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Tisha B’av

Greenwich Village, NYC 1990

He was funny. At first, nothing special to look it. On a closer look—still nothing special to look at. But definitely funny. He had definite appeal.

Fred, and his boyfriend, Larry, were having a picnic in the park. It was supposed to be a big group, but turned out to be the three of us and a couple and their baby from the next blanket who visited for a while. Just as we were finishing the Brie, a friend of Larry’s from his gym showed up. Some guy he recently met who decided to show Larry the proper way to use free weights.

“You’re only two and half hours late,” said Larry. He started to pack up the small remains of what had been a feast. You come late, you don’t eat. He didn’t say it, but he said it. “Where were you?”

The guy went into an elaborate explanation of not being able to find us.

“The Turtle Pond, in front of the rocks in the middle, directly to the side of the Delacorte Theater,” said Larry. “How hard is that?” Larry was an accountant. Everything was black or white.

“Did you know all the lampposts have the street numbers written on them? If you can decode it you can never get lost in Central Park. It took me hours till I could find someone to break the code. By then I was at 105th Street, looking at the gardens—which by the way are really beautiful—before I figured it out and came down here.”

I looked at him with his balding head and life jumping out of his pores. He was out of his mind. He could not have been that lost as to not realize he was miles out of his way. Still, I was interested to know about the lampposts.

“Come on,” he said, looking at the two guys lounging on the blanket with all the food obviously eaten. “Take a walk with me and I’ll show you.”

We walked and talked. Andy told me a lot about himself. Too much in fact. He had just come back from Paris where a fortuneteller told him that he, Andrew Ackerman from Bayside, Queens, was a reincarnation of his former self. A French lieutenant. A hero.

He was very excited about this. He was very excited about everything. If Andy got turned on to an author he’d read everything he could and then move on. The same about a food, a place and a profession, which he seemed to have many. It stood to reason he would be like that about a person too. But he was a trip to be with.

Andy called the next day. After the park. The phone call was interrupted by six call-waiting beeps. He wouldn’t answer any of them, because he said he knew it was his ex-fiancée from eight years ago.

“You know this?” I asked. “How do you know this?”

“It’s a long story,” said Andy. “You don’t want to hear it.”

“Okay.”

“So let me tell you what happened. I wanted to go to Paris. I love to travel, you know, and I needed a place to stay. My ex-fiancée lives in Paris now, and she told me I could always call her and she’d put me up, so I did. Jesus, what a disaster. She was so crazy. She was furious with me because I didn’t desire her anymore. She was attacking me. Finally, by the third night, I had to move out to the couch. And you know what I overheard her tell her neighbor? ‘Stay away from him. He devours people.’ Can you believe it?”

I think he had given me a clue to his personality. I was pretty certain he had given me a big, big clue.

“So,” he went on, “you know what today is? I’m also into holidays.”

“Uh, no,” I said. “What am I missing?”

“Happy Tisha B’av!” said Andy.

“What is that again?” I asked. “All I know about it is that when I was a kid in day camp this girl in my group, Hope Moskowitz, said she couldn’t go swimming because of that holiday. She was religious. It was a boiling hot day in July and I felt bad for her.”

“Well,” said Andy, “it was my favorite holiday to study when I was in Hebrew school, and believe me, I wasn’t one of those nerdy guys or anything. But Tisha B’av was when not one, but two temples in Jerusalem were destroyed. Then for three weeks after that you go into this, like, period of mourning when all these tragedies can strike. Very cool. So—do you want to go out and do something sometime?”

“Ummm,” I said, aware that “yes” should not be my first response, based on the information at hand. “Maybe,” I mustered.

“Do you have someone specific in mind?”

He made me laugh. What the hell, Andy was alive and full of energy, and I thought he was funny.

A few nights later we had dinner. Andy was really nice. He took me to an Italian restaurant on Cornelia Street where he knew the chef.

“Let’s order an appetizer. Maybe some clams,” I suggested.

“Let’s see what happens,” said Andy.

“What can happen?” I didn’t get it. But Andy had gone into the kitchen, and Mario agreed to surprise us. I liked the smoked mozzarella and tomatoes. I liked Andy trying to impress me.

We went on a tour of the handball courts in his neighborhood. Andy knew every punk personally. I got an introduction. They were really nice. I thought someone could lend us their paddle ball rackets. Fifteen minutes. Andy asked. He knew how to handle them.

“It’s not cool,” he told me. We split.

We went back to his apartment. He put on a jazz album. He put on the fan. He dimmed the lights. Then Andy turned to me.

“Wanna dance?”

Andy had taught dance at Fred Astaire studio before he was a boxing coach. He was a good dancer. The music stopped. We clapped.

“You want to dance another tune?”

“No, thank you. It’s getting late.”

“Yeah, it is our first date,” he said, as he kissed me. Andy was aggressive but not pushy.

I went home. Andy paid for my taxi. He called me when I got home. I wanted to go rowboating in Central Park. He said we should rent the movie The Lonely Guy. Andy felt bad. I was going to Connecticut. I told him not to feel bad. I would be back from Connecticut. It was a visit not a move.

Andy called me when I returned. Many times. Too many times. Andy called from work. Now he was a trader. He traded at least fifteen stocks on each message he’d leave on my machine. The messages were long. It took a very long time when I beeped in.

Finally we talked. We made plans for Sunday. As we were about to hang up, he got a call-waiting beep.

“Damn, I know who this is and I don’t want to talk to her,” he said.

“The ex-fiancée from Paris?” I asked.

“No, someone else. Forget it. Look, call me tomorrow.”

I was getting a headache. This wasn’t so much fun anymore. “I can’t call you tomorrow,” I said, “but I’ll talk to you early on Sunday.”

I called him Sunday. His machine said it was Friday night at eight-thirty and he’d be back in half an hour. Andy called me Monday. Apologetic. He thought the plans were tentative. Could we try again?

I was tentative.

He called a bunch of times over the next ten days. We made plans for Saturday. Definite plans. I was to call him from my parents’ home upstate and tell him what time I’d be back in the city. That morning I called in to my machine.

“Hi. It’s Andy. I’m sick. I’m really, really sick and I won’t be able to make it tonight. But call me.”

I did. His machine said it was Friday night at eight-thirty and he was out.

“Gee, I’m sorry you’re sick,” I told his machine. “Maybe you went out to get some medicine or something.”

I called him again that night when I got back to the city. His machine still said it was Friday night at eight-thirty and he was out. I wondered where?

I’ve never spoken to Andy Ackerman again so I don’t know. However, several days later I wondered if perhaps he had died or something, death being the only really good excuse under the circumstances. I called his machine. It said it was Friday night at eight-thirty, and anyone who wanted to hang out at his apartment could show up at midnight.

I didn’t go.