25/2/00

The Long Goodbye

"Jewish time" is not how late we arrive, but how long it takes us to leave.

    There's nothing more challenging in Jewish society than saying goodbye. We can't just leave a party without a final word with everyone there. Dinner guests? Hah! No chance we're gonna eat and run. We can't even drop by the neighbor for a cup of sugar without going in for a cup of coffee.
    Turning our backs to end the encounter is not something we Jews are good at, so much so that we start to worry about saying goodbye even before we say hello.
    "Honey, how about having the Bronfmans over for dinner tomorrow?"
    "Harumph."
    "But you like the Bronfmans. They're such a lot of laughs."
    "Yeah. Remember the last time we had them over? They had us laughing until after the buses stopped running. You don't remember, you excused yourself in the middle and took a nap. I had to drive them home. We sat in the car in front of their house laughing until the buses started running again. Cost me a fortune in gas because I kept the car running all that time, but you think they took the hint?"
    "Alright then, how about the Bernsteins? You always enjoy their company because she's so, y'know, sexy."
    "But he's such a bore. And I never get to look at her because he does all the talking."
    "Well, at least they go home early."
    "Not since their children became old enough that they don't need a babysitter. If you have to have anyone over for dinner, it should be someone who has to pay a babysitter."
    It's not like this with the goyim. The reason is simple: They booze, Jews shmooze.
    "Heavens, we'd best be going. One more drink and Waldo'll be pickled."
    We, on the other hand, having stuffed ourselves at dinner, have to wait until we're hungry again to have the cake.
    I like having the Levys over. He doesn't speak English. Well, not much, not enough to keep up with the nattering yackety-yack. (I do speak English, but sometimes I can't keep up with it either.) Being socially inferior, Levy doesn't know the correct way to wind down an evening. When he's had enough, he thwacks his wife on the arm, gets up and says "yalla," and they're gone, his wife shouting goodbye over her shoulder as she gallops after him.
    I tried that once. I got up, said "yalla," opened the door and walked right out. My woman, however, did not gallop after me. After I sat in the car for 20 minutes, I went back to get her. They didn't realize I had gone. They were eating cake.

THE CLASSIC Jewish goodbye goes something like this:
    We have the Bergers over (they're the classic Jewish couple). I had forgotten we're having the Bergers over, and was planning to watch the late movie. This was a movie I had been looking forward to seeing for 30 years, because it starred Julie Andrews, who as the nun Maria was the first woman to stir in me erotic fantasies, and this night, at 11 p.m. on Channel Four, those fantasies were finally going to be realized when Julie Andrews takes off her clothes. This was something I could not miss.
    But we were having the Bergers over. I couldn't just say, "hey, listen, you gotta be outta here by 11," because by simply checking the TV listings they'd figure things out, and I'd really rather nobody knows that I lust after Julie Andrews.
    Having been Jewish all my life, I know how these things develop. When I was a kid, I knew I could end a social call and get back home in time to watch the hockey game by simply saying something like, "Ma, I think I'm going to throw up." It is a family tradition going back generations: the Orbaums do not make a mess in someone else's home.
    But it's different when you're an adult, and you're the host. You have to follow the rules, in all their subtleties.
    It takes hours.

WITH DINNER done with, we suggested the Bergers join us in the living room. I made sure to get there first, and guided everyone to their places. I did not want our guests getting any of the comfortable seats.
    I let the first wave of chitchat take its course, and the second (which dealt mostly with gossip about mutual acquaintances, and a review of our respective lives since the last time we got together). By this time it was nearly 9, and I detected a second or two of uneasy silence before the start of the third wave (which dealt mostly with current events).           
    At this point I sprung into action. I leaned forward, picked a nut from the nut dish, and -- very surreptitiously -- twisted my wrist, ever so slightly, to glance at my watch. If they thought I thought they'd seen it, I would have been considered gauche. I had to do it in such a way that they couldn't possibly see it. Knowing, of course, that they did.
    At about the fifth or sixth wave (politics, which our womenfolk have little interest in, but it must be discussed, even if it's just to say they have little interest in it), I made my second move. I pressed down on my elbows and shifted my derriere -- twice, so that it should be clear I was becoming restless.
    It's all part of how we say goodbye.
    By now I still had just over an hour before the movie. The ninth wave, as I knew it would, wandered back to the subject matter of the first. This was the most critical moment: I had to get the message across that we've exhausted our conversation. I had to say just the right thing, at the perfect moment. Quickly checking that no one was in the process of inhaling sharply (which must always precede a new sentence, like some illogical rule of grammar), I started to end the evening. I said:
    "Anyway."
    I don't know what it is about that word, but interjected precisely so, it causes everyone present to mull and fidget and nod reflectively. It prepares everyone for the inevitable: the goodbyes.
    But it can't end just yet, not like that. It's a process.
    What followed, as I knew it had to, was a sputtering series of conversation tics:
    "Yes, well."
    "Hm."
    "Great cake."
    "Hm."
    "What a day."
    "Heh, heh."
    "Interesting."
    "That story. Wow."
    "Yeah, really."
    "Oy."
    What followed, as it must, was a last attempt to keep it going, a short flurry of empty thoughts.
    "Incredible, what you said about Bernard, you're sure it's true?"
    "I really must get that recipe."
    "I dunno, if Shas wins the next election, like I said..."
    "That was some dinner."
    "Listen, if you see Beverly again..."
    That being said, it was my cue to move the proceedings toward the front door. (I say "toward" and not "to." The difference is about 45 minutes.) There was only one way to extricate ourselves from the living room. Somebody -- I -- had to slap his knees, get up and say: 
    "So."
    At which point everyone unabashedly glanced at their watches and said, "Gee! The time!"
    And that was it.
    Or almost.
    Irresistably, halfway to the door, one of the men -- I'll admit, it could even be me -- just had to say to the other something like: "Well, baseball season's starting soon." And while those two dumkopfs analyzed each of the 30 teams' prospects, the women, who certainly weren't going to stand around listening to this, resurrected the earlier waves of conversation, if only to check their facts ("You sure Brenda's pregnant?" "Since yesterday; no one knows yet but that's what I hear").
    From that point I calculated three to four minutes of chitchat for every two steps on the way to the door until finally, at the very threshold, we found ourselves at a loss for words -- including the G Word.
    At barely two minutes to 11, my woman, right on cue, yawned. I could have kissed her. She apologized profusely, and (as I knew she would) our guestess remembered her manners and offered to stay and help wash up from dinner.
    "Absolutely not!" my gal replied decisively.
    "But you're so tired."
    "Sam'll do it."
    And with that, the Bergers agreed they'd best get going, we indulged in a round of kisses, hugs and thank-yous, and they were gone.
    Right on time!
    I made for the TV.
    That's when it hit me. "Sam'll do it." Frantically, I glanced at my wilted woman. She was flat up against the front door, fast asleep.
    I dragged her to the kitchen sink, but it was no use.
    She woke up just enough to mumble the dread command: "Wzz je djz bfffuh TeeVvvv -- zzzzzz" (we've been together a while, so I understood clearly: "Wash the dishes before TV -- zzzzzz").
    At the very moment cinematic history was being made, I was lathering cutlery and cursing the Bergers.
    And I'll bet he got home in time to watch it.