6/4/97
Upstairs,
downstairs: Me and Aryeh Deri
They had sense, the editorial honchos at this here Jay Pee, when they handed
me this space to fill.
ג€Where are you going
to run it?ג€ I asked.
ג€Not page one,ג€ the
editor said, ignoring the
fact that the last daily column
we had was right there on
the first page for all to
see. Mind you, that was almost
40 years ago, and the paper
consisted of only two sheets.
I was kicked upstairs
-- literally, not figuratively
-- where I might have a
better chance of writing (in other words, fewer excuses for failing) amidst
the tranquility of the rented offices. Indeed, it seemed like the vibes up here
were more conducive to fertile, unperturbed thought.
But after being here
barely long enough to pin
a kid's drawing on the wall,
I'm beginning to wonder. The
manic atmosphere of the editorial
offices downstairs is not
so bad compared to what I've
found up here.
I share the air with:
1. The Shas newspaper
ג€Yom Leyom.ג€ I don't like
Shas, and I don't like their
newspaper.
2. An insurance company.
I don't know, maybe my genetic
engineering is faulty, but
I just don't enjoy a kindred
spirit with that industry.
I'd like to say I
don't believe in insurance, but I'm covered for everything but the Big Bang.
3. Offices of the National
Insurance Institute. My sentiments
about insurance go double
for government bureaucracies,
and about octuple against
government insurance bureaucracies.
4. The Post Archives.
For good reason it's called
The Morgue. It's where words
go to die. My words.
5. The Post Funds department.
A constant reminder that there
are poor, suffering people
out there, people who can't
even afford to buy a crummy
newspaper. Or a good one.
6. Mixed in with the
curious melange of mental
energy up here is, as fate
would have it, prayer. Every
day at 3 p.m., usually when
I'm on the verge of an ungodly thought, the Orthodox men converge for afternoon prayers -- in the corridor, right outside my door. I've responded to their invitations, almost
daily, by saying that I might be enticed to join them if they served herring
and schnappes, and had a women's section.
AND FINALLY, the clincher:
7. Aryeh Deri's office.
What can I say about
the political power-broker
down the hall that won't get
me a libel suit, or a fat
lip?
Let's just say if you
knock on his door looking
for me, or my door looking
for him, you'll know from
the transcendental spirits
wafting about that you got
the wrong guy.
I wouldn't even mind being interrupted by that kind of confusion. I'd get a
chance to chat with Bar-On, Avi-Yitzhak, Hanegbi, Kahalani, and other big shots,
plus a steady parade of policemen
and newsmen. Maybe even the
prime minister, coming by
for a hush-hush rendezvous,
will step into the wrong office
and blurt it all out to me
instead. (Perhaps that would
get me on Page One -- but
then, what would the column
be called?)
Thus far, Deri has not come by to say howdy, or to ask for advice, or to hide
under my desk. It goes without
saying that I haven't dropped
by his office to ask for advice
either.
I can't say for sure if Deri ever joins the minyan on my doorstep. (Could be
he's also holding out for
herring.) I haven't heard
a desperately beseeching voice rise up amid the reverent mumbling, pleading for deliverance from his
moral mire. Maybe he has so much to pray for, he davens at a much bigger minyan,
where the collective voice
might better be heard.
Aryeh, you foolish, foolish man. With your charm, intelligence, political acumen, charisma and ambition, you could have been prime minister, or president,
you could have been a towering
figure of pride, instead of
a cowering figure of shame.
My God, Aryeh, you could have
had my vote.
You could have salved this ornery nation. You could have closed some of the
fattest files in The Morgue
down the corridor: Sephardi-Ashkenazi
tensions, religious-secular strife. Instead, you add to them, with your cynical manipulation
of ethnic passions.
I don't think we'll be neighbors for much longer, Aryeh; you seem headed downstairs -- figuratively, not literally.
If the police eventually come to cart you away, I hope they don't come to the
wrong office.
UPDATE: Deri went to jail, and wouldnג€™t you know, I went back downstairs.
