The Talmudist

A new fictional piece, told from the first-person perspective:

I got a phone call a few days ago from my friend Aaron who is very much like me in that he is an ex-yeshiva guy, but very different in that he has a job; a good job.

His company had shipped him out for a few days to Washington, D.C.  He was to conduct a ‘technology consultation’ of some sort – I can’t tell you quite what it was all about.  This is not because it was top secret or anything – he tried a few times to explain the ‘ins and outs’ of it to me, but I spaced out whenever he got to the part that would have tied together some sort of understanding of it all in my head.  Clearly, whatever it involved was beyond the ken of my comprehension.

My mind returned when he got to the point of his impromptu phone call.  ”You live about an hour from D.C., right?  How about we go out for a beer when I get off work tomorrow night – or maybe we could shoot pool, or something?”

My vocal chords went to work before my brain gave them permission, and the words “sure thing Aaron, that sounds like fun” came out of my mouth when I should have instead told him that I was sadly born a lefty, which by default had put me in the category of those cursed to experience pool as more of a sadomasochistic torture excursion than the enjoyable diversion that it was always meant to be.

I don’t know how it is for you, but when people call me up to ‘get together’, it somehow gets left without much mention that I am going to be in charge of where and when, exactly, to meet; how long we’re going to stay wherever ‘there’ is, and all the other related bits of minutiae that go into prepping for ‘a night out on the town.’  Do these people know that I can spend a good couple of hours in front of my sock drawer, obsessing over just the right pair to go with the shirt that required it’s own hour to select?  Do they know that my car is about as clean and organized as a moderately maintained landfill?  I prefer not to think about these types of questions – as the answers would brand my good friends as either complete idiots or Nazis.

After getting off the phone with Aaron, I hit up Google Maps and found the address of a bar to chill with him at that seemed to have some potential. The on-line blurb mentioned that the bar included a pool table (good for Aaron) as well as a ping-pong table (good for me).  I texted the joint’s coordinates to Aaron, and, with a cautiously optimistic feeling regarding the next evening, fell asleep soon after hitting the sack.

I woke up at 11:30 the next morning, having gotten my usual twelve hours of sleep, and realized at about four in the afternoon that I had just wasted about a fifth of the day watching inane and mindless Youtube videos.  After eating a bowl of Basic 4 and davening three consecutive Shemona Esrays, I hopped in the car, lied to my GPS when it asked me if I was programming it while simultaneously driving, and merged onto the I-95.

An hour later, I found myself parked in front of the right place at very much the wrong time.  A ‘For Lease’ placard hung over the covered-over sign that once proclaimed that the building I was then standing outside of occupied a bar.  Duped by Google Maps.  Again.  That’s right, it happens to me all the time, but I’m a glutton for torture, I guess.

Next week:  Why some rats keep going for the electrically-charged cheese, Followed by:  How Aaron and I ended up by a gay bar (not that there’s anything wrong with that).