your prayer for bread.”

“How about this?” Simon suggests. “I’ll tell you what I want to say to God and you can translate it for him.”

I think about this plan.

“Is fine,” I say.

He sits down beside me.

“Where do I start?” he mumbles. “Okay. Um… tell him, I’m sorry I played 2 Live Crew at my bar mitzvah party. And that I haven’t been to synagogue in years… and that I pretended to be Christian once in college to get free barbecue…”

“Slow down,” I say. “I am only up to ‘2 Live Crew.’ ”

“I’ll just sum it up,” Simon says. “Tell him… I’m sorry for taking everything for granted.”

I close my eyes and whisper it in Jewish language.

“I have told Hashem,” I say. “Is fine.”

The sun is coming up, but I am still shivering. The gold chain feels like ice against my flesh. When my teeth start to chatter, Simon takes off purple scarf and hands it to me.

“What are you doing?”

“It’s freezing out.”

“I am not one who takes charity,” I remind him.

“Just take it.”

I am putting on scarf when I catch sight of Statue of Liberty. She is staring right at me through parted clouds.

“Is fine?” I whisper to her.

She smiles at me, her right fist raised in triumph.

“Is fine,” I hear her say.

So a guy walks into a bar one day and he can’t believe his eyes. There, in the corner, there’s this one-foot-tall man, in a tiny tuxedo, playing a sonata on a little piano.

So the guy asks the bartender, “Where’d he come from?”

And the bartender’s, like, “There’s a genie in the men’s room who grants wishes.”

So the guy runs into the men’s room and, sure enough, there’s this genie. And the genie’s, like, “Your wish is my command.” So the guy’s, like, “Okay, I wish for world peace.” And there’s this big cloud of smoke — and then the room fills up with geese.

So the guy walks out of the men’s room and he’s, like, “Hey, bartender, I think your genie might be hard of hearing.”

And the bartender’s, like, “No kidding. You think I wished for a twelve-inch pianist?”

So the guy processes this. And he’s, like, “Does that mean you wished for a twelve-inch penis? ”

And the bartender’s, like, “Yeah. Why, what did you wish for?”

And the guy’s, like, “World peace.”

So the bartender is understandably ashamed.

And the guy orders a beer like everything is normal, but it’s obvious that something has changed between him and the bartender.

And the bartender’s, like, “I feel like I should explain myself further.”

And the guy’s, like, “You don’t have to.”

But the bartender continues, in a hushed tone. And he’s, like, “I have what’s known as penile dysmorphic disorder. Basically, what that means is I fixate on my size. It’s not that I’m small down there. I’m actually within the normal range. Whenever I see it, though, I feel inadequate.”

And the guy feels sorry for him. So he’s, like, “Where do you think that comes from?”

And the bartender’s, like, “I don’t know. My dad and I had a tense relationship. He used to cheat on my mom, and I knew it was going on, but I didn’t tell her. I think it’s wrapped up in that somehow.”

And the guy’s, like, “Have you ever seen anyone about this?”

And the bartender’s, like, “Oh yeah, I started seeing a therapist four years ago. But she says we’ve barely scratched the surface.”

So, at around this point, the twelve-inch pianist finishes up his sonata. He walks over to the bar and climbs onto one of the stools. And he’s, like, “Listen, I couldn’t help but overhear the end of your conversation. I never told anyone this before, but my dad and I didn’t speak the last ten years of his life.”