Part 1

Now you listen here – I’m only telling you this story because I must tell you this story, and not because I’m some great barishnya-storyteller lady! So, don’t expect this story to be good, or interesting, or provocative, or any of that. Don’t expect a great piece of literature because, if you do, I am sorry to tell you you’ll be sadly disappointed. In short, Natashinka, I’m telling you this because if I don’t tell this story, I will have nothing to tell you.

***

A rich man once lived on Pennypinch Road. He had many friends. The saleswoman at the Mercedes-Benz dealership loved him, for he was a well-dressed man who loved to make silly jokes and often spent lots of money. Whenever he strolled into the shop, she flicked her wavy brown hair away from her hazel eyes, winked a seductive wink, raised her arms in a mock hug that only ever met the air between them, and said, “Why, Mr. Richman, how lovely it is to see you!” And indeed, it was always lovely to see Mr. Richman. Why, even the sun himself shone brighter in Mr. Richman’s company. Perhaps that’s why he was liked by so many.

***

Well, it so happened that Soon-Sue told Amicable Amy and Treacherous Tatiana that as sure as her heart beats, her eyes blink, and she smokes fat reefers every morning, even being in the same room as Mr. Richman – why, just rubbing your shoulder nonchalantly against the small of his back – would decree riches upon you, a tenth of a tenth of what Mr. Richman has. You know what they say: there’s a salve for every sore.

A tenth of a tenth, I thought. “My gosh – you know there is a salve for every sore – why, I can buy a house in the inner city, and redecorate it, and build a separate apartment in the basement for a tenth of a tenth of what Mr. Richman has! And then, with what’s left over, I could buy a cottage in Alberta, by a lake – no, better, I would purchase Lake Superior waterfront property! Now that would be something, eh – Lake Superior! Oh, Natashinka! I would be just like Sarah when she built the Tower of Babel so that everyone could reach heaven and finally talk to God without leaving home. I, Mycelle, could afford my own Tower of Babel! Imagine that, Natashinka? I would talk to Hashem in person, like Maimonides – the Rambam! – spoke to Hashem when his wife, Rivka, found our twenty-five commandments under a burning bush that Hashem stood beside. Well, that was a sad story, because Rambam burnt off his clothes and had to hide his shame behind a fig leaf, and that’s how he dropped the other twenty-five commandments that were on the second set of tablets and broke them to smithereens! Now we will never know all the rules that Jewish people must follow.

Oh, but excuse me, I’m drifting away from the subject. So, to make a long story short, when I overheard, at the table beside me in Mom’s donut shop, Soon-Sue, Amicable Amy, and Treacherous Tatiana laughing, well, I decided there and then to go and see Mr. Richman. What harm can there be in it? I thought. Why, everyone knows that Mr. Richman is the nicest guy in town. Everyone is friends of friends of Mr. Richman. So why shouldn’t I go to visit Mr. Richman, because who knows, maybe he is contagious.

Ah, but I should have listened to my daughter, for she always says that a hasty man drinks his tea with a fork, and if I had only stayed home and drank tea and forgot all about this getting rich nonsense… and yet, Natashinka, who wants to stay home all the time, like some virgin on Isla Bonita, as was the fate of our great Kabbalah sage, Madonna who later changed her name to Esther? Oh, but where was I?

Ah yes, that’s right, that’s where I was, thank you. That evening I sat up until way past three in the morning filling out forms: Who wants to see Mr. Richman? What for? My name, my date of birth, my social “security” number. What race am I – am I a white woman or am I a member of the world’s majority? You know, I never know how to answer that last one. I mean, Jews, right? We aren’t actually considered white as a whole – not if white means privileged – because people didn’t really care about the colour of our skins when they erected death camps for us! Oh, but look at me, just look at me – well, I can’t very well say I’m not white either, can I? And as for a member of the world’s majority – ha! Why, after our unlucky stint in Europe, there’s hardly enough of us left to toss a latke at. Oh, but I am straying from the story again, aren’t I, Natashinka?

So, to make a long story short, I sent out my forms, sat in my favourite lime-green La-Z-Boy chair, drank Earl Grey tea, and waited on the post. Well, let me tell you, so much time passed that I ran out of tea!