Revelation #1 – When Benjamin goes to the market; the freaks go to the market. Revelation #2 – When Benjamin and the freaks are in the same market at the same time, the freaks can’t resist the urge to talk to Benjamin. What is it about me that makes me appear so approachable? I’m a relatively large person (both tall and broad – broad is my fancy way of not calling myself fat or heavy or chubby or big-boned), and, from what I’ve been told at least, kind of intimidating in appearance to those that don’t know me. But, whatever the reason, just throw me into the frozen foods aisle at my neighborhood market and, voila, it’s prime time for Jesus Freak Rob to yack it up. My sister was over, her husband on his way, and Lisa and I wanted to make sure they had whatever they wanted to snack on. There’s a new and relatively guilt free ice-cream cone thingy out that my sister wanted, and being the good brother that I am I head on out to get it. Repeating the name of it over and over in my head as I scanned the packaging of frozen dessert goodness behind panel after panel of frosted man-size freezers, I hear from behind me, “Hey man.” I turn and I see a fella’ about my age, about half a foot shorter than me, pretty slim, with a hand basket full of soda and chips. “Do you like California Pizza Kitchen,” he asks? “Um, no. Not really.” “I can’t figure out which one to get,” he tells me, pointing to a selection of only two California Pizza Kitchen frozen pizzas (five cheeses and bbq chicken), “which one would you pick? I can’t make up my mind.” So far, so good. I don’t hate or love this guy. He just can’t make up his mind and wants an outsider’s opinion. I’ll play along. “I’ve only been to the place a couple times,” I tell him, “and I never really cared for it. They just put too much stuff on a pizza that doesn’t deserve to be on a pizza. Get the bbq chicken.” He laughs, “Man, I know what you mean. Hey, you live around here?” Ok, now I’m getting a bit edgy. He got my opinion, and as far as I’m concerned the conversation’s over. But, giving him the benefit of the doubt, maybe he’s just new to the area and has no friends. Why not? Ok, I’ll try my luck one more time. “Yes, I live in the complex next door.” “That’s cool.” “Yep.” “Hey, we’re having a bible study at the church just down the way. You’re more than welcome to come. Lots of people about your age will be there too.” See? I knew it. I really should stop giving strangers the benefit of the doubt because it just sucks me down into some bible-thumping stranger pretending to be interested in the next thing I’m about to say and then try to ‘save’ me. “I’m Jewish.” “Oh, that’s so cool. You know, my roommate’s Jewish.” See - faux-interest in my choice of religion. I even like attempt to relate to me on some common ground with the line about the Jewish roommate. There’s no Jewish roommate, there’s just a guy trying to make his quota to bring people to his mass youth Jesus brainwashing seminar. That’s all. “He’s not really that Jewish,” he explains, “because his whole family’s in Florida.” If I moved to, say, Montana, and leave my Jewish family here in the Bay Area, that wouldn’t mean that I’ve decided to be any less Jewish than I am now. It would mean, quite simply, that I can’t take the guilt anymore and I needed a break (believe me, all Jewish men go through this phase). “So, have you ever read the bible?” “No, I haven’t. I’m Jewish. Have you ever read the Torah?” I LOVE that line. You’ve seen, heard, and experienced, dozens of times, someone trying to sell you the Bible, but you never hear about someone offering the Torah right back. The beauty of it is that out of all the times I’ve offered or asked about the Torah to someone who’s trying to push his religion on me, one time out of ten I get playfully curious inquiry. “Do you think you’d ever want to read it?” “No, not really. I’m Jewish.” “Cool. Hey, do you live here on your own?” “No. I live with my wife.” Now, yes, I know she’s my fiancé, but that’s a three syllable word and ‘wife’ is just one syllable and I didn’t want to waste my surplus of syllables on a pushy prick who I’m trying to be short with. “Oh. Is she Jewish?” “Very.” “Would she want to read the Bible?” “No. She’s Jewish.” “Are you sure?” “Yes.” That’s what I don’t get. I don’t care who you choose to believe in or worship or label with the greatest title of all, G-d, but the second you try to push your belief structures on me and/or my fiancé I start hating you. Nobody, and I mean NOBODY that’s ever started a conversation with a complete stranger with trying to get him to convert ended up in a long-lasting, even short-lasting, relationship. Never happened. I’m sure it’s been written a million times over, but believe me – no. “Ok then. Hey, my name’s Rob,” he extends his hand to shake mine. “I’m Benjamin,” I shake his hand with much more strength in the squeeze than could be considered friendly. Shaking blood back into his hand, “Hey, anyway, if you’d like to join us we’re at…” “I’m Jewish. I’m not interested. Please try to understand that.” “I do, man. I was just…” “I’m not interested, but thank you.” Rob walked away, and as he looked back I’m positive he saw me shaking my head with annoyance and pity for the fool. For me, asking me to stop being Jewish and start being Christian is like asking me to be Chinese. It’s just physically impossible. Anyway, I never found what I was looking for my sister, but I did manage to get her one hell of a substitute. Leaving the market on my way home, I saw Rob, his California Pizza Kitchen frozen pizza in a plastic bag hanging by his side, talking to yet another stranger who was being more obvious than I was (if that were possible) that he wasn’t interested in Rob’s little get-together. |
