Simon Rich - Spoiled Brats - Stories

“I don’t fucking know!” Simon sobs. “Fuck fuck fuck!”

I sigh and grab girl’s hand. She resists me, so I must shush her like a child.

“Is fine,” I say. “Is baby cut.”

I pour liquid soap over her finger and run faucet. She screams and I have to shush her again.

“Is fine,” I say again. “I fix.”

I grab a rag, rip off strip, dry her cut, tie the wound, and pull.

“There,” I say. “Is better.”

Claire slowly catches breath.

“Thanks, Herschel,” she says.

Simon sighs loudly and steps out from the shadows. Somehow, at some point, he has poured himself giant glass of alcohols.

“Well!” he says. “Glad that’s behind us. How about we grab some tapas?”

He is starting to put on coat when Claire waves arms.

“We can’t,” she says. “I planned out a whole meal for Herschel.”

Simon squints at her. “But your finger’s all fucked up.”

“It’s just a baby cut,” she says, smiling wide at me. She has all her teeth, I notice, just like Sarah.

Even though Claire is bad at cooking, and believes in false god, and dresses like prostitute, with both ankles exposed, she is not so stupid a person. I know this because she is always reading books. I have read books before — a red one and also two blue ones — so I know a little bit about it. But Claire’s books are much larger, with hard covers and pages filled with numbers.

“She’s getting a PhD in sociology,” Simon explains when I ask him about it. “Over at Columbia.”

“What does she read so much about?”

“Something with immigration reform, I think? To be honest, I kind of tune out when she starts blabbing about it. It’s a pretty boring thing to study.”

This comment is strange, I think, coming from man who studied English in college — a language he already spoke. But I say nothing.

One afternoon, I am mending shirt in living room when Claire enters, wearing pack on back.

“Mind if I study in here?” she asks.

“Is fine,” I say.

It takes her long time to spread materials onto table. There is pencils, papers, books, ruler, electric number machine, erasing stick. The last thing she pulls out is the strangest: it is terrifying golem with wrinkled face and purple hair. She notices me staring and smiles.

“That’s my lucky troll doll. I’ve studied with it since middle school.”

“Is it from witch?”

“I think it’s from Kmart.”

I pick up and examine, making sure not to look into its eyes.

“Simon’s always making fun of it,” Claire says.

“That is madness,” I say. “He is asking for curse.”

She laughs for some reason and opens up her book. Before she can start studying, though, Simon enters, holding his computer.

“Read this,” he commands, plopping it onto her lap. “Tell me if it’s funny.”

“I’m kind of swamped,” she says. “Is it okay if I read it tomorrow?”

“Sure,” Simon murmurs. “No problem.”

He groans like he is in pain, and reaches very slowly for his computer.

“Okay, okay,” Claire says after a few seconds of this. “I’ll read it.”

I watch as Simon begins to pace the room, his baby arms shaking at his sides. Every few steps he glances at Claire, to watch her face.

Eventually, she looks up from the screen.

“It’s funny,” she says.

Simon glares at her. “You didn’t laugh.”

Claire hesitates.

“Well… maybe it’s not laugh-out-loud funny…”

Simon moans into his hands like a man who has lost his family. Claire hops out of chair and begins to stroke his back.

“Simon, it’s great!” she says. “The part where the cow gets Auto-Tuned? That’s going to kill.”

Simon peeks out between his fingers.

“You don’t think it’s cheap?”

“No!” Claire says. “It’s great! Really, really… great.”

I notice that she is using the word great a lot. It reminds me of when my boss gave me tour of pickle factory. He kept using the word safe . “These gears are very safe,” he would say. Or, “That belt is perfectly safe.” The more he said the word safe, the more I started to think that things were maybe not so safe.

“It’s great, ” Claire says again. “The studio’s going to love it.”

“Really?” Simon asks, his voice high-pitched like a girl’s.

“Yes!” Claire says, smiling as wide as she can make her lips go.

Simon sighs with relief.

“Okay,” he says. “Great.”

He grabs his computer, knocking down troll by mistake. When he is gone, I shoot Claire a look.

“He is asking for it,” I whisper.

She laughs as I set her troll upright.

On Friday evening, I comb my hairs and knock on Simon’s door. I am surprised to see that he is mostly naked.

“What are you doing?” I say. “It is almost sundown. We have still not said our Shabbos prayers of thanks.”

Simon does not look in my direction.

“I’m busy,” he says.

“God commands us to rest on Shabbos.”

“Herschel, I’ve gotta turn this in by five p.m. L.A. time.”

“But it is Shabbos.”

“Dammit, Herschel!” he says. “I know religion’s a big part of your life, and I respect that or whatever, but it’s not a part of mine. I don’t even believe in God.”

I am so shocked it is difficult to breathe. I did not say anything when I learned that he ate bacons, and did not own yarmulke, and spoke no Yiddish (except for several words that all mean penis ). But to learn that he has lost faith in our God — despite all the blessings in his life — it is too much to bear.

“How do you get through your days?” I whisper. “How do you find meaning?”

He thinks for a while.

“Through my art,” he says finally. “That’s how I find meaning. Okay? Through works of art.”

I squint at the script he is working on.

“What is Penguin President ?”

He averts his eyes.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

I grab the script and throw it at his chest.

“No, I want you to!” I say. “I want you to tell me about this art you do that is so meaningful it would make you miss the Shabbos!”

He flips through his script and sighs.

“It’s about a penguin who becomes president.”

I squint at him with confusion.

“How would this happen?”

“He wins an election.”

“So he is able to speak, this penguin?”

Simon throws up his hands in frustration.

“Do you really want to know? Or are you just trying to make me feel bad?”

“Yes,” I say. “I want to know how this penguin becomes the president of the country.”

He sighs again.

“He wins a break-dancing competition on the Internet.”

“That makes no sense.”

“You think I don’t fucking know that?” he shouts, throwing the script down on the floor. “I told them in six meetings that it didn’t make any fucking sense, but they won’t listen, Herschel! They want the penguin to break-dance in every scene. In the Oval Office, on Air Force One …”

His voice begins to break.

“The penguin’s always break-dancing.”

I put my arm around his shoulder.

“Maybe you should quit this horrible work?”

“Herschel, it’s not that easy,” he says. “They’re paying me thousands of dollars. I can’t turn down that kind of cash, especially when I’m trying to save up for a house.”

I am confused.

“You already have house.”

“I know,” he says. “But a bigger, wider one just went up for sale down the block.”

He points out the window. There are many brownstones everywhere, but I have no idea which one he means. They all look exactly the same.