A Devil's Dictionary

GOLEM-2

THEY’D HAD NAMES, OF course. Rusty, Jack, and Colton—otherwise known as the Benton Boys. But their individual identities had long since been subsumed by the group, the pack—I’m sure if you would have caught any single one of them alone they’d have been just as agreeable as could be. The rub, of course, was that they were never alone—that was something those who challenged them learned quickly. I learned it the day I was to meet Colton at the flagpole after school to settle our differences and he didn’t show; which left Aaron and I to hoof it home feeling both victorious and relieved, at least, that is, until we rounded his block —and found them waiting for us. All three of them.

I wish I could say I was shocked that Aaron got the worst of it—it was my fight, after all, not his—but the truth of it was the Benton Boys’ race-hatred was well known, and they weren’t about to miss a chance to thrash a genuine Jew. Not when his i***t friend had created such a perfect opportunity. And so the racial epitaphs flew, faster even than the Boys’ fists—kike, shylock, yid, Christ-killer, a few I’d never even heard before—and poor Aaron bled, and by the time it was done we’d both suffered concussions and Aaron had lost a tooth and Old Man Moss had begun screaming—in Yiddish—from his door, calling the Boys chazers and hitsigers and paskudniks, and informing them the police were already on their way. Which they weren’t, actually, because Old Man Moss didn’t trust anyone in a uniform.

Regardless, the Benton Boys promptly fled, and after a brief sojourn in the emergency room we were back in Aaron’s front yard—just sitting there on the porch with his parents and watching the shadows lengthen across the grass. That’s when I first heard his old man utter the word “golem,” which he pronounced goy-lem, drawing a stern rebuke from Aaron’s mother, who said, quickly, “Feh! And bring tsores upon us? Oy vey! Mishegas.”

The Old Man only snorted. “It is Mishegas to do nothing.” He stroked Aaron’s hair absently. “No. An eye for an eye. A tooth for an actual tooth.”

“Bubbala ...”

“No. Meesa masheena. So it will be.”

And nothing more was said—not by the Old Man or by Aaron’s mother or by anyone present at all.

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* * * *

BY THE TIME I SAW OLD Man Moss again, Spring was moving rapidly toward Summer and we’d been out of school for nearly two weeks—long enough to have already tired of jumping into the river and/or bicycling out to Shelly Lake; which, in case you were wondering, were the only things to do in Benton, during that summer or any other. I was luckier than most in that I had a lawn mowing business to occupy my time—mostly for friends and family, the Mosses included—which is what I was doing when Aaron tapped me on the shoulder and asked if I could lend he and his father a quick hand.

“Is it out of this heat?” I remember shouting over the lawnmower—which was louder than most—the sweat running in rivers down my face and arms, “Because I’m dying here, and that’s no joke.”

“It’s right here, in the garage,” he said breezily, but seemed uneasy as I killed the motor and sponged my brow. “Look ... not a word about this, okay? And, please, don’t laugh. Whatever you do. He—he’s touchy about his art.”

I think I just looked at him. It was fine by me; I’d no idea he was even an artist. “Sure, man. No problem.” I must have leaned toward him. “What is it? Some kind of n***d pictures?”

He blushed and stepped back. “No, man. Jesus. But it is—strange. Not a word now, okay?”

“Not a word,” I promised, and gave him a salute.

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