A Purim piece (redux)

Josh Stein is on a research assignment in Greece. He sends this classic piece for the Purim edition.

I remember my first Purim as a groom. It was the last day of our F. Scot and Zelda period. We were in England on a quick exchange. We’d swapped houses with a professor of British colonial history who needed a place to stay in Rhode Island. It was a marriage made in heaven, much like the one upon which I was embarking.

Our plane landed the day before Purim and being young and in love, my wife and I had celebrated the beginning of the holiday by ourselves, drinking to excess in the traditional manner, falling fast asleep on top of the down mattress we had the pleasure of using for those two weeks. The next morning around midnight (according to my biological clock, though it was 6:00 a.m. English time) we heard a pounding on the front door. We both responded with the same articulate grunts, “Huh, wha’ what’s happening?” More pounding. I got up, not knowing where and when my clothes had come off. More pounding. Whoever it was, he or they were certainly persistent. “I can’t go down to the door like this,” I protested. “Here, wear this,” saith the bride. Hurriedly I put on her pink shorty robe. Inside out. Naturally I could not find the buttons and because of an obvious discrepancy between her sveltness and my rotundity I couldn’t properly close the thing. Stumbling out the door of the bedroom, half blindly (my glasses hadn’t been anywhere near my fumbling fingers when I’d shot bolt upright as the pounding began), I found the stairs, and trooped down, half falling, half stumbling, fully confused, head throbbing, eyes bleary, mouth dry, hair a shambles, eyes bloodshot. After an interminable moment I remembered how to unlock the bolt and I threw the portal open to confront an uncaring world.

The man I blearily saw hadn’t shaved that day, nor the day before, apparently. He wore work cloths that hadn’t been washed since the Blitz. He stared at me incredulously. I stared back at him with wonder—as in “I wonder what this fellow is, and what he wants?” He attempted to resolve the issue by saying, screaming at me, really, “DOOSTBINMIN” which did not do a great deal to clarify anything. “What?” I shouted in reply. “DOOSTBINMIN” he said, still louder. “What?” “ROOBISH!” Well, this was not getting us very far.

By now Penney had gotten dressed and sylphlike glided down the stairs. (She’d just abandoned Zelda and entered her Loretta Young phase). She said to me, calmly. “Josh, he’s the dustbin man and he wants to collect our rubbish.” “Oh,” I said sheepishly, glad once again that I’d married a linguist. “Tha’s right, Guv,” said the now smiling dustbinmin, as he lasciviously eyed my pretty bride and waited for me to collect any household garbage we might have. Sadly the owners had left us a spotless home to move into, so there was none Feeling abashed at the lack I found a slipper half chewed by some kind of animal I’m glad to say we never actually saw. This meager object I placed into a plastic bag and proudly presented to our garbage man, who looked at the meager offerings with ill-disguised disdain. “Tha’ it, Guv?” he asked. “Yup,” I said, sheepishly. “Right-o,” he replied. “Hag Purim Sameach!” and off he went.

My mouth agape I tried calling after him. “How’d you know we were Jewish, that this is Purim?” But the words didn’t come out, and as I saw him toss our trash into the back of the big garbage truck I’d somehow failed to notice until this point, he waved enigmatically and that was the last I saw of him on that morning. “A Jewish dustbinmin?” I mumbled snobbishly.

Only later did I find out what really happened that morning. Our dustbin man was, in fact, the rabbi of the local Reform (they call it “Liberal”) synagogue who was a friend of the house’s owner who had told him that Jews were moving in for a couple of weeks. In the spirit of Purim the rabbi had donned the garb of a garbage man and pulled our legs. After all these years (thirty by last count) we still exchange Purim cards and visit each other when we are in the other’s country. An odd way to begin a life-long friendship, but life is strange with its twists and turns. Just ask Queen Esther.