Adam Levin - The Instructions

And then the fall of the North Tower, and Flight 93. Air Force One missing, celebrations in Gaza, firemen dying, bin-Laden, bin-Laden. Taliban, Taliban, Osama, etc.

Pritikin’s Complaint

At eleven, Pritikin asked for a re-match. I told him no re-match, the territory was ours. He told me he’d been distracted; that he’d seen Sheldon Markowitz get back in his mom’s car and known something bad had happened. I told him that I’d seen Sheldon, too, that all of us had. He asked if I’d known something bad had happened, though. I told him of course I hadn’t known, but neither had he, he’d only convinced himself after the fact. He told me it wasn’t right to exploit 9/11. I couldn’t tell if he was casuistic or simply confused. Maybe both. Maybe the latter had engendered the former. I did know he was wrong, though.

He walked away from me angry.

By noon he’d gotten Gooses to tell the same story. They marched around lobbying, and a lot of kids backed them — not everyone, but roughly 30 percent. Even though just a few were still simple adherents, Pritikin’s complaint harmonized easy with their underdog sense of entitlement.

For the sake of the definitude consensus would foment, I chewed my tongue raw and agreed to a re-match.

Fuck Yourself

You will get no conclusion beyond that, Mr. Beagle. The truth is I don’t understand why you would ask me or anyone else at Aptakisic to write about how 9/11 changed what it means to be American. The textbook enlightens nothing. It says the fall of the towers confirmed the same things here that it refuted there, that what 9/11 means or meant varies according to who you ask. You teach from the textbook, so you’re no help either. And me, I was five years old when it happened. Five years later, I know the world much better, but it’s still almost always impossible for me to distinguish change from revelation. I’d imagine it’s the same for any scholar. I’d hope so.

This is what I know for sure: Neither on 9/11, 9/12, or anytime thereafter did anyone who was in the multipurpose room at Schechter think, “This is how it is now.” We thought, “This is how it is.” Whether we were correct or incorrect, it’s impossible to tell, but the distinction between what a person becomes and what he finds out he’s been — let alone what a people becomes and what it finds out it’s been — is too important to ignore, so I won’t. Not for some chomsky Social Studies essay.

Go ahead and flunk me for begging the question, then go ahead and fuck yourself for asking it.

Coda

On September 12, Schechter was closed. On September 13, I re-matched with Pritikin and Shmooly Gooses. Emmanuel and I had come up with new terms of the contest the night before, and I explained the new terms to the crowd around the bigtoy.

I said, Since I didn’t see the way 9/11 gave me an unfair advantage last time — and since I still don’t see it — I’d be foolish to trust my vision this time. So what I’ll do is simple with Pritikin and Shmooly until either one of them beats me, or both are satisfied I beat them fair.

We began.

Gurion 21, Pritikin 3.

Pritikin said unfair — he’d had a series of itches.

Gurion 21, Pritikin 3.

Pritikin said unfair — someone kept sneezing.

Gurion 21, Pritikin 2.

Pritikin said unfair — I’d yawned in front of him and he had to keep fighting the yawns my yawn had suggested.

Gurion 21, Pritikin 0.

Some kids told Pritikin to give it up already. Pritikin said the way they were scowling had screwed him up. Kids walked away.

Gurion 21, Pritikin 0.

Pritikin said the kids who were walking away had done so too noisily for him to concentrate. It was almost as if they were deliberately kicking the pebbles around.

Gurion 21, Pritikin 0.

Pritikin started saying something, and I told him not to worry, fair was fair, and unfair un-so, he didn’t have to explain. The crowd around the bigtoy had dwindled to half its peak size.

Gurion 21, Pritikin 0.

Unfair.

Gurion 21, Pritikin 0.

Unfair.

Gurion 21, Pritikin 0.

The crowd shouted that I’d beat him fair. I told them only Pritikin could say for sure what was fair. I asked Pritikin if I had beat him fair.

Almost, but no. There’d only been a few turns this last time during which he was distracted, and although the points he’d lost on those turns wouldn’t have made the difference in themselves, having lost them distracted him from gaining other points.

Gurion 21, Pritikin 0.

Almoster, but still no.

Gurion 21, Pritikin 0.

The crowd told Pritikin that simple was boring. They told him it didn’t matter if he won because they’d never simple with him again anyway. Pritikin said there was no point in continuing then. I told him the point was fairness. I told him he was obligated, by honor, to make sure he’d been beaten fair. After all, if he couldn’t be sure, how could he expect the rest of us to be? And where would we be — where would slapslap be — without absolute definitude?

Gurion 21, Pritikin 0.

It seemed fair.

Seemed wasn’t enough. You need to be certain.

Gurion 21, Pritikin 0.

Now he was sure.

But was he sure he was sure?

He was sure he was sure. I’d beaten him fair.

Shmooly’s turn. Shmooly said he didn’t need a turn, just as long as he was still allowed to simple under the bigtoy with people. I told him he wasn’t. He asked what if he scored on me? What if he scored as much as he scored the last time? Could he simple with people under the bigtoy, then?

Sure, I told him.

He couldn’t remember the score from last time, though. What did he have to score?

I told him last time shmast time. If he scored 3 on me, he could simple under the bigtoy. This lit him up. He said that was fair.

Gurion 21, Shmooly 2.

Unfair — some itches.

Gurion 21, Shmooly 2.

Unfair — cold hands.

Gurion 21, Shmooly 2.

Unfair — wind in his eyes. Plus 3 seemed high, didn’t 3 seem high?

I told him score 2 and he could simple under the bigtoy.

He agreed that was fair and wiped the tears from his eyes.

Gurion 21, Shmooly 1.

Maybe 1 was more fair, he suggested.

Sure thing.

Gurion 21, Shmooly 0.

Maybe he was just too tired. His mom had a cold. He’d only had a hard-boiled egg for breakfast.

Emmanuel gave him a granola bar and he ate it.

Gurion 21, Shmooly 0.

It was unfair, explained Shmooly, it was just unfair. I was Gurion and he was Shmooly. It was unfair that Gurion was faster than Shmooly. How could that be fair? He was born Shmooly and I was born Gurion and that was unfair, it was always unfair and would always be unfair. He didn’t have a chance. He never had a chance. I asked if he wanted me to let him score. He said that he did. I told him to go fuck himself, I wouldn’t let him score; I would simple with him til he was satisfied, but I wouldn’t let him score. He told me to go fuck myself. I told him he couldn’t score on me even if I was fucking myself while he tried to score on me. I told him anyone at Schechter could shut him out while they fucked themselves because he was Shmooly and they weren’t. He told me again to go fuck myself, and that I was a crybaby. He knew everything I was telling him already, he said. He didn’t care anymore what was fair. Fair could go fuck itself, he said. It wasn’t fair that what was fair got to be fair and what wasn’t fair didn’t. Fair was unfair. Everything could go fuck itself. Everything should fuck itself. Everything should fuck itself but not everything fucked itself plus fair was unfair was why I should let him score. That’s why other people let him score, and that’s why I used to let him score, so I should go fuck myself now because it wasn’t fair to change like that and I knew it, he knew I knew it because of how I was crying like a fucking kindergarten fucking crybaby, he told me. I wasn’t the one who was Shmooly, he told me. I wasn’t the one who suffered for fair’s unfairness, he said. He was the one who was Shmooly, he told me, and Shmooly was the one that suffered for fair’s unfairness, and it was unfair for me to make Shmooly feel bad by being a fucking kindergarten crybaby because it was Shmooly who deserved mercy, not me. It was Shmooly, not me from Shmooly. Go fuck myself, he wouldn’t show me mercy, go fuck myself, go fuck myself. Go fuck myself or let him score.