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The Messiah

Below is the last segment of my short story, ‘The Messiah,’ published originally in ‘Sambatyon, a Journal of Jewish Writing.’ The story is in an excerpt from my novel, ‘Very Narrow Bridge,’ published in 2011. Enjoy.

“Are you serious?”
“Never been more serious in my life. He used to hike there all over the place. Though he was wounded in Nam, did you know that?”
“Yes. He won the Medal of Honor, too.”
“No shit!” Sid blurted out so loud, pieces of pizza came flying out of his mouth.

Gideon nodded calmly.
“The bastard. Never told me a thing about it.”
“Did he tell you whether he stayed there in a hotel, or–”
“Inn,” the old man cut him short, “I can remember now. The Inn on mount something.”
“Mount something…?”
“Mount Ada, that’s it. Positive,” Sid reassured himself, as well as Gideon. “ Eat some pizza, Gideon, it’s good for you.”
“No thanks,” said Gideon.

He took out of his pocket a small pad and a pen – the way he saw detectives do in so many films he admired – and wrote the info down.
“That’s all the valuable information you have for me, Sid, I take it?”
“That’s all she wrote, man. He was a piece of work Ray, told you. No women, no drinking, no nothing. And now you’re telling me he won the Medal of Honor. I’ll be dammed.”

He hit the play button on his remote and soon the mayhem and noise of the Vietnam War, as depicted so aptly in Kubrick’s film, was on again. And the attention of the old man drifted toward the television screen, leaving Gideon no option but to drift himself toward the door, saying:
“I wish you good health, Sid.”
“Don’t say that, Gideon. Death is sittin’ on my nose already, staring back at me all the time.
Don’t you see it?”

Gideon shook his head, feeling for the doorknob while eyeing Ben, still drinking beer and watching the portable TV. He opened the door, sending a last inquisitive look at the Oscar statuette, contemplating a discussion about it before leaving.

“Shalom friend,” said the old man and raised the jar of soil, shaking Gideon out of his contemplations. “I knew you’re the Messiah the moment the bloody door opened. You’ve made my day, son.”
“Same here,” said Gideon – his voice sad, much more than the simple words could convey –and closed the door.

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The Messiah

Below is the third segment of my short story, ‘The Messiah,’ published originally in ‘Sambatyon, a Journal of Jewish Writing,’ in 2006. The story is in an excerpt from my novel, ‘Very Narrow Bridge,’ published in 2011. Enjoy.

“Please yourself,” said the old man. “So stubborn, you must be a sabra.”
“I’m a double-sabra, actually.”
“A double-sabra… never heard of that one before.”
“Not only I was born in Israel, but in a kibbutz. That’s why.”
“A kibbutznik, I see. What brought you to this meshuga land, then?”
“A woman, naturally. Some dreams, too.”
“Big mistake, Gideon, big mistake. On both accounts.”
“You’re telling me.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” said Sid and hit a button in his remote control. The screen came alive with the sound and picture of war. From, Gideon identified right away, Stanley Kubrick’s film: Full Metal Jacket.
“If you’re not taking me to Israel, Gideon, to your kibbutz,” continued Sid, disregarding the film’s noisy soundtrack, “what the hell are you doing here in my digs, ha?”
“I’m looking for Mr. Raymond De Rosi. I thought–”
“Raymond who?”
“De Rosi. He worked with you in the Film Processing Department at Quality Labs.”
“Is that a fact?”
“I think so.”
“Forgot everything about that bloody place, Gideon. Still there, is it, on Lake Street?”
“Apparently so,” said Gideon, who was suffocating in this small, un-air-conditioned studio
apartment, with all the windows closed.
“I was a film producer once, Gideon, you know. I lived in Beverly Hills.”
“I have no doubt about that, Sid,” said Gideon, somewhat doubtful; giving the Oscar statuette another look, though.
“So don’t treat me like shit. Hear me?”
“I hear you well.”
“Good. What happened to Ray?”
“I don’t know. He disappeared.”
“Disappeared… don’t tell me that. No one disappears, Gideon. You either lucky enough to be dead, or unlucky to go on living. No two ways about it.”
“You disappeared once, Dad,” shouted Ben, who was sitting at a small table in an open kitchen area, very much a part of the room, still eating his potato chips. “Remember the IRS?”
“Shut up, Ben, adults are talking now,” the old man raised his voice. Then lowered it, addressing Gideon while putting the film on pause again.
“Couldn’t they help you over there, at the bloody labs?”
“They don’t know a thing,” Gideon replied, happy to get his investigation back on track. “He
quit his job one day, out of the blue. Left no address, no telephone number. Nothing.”
“Good for him. I knew he had it in him.”
“You knew?”
Sid nodded, then said: “Old soldiers are like old dogs, Gideon, they never die. Were you in the Israeli army?”
“Sure.”
“Sure what, where?”
“Paratroops. Here and there.”
“No kidding. I was in Korea, man. What a bloody war.”
Gideon was tempted to ask him about his legs, immobile under the blanket, but thought the better of it.

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