shiva story

On October the fourteenth two thousand and twenty four I went to my first shiva. 

I brought bagels and spreads, walking in with my mother who had already called me twice while waiting for me outside. We hugged the family and were encouraged to sit around the already made fire, the first day of winter finally upon us. 

I was offered red wine and cream filled desserts, told to bring some food with me on my journey  back to Brooklyn. It was the pinnacle of Jewish weekends. And I was ready, to be swaddled by the familiar smells and voices, engulfed in the Judaism of my childhood. I wanted to gossip with all the women, I was ready to witness prayer and to hear the cantor sing.

We prayed in the kitchen and faced East, towards the refrigerator. We prayed out loud and then silently to ourselves. It made me realize how much I lacked in prayer practice. I didn’t even have an image that came to mind when it came to the “act of speaking to God.” What would I say to Him? I contemplated my next steps on establishing some contact. Find a synagogue. Fast one day each month. Host a Shabbat dinner. 

As I made my list and read the mourner’s prayer I couldn’t help but get increasingly distracted and irritated by the boy in the center of the room. He seemed to have no respect, and no idea what was going on.

Even in the midst of death and grief, it seems boys' antics are still stunningly predictable. 

Throughout my life my mother has warned me about men. “Boys will try it on anywhere,” she would remind me, like she was letting me in on an ancient secret. But I didn’t really truly believe her until that night. This boy wanted to fuck me at the shiva. 

To be honest, this being my first shiva, the thought had crossed my mind that maybe these events were inherently infused with inappropriate sexual hunger. But for other people, not for me.

I knew of this guy in high school. Almost completely irrelevant to me, but because I pride myself on knowing two facts about basically everyone, I knew he played football and went to C’s school in California. 

Tall-ish, semi handsome, wearing the same sweater my gorgeous ex-boyfriend had worn when we were dating. The moment I walked in he latched on. Asking me over and over again how it was that I knew S, and did I go to the high school? All of his questions, random, rabbling, and starting from what seemed to me as the middle of a half baked thought.

He talked like was stoned out of his mind. At first I thought it was funny. He isn’t making sense, he’s offering me drinks. But he flirted aggressively and he could not get a hint.

“Do you want more wine? No, I have to drive home. Yes, we did go to high school together. No, I don’t like baseball. No, no, no…” 

I got so bored and so enraged I thought about screaming.

GET THIS MAN AWAY FROM ME! LEAVE ME ALONE! STOP ASKING ME THESE STUPID QUESTIONS! HAVE WE FORGOTTEN WHY WE ARE HERE?

I couldn’t get a break. 

He even waited for me outside the bathroom when I tried to escape for a moment. 

At some point he cornered my mother and I. The heat rose to my ears. This was it, I was going to explode. He hadn’t left me alone for a second and now he wanted to flirt in front of my mother! I was completely appalled. 

But of course, as what happens to most women, I was struck by a force of compassion. (maybe that’s my contact with higher power.)

I think he might be too stupid to understand. I think…I think HE thinks this is working. I think he may be too stupid to comprehend that I am having an absolutely horrible time.

“Are you in town a lot or…”

“No, I’m mostly in New York.” 

“Well sometimes I like to come to the city and eat a square slice of pizza. Maybe I’ll have somewhere to stay?”

“Hahaha…what?” 

“Can I get your instagram?” 

Jesus Christ has this guy been hit in the head too many times. I gave him my instagram because I could no longer protest his advances. 

“Maybe we can catch up over some tea.” 

I was exhausted. All I wanted was to get away from this meat head and get into bed. 

We hugged the mourning family and I ran out the door. Do I need to give up on the male race entirely?

I can’t believe my luck that someone wanted to fuck me at my first shiva. 

It feels like a literary win. 

The truth is no matter how mad I got I knew who would have been laughing the hardest, who would love this story to bits. The man we were all there for. And maybe he’s laughing now.