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[sarajoymerkin]

Yankel and the Days of Rest

Yankel and the Days of Rest

“Yankel! You fool, wake up,” Yehuda, the town butcher said.

Yankel woke with a start.

“Whaaaa... Yes. what?” he stammered.

Yehuda chuckled and slapped Yankel on the back. “I saw you doing this yesterday too. You might want to stay awake if you’re going to finish learning Jonah by Rosh Hashana. The Kollel doesn’t like slackers.”

“I was not... I...” Yankel said. “Did the Rebbe notice?”

“Not this time. But be careful. The Rebbe will take away your salary if he finds out. And who knows, someone might tell him.”

Yankel glared at Yehuda as he made his way back to his seat to continue his daily Torah learning. At least I didn’t cause the entire Kollel to eat non-kosher chicken, Yankel thought. He gathered his Tanakh and commentary books and hurried to leave, ashamed of himself and the mean thoughts he just had.

***

That night Yankel decided to go to sleep an hour early, much to his wife Rochel’s chagrin.

“I have to finish Jonah in two weeks for Rosh Hashana or I will lose the money. The Kollel needs me. Everyone is learning different sections. If I don’t learn mine, we won’t be able to finish the entire Tanakh in time for the holiday” Yankel said.

“We always go to sleep at ten,” she complained, “Almost every night since last year when we were married, we have gone to sleep at ten. I don’t see why we need to change our entire schedule because you fell asleep a few times at the Kollel. I was hoping to finish my book tonight but now there will be no time.”

“I didn’t say you had to come with me,” Yankel mumbled.

“Fine then. But if you wake up early tomorrow because of all this extra sleep, you better not wake me too.” With that said, Rochel stomped off to the den to read her book.

Yankel headed to bed and said his nightly prayers. Shema Yisroel Hashem Aloheinu Hashem Echad, he whispered with his right hand covering his eyes. Then he continued with a prayer of his own, please Hashem, help me stay awake at the Kollel tomorrow. Rochel and I need the money. My tailoring business is not doing well this winter and the Kollel is all we have, I don’t want the Rebbe to find out and lower my stipend, please Hashem please. I know that I have been distant lately. But I’ve just been so busy and haven’t had the time to pray three times a day like I’m supposed to. Oy. What will I do if Yehuda tells the Rebbe to get back in his favor. Hashem listen to my prayers and help me. Amen.

***

The next day Yankel woke up at his normal rising time. He put on one of his many white button-down shirts, black pants, and his worn-out shoes. Rochel was waiting for him in the kitchen with fresh bread and his favorite black tea; a peace offering. He nodded to thank her, washed his hands, and said Baruch atah Hashem Aloheinu melech haolam hamotzei lechem min haeretz, the traditional blessing on bread.

That day, he did everything he could to say awake. He drank two cups of Rochel’s strongest tea. He wore his itchiest pants and a white-button-down with sleeves that pinched his arms when he bent them. He even stuck snow down his back to stay cold. He started by learning that week’s Torah portion, the parasha. Stories about the Jews in the desert. No problem. After an hour, Yankel decided it was time for him to to switch to Jonah.

He slept for four hours that day.

He woke up to a piece of crumpled paper hitting his head. “Hey Yankie! I thought you were supposed to be learning Jonah, not about Joseph’s dreams,” Yehuda called from a few rows back. A couple of the men around him laughed. Yankel grumbled and wiped his eyes. He glanced around and was relieved to see the Rebbe sitting up in front with a group, oblivious to what had happened.

Yehuda smiled as he watched Yankel look around the room. This could be my chance to be a part of the community again, he thought.  

Yehuda was infamous around the Kollel for the time he shechted a chicken incorrectly. In order to do it properly, one had to take an exceptionally sharp blade and slice the chicken’s neck as quickly as possible. This lowers the animal's suffering and leaves minimal space for fault. But, if there is even the smallest imperfection on the knife, the chicken is rendered non-kosher. Yehuda knew this law quite well. He studied for years in advance to becoming a trust-worthy butcher and was checked up on daily by a special Rabbi, called a mashgiach. But one fateful day, Yehuda accidentally shechted ten chickens with a faulty knife. He realized afterwards what he had done and made the choice to package and sell them as kosher. The mashgiach had already visited and knew nothing of it. Later that day, the Rebbe of the Kollel stopped into Yehuda’s store and purchased all ten of the non-kosher chickens. Yehuda didn’t say a word. The Rebbe used it to make his town-famous cholent – the stew that was served to the congregation weekly after the Shabbos prayers. Two weeks later, while drunk on Purim night, Yehuda blurted out to the Rebbe what he had done. The Rebbe called for a mandatory one-day fast among the congregation and instituted a full-time mashgiach at Yehuda’s shop. Business slowed for him and Yehuda began to spend more and more time in the Kollel, hoping to find a means of atonement in his learning.

***

The biting cold Polish wind smacked against Yankel’s face as he ran home. He worried that Yehuda would tell the Rebbe about his sleeping issue. Despite the Torah’s strict laws against speaking ill of a neighbor, Yankel wouldn’t be surprised if Yehuda used this chance to get closer to the Rebbe and prove himself to be trustworthy once again.

He barged through the door and fell in Rochel’s arms. She was taken aback by this since they rarely showed each other physical affection other than the rare fingertip touch while passing the salt, and their monthly attempts at childbearing. Yankel was lucky that Rochel was not in niddah at the time, the period after a woman menstruates but has not purified herself, or they would have sinned for simply touching.

“I feel asleep again today,” he choked out amidst catching his breath.

“Oh dear, maybe this was God’s way of punishing you for disrespecting your wife’s wishes last night.”

“Not now Rochel, this is serious. Jonah will take me at least a month to get through and at this rate I won’t be done until Yom Kippur. The worst part is, you know the Rubins’ son, that butcher Yehuda? He keeps giving me trouble.”

“Those Rubins. His mother Chava stole my place in line at the baker's last week and got the last Challah. Not a trustworthy family I tell you. Oh! But have you tried speaking to the Rebbe?”

“I couldn’t. He'd stop my Kollel payments and you know how slow my tailor commissions get in the winter.”

“Yankel you need to go to the Rebbe, he will be understanding. We need this money.”

“No Rochel I just couldn’t. I’ll be the laugh of the town. Poor Yankel can’t stay awake...”

“Just go talk to the Rebbe,” Rochel snapped.

“I can’t I—”

“I’m pregnant Yankel.”

“Pregnant?”

“I was waiting a few more weeks to tell you so there would be no i’yin hara on the baby. I’m already two months pregnant. But, please Yankie. We’re going to need all the money we can get right now, and I can’t have you losing it. See what the Rebbe has to say.”

“We’re having a baby? A son? My son? Oh Rochel. But the Rebbe—”

“Yankel.”

“I can just pretend I did the learning. I’ve done Jonah before I can just use old knowledge if anyone asks me about it. I can do that it will be fine. The Rebbe doesn’t need to know. It will be fine.”

“Yankel, if you don’t tell him than that Yehuda will. Go.”

***

Yankel hurried back out into the snow to go see the Rebbe. He reached the Kollel just as Yehuda was leaving for the night.

“Back again, eh? Thinking about spending the night?” Yehuda said.

“Yehuda, not now please.”

“Someone’s in a mood, perhaps a quick nap would help.”

“I said NOT NOW. Rochel is pregnant and I need this money and I can’t have—”

“Wait. Rochel is pregnant?” Yehuda’s face softened.

“Yes, and I can’t have you—”

“Yankel mazol tov woah. I’m so sorry for making fun of you I had no idea. Mazol tov, mazol tov.”

“What?”

“Listen, the Kollel salary is barely enough for me to support my six children, and ever since last year with the chicken, you remember?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Well, my meat sales have been down, and I’ve been struggling to get by. Oy what a fool I was to give you so much trouble. Forgive me Yankel please! I didn’t mean any harm I just hoped the people would finally forget about me with you falling asleep like that. And I—”

“Yehuda calm down, it is fine, now I just need to go in there and face the Rebbe.”

“No. Don’t. I thought I could go to him about the chicken and I haven’t heard the end of it. Let me try to help you stay awake. It’s the least I can do.”

***

Rochel was already asleep by the time Yankel returned that night. She left a plate of meat and potatoes out on the table with a note that read: Yankie, I’m off to bed since I do not know how long your talk with the Rebbe will take. I hope it went well. This baby has made me more tired than I thought I would be. So, make sure you clean up after yourself. I don’t need more work than I already have. Also, do not wake me tomorrow morning. Doctor Schwartz said I should get as much rest as I can with all my stress right now. Layla Tov. Sleep well, not like you have much of a problem doing that. Ha!

Yankel smirked and placed the letter aside. Rochel was always making him laugh. It was the reason he chose to marry her over that Leah that the matchmaker tried to set him up with. Leah was from a much wealthier family, but he couldn’t get Rochel out of his head. And now they were going to have a baby together. A baby! Yankel couldn’t stop himself from smiling as he jawed his way through the tough slab of meat.

He decided to sleep on the couch that night. He didn’t want to disturb Rochel and he had told Yehuda that he would be at the Kollel early the next morning.

***

The waves shoved themselves against Yankel’s frail body. He pushed as hard as he could to swim against the rough current, but it felt like he was swimming in place. The whale was not far behind fighting its own battle against the heavy waters. It let out a loud, long wail that shook Yankel’s body as he swam. The whale would catch up to him eventually. This was a truth Yankel could feel. But for now, all he could do was swim.

***

The next day the pair sat together in the Beit Midrash at the crack of dawn.

“Yehuda, thank you again for doing this. Todah rabah. I don’t understand what’s wrong with me, but I just can’t seem to stay awake.”

“Well why don’t we learn a bit of parasha together first and then move on to Jonah?

“I tried that already...”

“Oy okay. How about we just try learning Jonah together then?”

“But Yehuda don’t you have your own portions to—”

“They didn’t give me any.”

“Oh.”

“The Rebbe still thinks I’m impure and won’t let me take part in communal learning. Not until I finish revisiting the laws of kosher and shechting.”

“I’m so sorry I—”

“It’s fine. Now, let’s learn about teshuva huh? I’ll read the first section. Try to keep up.” Yehuda winked and began to read. “Vayehi d’var Hashem el Yonah ben Amitai leymor.” He translated, “And Hashem spoke to Jonah the son of Amitai saying:” But by then, Yankel was already dreaming about swimming desperately through the ocean, chased by a giant blue whale.

Yehuda shook Yankel, who snapped his head up. “Oy” is all Yankel could say.

“Why don’t you try read a posuk instead?” Yehuda said.

Yankel opened his Tanakh to Jonah, section one. He felt his eyelids getting heavy and his heartbeat slow. “I...” He yawned and began to drift off into a continuation of his earlier dream.

Yehuda watched him in amazement. He took it upon himself to nudge Yankel every few seconds to keep himself awake. He would nudge Yankel, Yankel would shake awake, look down at the book, and immediately begin to fall asleep again.

After a few attempts, Yehuda decided it was time to try something new. He poked Yankel. He poked and poked and poked and poked.

“Stop that! I’m not falling asleep but now I can’t focus at all,” Yankel said.

“I don’t know what else to do” Yehuda said, “Maybe it’s time to talk to the Rebbe.”

Yankel sighed. “Tomorrow. For now, let’s at least get some of your kosher law learning out of the way. If I can stay awake for something that boring, how much more so should I be able to for Jonah.”

***

The house smelled of chicken soup and warmth as Yankel entered, trapping the cold wind outside behind him.

“I know it’s only Wednesday, but I was craving a matzo ball,” Rochel called from the kitchen. “I promise I promise I will make another batch for Shabbos. Oh! And don’t worry, I bought chicken from that butcher Tuvia. Did not want to help out that Yehuda Rubin in any way.”

Yankel entered the kitchen and took in the sight of his beautiful wife. He could already see the baby bump forming, or maybe he was just imagining it.

“Chicken soup will be fine for dinner,” he said. “And from now on only buy from Yehuda. I was so foolish to judge him so quickly—”

“What?” Rochel said.

“Sit down, let me tell you about what has happened.”

After dinner, Rochel decided that Yankel should go straight to the Rebbe’s house and speak to him there.

“There is no time to waste,” she said. “Rosh Hashana is in two weeks; I’ve even started to cook already! If you don’t figure this out now you will not be able to fulfill your learning in time.”

“I’ll go. But if the Rebbe doesn’t have an answer, I don’t know what we’ll do,” Yankel said.

“Watch your tongue. The Rebbe always has an answer.”

***

Yankel trekked through the icy wind as it shoved itself against his bare face. He reached the house he was looking for and banged on the door, eager to get out of the cold.

“Yankel? What are you doing here? It’s late,” Yehuda said.

“I am on the way to the Rebbe’s house and I want you to come with me,” Yankel answered.

“What? Why? And come in, come in, you look like a ghost.” Yankel walked inside and sat by the fire. “So,” Yehuda continued. “Why should I come with you? My presence surely will not help matters.”

“Yes, but I need someone there to help the Rebbe understand the situation. Please Yehuda come with me. I won’t ask anything from you again.”

Yehuda sighed and nodded.

***

The Rebbe’s house was small and worn out. Some Rebbes chose to live with wealth, but he refused all but a basic salary from the Kollel’s donors—the wealthy Jews from Krakow—and gave the rest to the congregation.

The Rebbe’s face displayed a mix of confusion and exhaustion when he opened the door.

“Rebbe, I am so sorry to bother you at this hour. I have a problem I need to discuss with you,” Yankel said.

“Come in,” the Rebbe replied with a slow gesture towards the kitchen table that sat right by the entrance of the small house. He paused when he noticed Yehuda, and then made his way over to the chair at the head of the table.

"It’s that... I... Well... You see...” Yankel said.

“Oy. What Yankel is trying to say is that he keeps falling asleep whenever he tries to learn his portion for Rosh Hashana,” Yehuda said.

“Asleep?” the Rebbe questioned.

“Yes. And no matter what we did to try and keep him awake it didn’t work. He won’t finish his learning in time. And, if he can’t stay awake, he won’t be able to start at all,” Yehuda said.

“I see. And what happens when you fall asleep, Yankel? Do you dream at all?” the Rebbe said.

“Yes!” Yankel said with a newfound confidence. “I keep having the same dream every time I sleep, not just at the Kollel. I’m swimming and there is a whale chasing me. Sometimes it lets out a huge wail and I can feel it shaking me. But I always wake up right before it catches up.”

The Rebbe thought for a moment. “I see. Yes. I see. Okay. Yankel you must fast for the next two days and treat them as if they were a Yom Kippur. Clearly there is something in your past that requires atonement. The wail of the whale leads to me believe that you have been neglecting your prayers to Hashem. Is that true?”

“Yes, Rebbe,” Yankel said.

“Oy. Say all three prayers with immense concentration, both days. At the end of the second day I will sound a shofar for you, to banish your sins.”

“Yes Rebbe, thank you,” Yankel said.

Of course, if at that point you are still having this issue, I will have to ask you to give up your portion until it is resloved. But I do believe this should work.”

With that, Yankel and Yehuda headed out. The Rebbe shook Yankel’s hand as he exited. He made eye contact with Yehuda and nodded.

“Thank you, Yehuda,” the Rebbe said, “for trying to help Yankel.”

***

“Tekiyah Gedolah,” the Rebbe announced and blew the shofar two days later. A loud trumpet-like noise emerged as the Rebbe’s cheeks turned red. “Best of luck with your learning tomorrow Yankel,” he said.

The next morning, Yankel arrived at the Kollel and was surprised to find Yehuda there waiting for him.

“I figured you might need someone to poke you,” Yehuda said.

The two men sat down at what was now becoming their usual table. Yehuda opened the Tanakh slowly, for dramatic effect.

“Ready?” he asked Yankel.

“Yes.” Yankel took a deep breath, “Okay. Vayehi d’var Hashem el Yonah ben Amitai leymor. Did I do it? Am I awake?”

“You did it!” Yehuda responded. They rejoiced and hugged each other.

Over the following ten days, Yankel and Yehuda spent hours in the Kollel learning all of Jonah. Yehuda supplied chicken for lunch daily, which delighted Rochel since it meant she didn’t have to work to make it for Yankel. By the time Rosh Hashana came, they had not only finished Jonah, but had almost finished learning all of the laws of Kosher.

***

Six months later a beautiful baby boy was born to Yankel and Rochel. They held a bris meliah at the Kollel, with a special chicken cholent, sponsored by Yehuda. When it came time to name the boy, Yankel announced that he would be called Yehuda, after the most righteous man he knew. News of this spread around the community and no more than a week later, Yehuda was invited to the Rebbe’s Sabbath dinner for the first time in two years.

[sarajoymerkin]

Indescribable

Back in ancient Egypt when the Nile flooded and dove’s insides were examined, there lived a young scribe with a coarse beard and fingers so long, it was rumored that he must be as long elsewhere on his body. The scribe built a reputation over the previous years as having the best handwriting in the land. People from all over the empire yearned for the day when they may the exquisite hieroglyphic art. But said day was unlikely to come since nobody had ever seen the scribe’s work. In fact, he gained his popularity by burning each piece after finishing them, so no man, he claimed, could ruin the sanctity of his work with their uncultured eyes.  

When word reached the Pharoah of this great talent, he grew obsessed with the scribe. He felt that of anyone, he should see the fabled handwriting. The Pharoah, after-all, considered himself to be a God in his own right. So, the Pharoah commanded him to write an ode in his most pristine calligraphy by the next year’s time.  

The scribe met this task with skepticism but understood he could not oppose the Pharoah’s orders.  Thus, began a year-long isolation wherein the scribe saw no one except for the local baker’s son who brought him rations of bread and a jug of fresh water every day. Only twice during the whole period, when the scribe was riddled with writer’s block, did he allow into his quarters, a lover, a woman of strong will with a smile which constructed itself in such an odd manner, that upon seeing it the scribe was immediately struck with inspiration.  

After a year of sore hands and crumpled papyrus, the Pharoah’s men retrieved the final product and presented it to him. The palace roared with rumors while the Pharoah locked himself in his library to read the poem. A mere five hours later the Pharoah emerged and called his closest advisors into the room. Soon, shouting was heard through the thick brick and servants shoved each other to get their ears pressed against the walls. The servants claim that the advisors were in a heated debate over the meaning of the hieroglyphics, unable to decipher what the various figures could represent. A particular point of tension was over whether the first image in the third verse was a sparrow, a woman with child, or a large man with a surprisingly small penis. Each, of course, meaning different things. The sparrow would represent the greatness of the Egyptian Empire. The woman with child would imply the growth and fertility of the land. And as for the large man with the surprisingly small penis, well, the advisors finally understood why they were castrated.  

The next morning, the scribe was hanged in the center of Cairo. Thousands of peasants and royals gathered to watch. When questioned, the Pharoah’s right-hand-man replied that he was hanged for his terrible handwriting. “Yes,” he said, “The scribe could not draw to save his life.”

[sarajoymerkin]

Feed, Speed, and Greed

The life of a Postmate is one of passion and perseverance. To be a Postmate you must have an innate desire to help others. Even if you’re already in pajamas and don’t want to change to go out, you must be empathetic towards that hungry guy in need of Shake Shack. To be a Postmate you must be ready to drop everything to accept an order. You might have to ditch your Tinder date, to deliver from the By Chloe down the block, and rush to an apartment a mile away. And, most importantly, to be a Postmate, you have to be greedy enough to earn off the laziness of others, when you know they’d be better off walking to the Starbucks across the street and picking up their own damn coffee.

To better understand this phenomenon, I joined Ben Rapp (NYU ‘22) as we galivanted around the city, letting the people’s needs guide us. Ben is a sharp witted, lanky eighteen-year-old with a face that could never grow a beard and a fake ID that will never be believable. He started working for Postmates at the beginning of his second semester of college to kill time in between his two other jobs and his NYU Stern course-load. His goal in life, for reasons beyond my comprehension, is to successfully pull off a white-collar crime. I plan on keeping him close, so he won’t screw me over later.

Our first order came from Coco, a bubble tea shop, for a $3 drink that was a guaranteed low tip. Ben explained to me that since he would only make $4, it wasn’t worth it to accept the order, but he did anyways so I could have the experience.  

I glanced at the menu when we walked into the store, but Ben rushed us out as soon as he got the order. He was oddly protective of the drink and held it like it was his child for the short one block walk. It was a snow day without snow, so I suppose it made sense that bubble tea girl didn’t want to leave her apartment and go five minutes out of her way. But I’d like to think that Ben and I made her day. She opened the door and stared at the two of us standing in front of her. As we were walking back to the elevator, she poked her head back out and watched us go. Perhaps she was shocked that two people were doing Postmates together. Or maybe, she just couldn’t understand that the two of us, who look like we can’t be older than 15, would waste our youth on delivering bubble tea.  

As we waited for another order to pop up, Ben explained to me that this wasn’t a busy day. At its busiest, Postmates race against each other to tackle as many deliveries as possible, probably because they are so passionate about contributing to the cutting-edge company that is changing the face of consumerism around the world.

But we were stuck in a slump. So, when our next order came from Madeline for a radiant light bronzer and a walnut face scrub from Sephora, I made Ben accept it. How could we turn Madeline down when she clearly was in desperate need of a walnut face scrub with no time to go out and get it on her own? Ben told me he didn’t know who Sephora is, but I promised the order would tip well, so he agreed to go.  

In the store, we had to ask for help twice because the difference between radiant light matte and radiant light is beyond me, and even further beyond Ben. We were in the store for a good twenty minutes. Ben kept fidgeting in line, rehearsing the ways he could approach the cashier about the makeup. At first, I played along but the line was long, and he just wouldn’t stop.

“What do you think of these two for me?” he asked the cashier once we finally got to the register.

“Oh, sure honey, that bronzer will really give you a nice glow,” she replied with a wink.

He texted his mom as we walked out of the store and told her all about what the cashier said to him. Ben insisted on carrying the bag as we walked to Madeline’s apartment. As he strutted down Houston St. with the expensive purchase in his hand, he said to me, “People have too much money, my goal is to take it from them until I have too much money.” I asked if he thought that would just make people want to steal from him. Like the Stern boy he is, he said he’s way too smart for that to happen.  

Madeline didn’t tip us, but I was far more offended by how we had to leave the bag at the front desk. We had just saved her life; she could at least have given us the courtesy of answering some of the questions I had about the order. I still think about Madeline every day. Hope she spent the tip money on something she really needs. Maybe a lip gloss.  

We walked back to NYU. I asked Ben if he’s ever worried that he’ll encounter a dangerous situation while delivering. He told me that he feels like no one who would pay a $5.99 delivery fee could be a murderer. But if an awkward college kid can aspire to launder money, I’m not really sure who to trust.  

During my short-lived time as a Postmate, I learned the importance of the three double Es: feed, speed, and greed. Bring snacks because looking at another person’s food will make you hungry. It’s fucking tiring to walk around the city non-stop for three hours. And, most importantly, always tip your Postmate. Deliverers like Ben deserve it. And hey, if you give him a bit of your money now, he’ll be less inclined to steal all of it later.  

[sarajoymerkin]

Why I Write

I used to think I wrote because I was good at it. Being the only 4th grader in a class of twenty other entitled Jews to win a national poetry contest for adequately rhyming fall with ball, really helps your ego.  

Now, after years of academic essays, ap exams, creative writing classes, and angsty diary entries, I'm not quite sure. Granted, I can still rhyme fall with ball almost as well as I used to, but I don’t think that’s the reason I write anymore. I could tell you some long descriptive tale about how I write because my heart yearns for it. How I walk on a concrete city of footprints, absorbing the avalanche of emotions and sounds that surround me and think, every part of my being beckons me to inscribe this experience, but then I’d be lying. And probably making an ass of myself.  

The truth is that I write because I’m afraid. Afraid that I won’t succeed at anything else. That if I didn’t, I would look back on my life in 50 years from now and see that I’d spent my time failing at one thing or another. Any creative profession is a risk that provides ample room to disappoint. I know this. But the 4th grader in me still believes that writing is something I can do. Something that can give a painfully shy and awkward kid a chance to be proud of herself. Something that can give a less shy—yet still painfully awkward—college student that chance to express and feel confident in herself. I need to write because I need to know that I’m not just a series of inadequacies piled up into a human being. I need to write.  

[sarajoymerkin]

An Inspection of Mango Nectar

While pursing the various packaged bread options at my local Winn Dixie, I came across what can only be described as a mountain of identical mango drinks. From a quick glance at the bottle, I gathered that the Monsieur Papa’s nectar was Egyptian, and yet it was made in Florida. They were selling at $0.99 a bottle, so I figured I may as well try one, still confused by the sudden appearance of the drink. Granted, I am a college student in New York so it is not often that I come home, but I was in the state less than two months ago and the nectar was nowhere to be found. So, I wrote it off as just another odd Winn Dixie product, presuming that they must have had no place to put them in the store, so they resorted to piling it in the middle of an aisle.  

At this point, my fascination with the drink should have stopped.  

The next day—as I was searching for the few items Winn Dixie never seems to have at a nearby Target—I was shocked to come face to face with none other than another heaping stack of the mango nectars! Tons of sad sombrero-wearing men stared at me as I stood frozen near the unripe avocados. The promise of 100% natural mango pulp shook me with wonder. I knew my own drink was sitting unopened in the fridge, but these Target ones were selling at the low price of $0.59. I averted my eyes and realized I was facing what I like to call, the wall of expensive smoothies. Bottles of Naked and Kombucha for prices as high as $4.95, sitting in their air-conditioned shelf looking down on the cheap room temperature nectars. Confused as to how the drink could be so cheap in comparison to all the others, I did the only thing I could do. I tasted it right there in the store. And no, I am not one to open a container of Oreo’s as I shop and pay later on. But this was no ordinary situation.  

The drink had a thick and smooth feeling that glided down my throat as easily as it did the bottle. It tasted like most mango drinks do, like a sugared piece of dried mango. At this point, I assumed the logical step was to taste a drink of higher value, so I tried Naked’s mango smoothie. Surprisingly, I found myself enjoying the flavor and consistency of the nectar more. But this just left me with more questions. Why was the nectar so cheap? Why was it being displayed in such large quantities while other drinks only have a few bottles on the shelf? Who is Monsieur Papa? If it was 100% natural mango pulp, then why were there no little flakes like orange juice has? And, most importantly, why were these nectars seemingly appearing in every Florida store?  

Upon my return home, now with two nectars and one Naked juice to my name, I decided it was time to get some answers. I started with a simple question for Google, “why are mango nectars randomly showing up in all these Florida stores?” This search brought me to various Bevnet articles that celebrated the expansion of the product throughout a variety of retailers, the biggest seeming Costco’s across the Southwest of the country in 2015. To be honest, I was taken aback by the idea that this was not entirely a Florida phenomenon. But the nectars were not brought into Targets and Winn Dixies until late 2019, as the company has raised their hopes of expanding nationwide.  

Reassured in knowing that the nectars were a relatively new addition to these stores, I decided to take a step back and look into the product itself. On the Monsieur Papa website, it states, “Founding owner, Mohamed Hassan began his journey as an owner of 12 supermarket stores in South Florida. With a background in chemistry and one mango tree, the “Mr. Dad” himself formulated the most delicious and nutritious all-natural mango nectar on the market. Today Monsieur Papa can be found all over the world and continues to maintain its quality without question.” While this paragraph answered a few of my looming concerns, I continued to wonder how the nectars were sold at such a cheap price. Clearly, the slogan was incorrect, seeing as the quality was maintained, but I was still left with many a question.  

It has been a week since my first encounter with Monsieur Papa’s mango nectars and I think about it every day. The price and quantity of the sickeningly sweet drink remain a source of uncertainty in my life and I await the day when answers will come.  

[sarajoymerkin]

A Good One: A Profile of Jesse David Fox

It is not unusual to see Jesse David Fox wander into the 75 Varick St building—home to the New York Magazine offices—wearing some variation of jeans and a sweatshirt, a style that can only be described as “Old Navy poster boy.” He is aged somewhere between 29 and 35 but he has been working in the building for so long that aging has become a routine he rarely pays attention to. The curse of permanent bed hair has gotten to him, but he makes it work.  His eyes are green, but not piercing, and his nose is Jewish, but not massive. It is ironic that his right canine tooth hides behind the others—he likely didn’t have successful braces growing up—since it is the most notable part of his smile.

It isn’t every day that Jesse stops at the Blue Bottle coffee stand, in the lobby of the well-polished building, but when he does, he treats himself to a coffee tonic. It is, in his opinion, Blue Bottle’s best drink with its cocktail-like mix of cold brew coffee and agave flavored tonic water. Sometimes, on a day where everything could be going wrong or everything could be going right, the chain offers free waffles with a drink purchase. After six years of working to establish a comedy section in Vulture, and becoming a senior editor, Jesse often grabs two from the plate and saunters over to the elevator. He loves free waffle day. While most of the business executives, hippy graphic designers, and tired government employees would only dare to take one waffle, he has worked his way to a place where he merits two.  

•••

Jesse grew up in Valley Stream, Long Island as a reform Jew with a love for music and an appreciation for comedy. In high school he would use his fake ID to get in to the Comedy Cellar but he didn’t realize that he “liked comedy more than most people do.” In college he took after his father and majored in psychology and forgot about comedy when he grew passionate about the music business industry. Amid studying Freudian theory, he wrote music reviews for his school paper since he wanted to attack as many aspects of the industry as he could. He got a job at William Morris and jumped at the chance to be relocated to California, where he was soon fired from the company. His boss told him he was being let go and said, “you’re too sensitive to work here and you’re too much of an intellectual to live in Los Angeles.” But the move wasn’t completely worthless, while there Jesse’s comedy appreciation grew, and he began a blog where he posted weekly humorous articles about nothing for no one and enhanced his writing skills. His first article mocked people who start a blog by themselves, claiming that he had the right to since his friends suggested it.  

When New Years rolled around after a few months of blogging and doing odd jobs, he resolved to either learn French or start writing for real publications. “The idea is to either pursue your dream or accept that you’re just trying to live a good life through a combination of work and recreation and move to France.” Unlike most resolutions, Jesse saw it through. Rosetta Stone got tedious, so he “cold emailed” Jewcy and various other publications to freelance articles, with an emphasis on free.  

Around the same time, a friend of Jesse’s who wanted to be a comedy agent took him to see a live show of “Comedy Death Ray” where he saw Hannibal Buress perform and “couldn’t believe how funny he was.” Soon after, the show turned into the podcast “Comedy Bang Bang” and Jesse had a revelation that there was nobody in the journalism industry writing about comedy podcasts. It was a great time to get into it since the comedy boom was starting and he “followed its trajectory up.” Jesse walked into Splitsider and convinced them to let him write a column on comedy podcasts. He also began making comedic pie charts for the magazine, that quickly became popular. From there his career took off and he began receiving freelancing gigs for other publications, including Vulture. Eventually he was hired for a generalist job until he pitched a comedy section for the publication and was given the lead on it. After about three years of proving the necessity for the section with articles such as “50 Comedians that you will and should Know” and “100 Jokes that Shaped Modern Comedy,” Jesse earned his way to becoming a senior editor.  

Most recently, Jesse has gone back to his Splitsider column roots and has created a podcast of his own called Good One. The podcast features a range of comedians who sit with Jesse and analyze the process that they took in writing one of their popular jokes. The podcast has featured guests from Jerry Seinfeld and Kevin Hart to Moshe Kasher and the Lucas Brothers. Max Silvestri—a comic known for his set on Netflix’s “The Comedy Lineup”— said of the podcast, “You [Jesse] figured out a way to do the question every comedian hates being asked.” Another comedian, Mike Birbiglia, tweeted at Jesse: “Love this pod.” Aside from comedians, the podcast is critically acclaimed, rated at four and a half stars on iTunes, and reaching #30 on the top comedy podcasts list. Adina Karp, a New School (‘21) student studying broadcasting, said that Jesse’s interview style is particularly impactful since, “He talks to the human and not just the comedian's persona. He lets the listener knows that the people he’s talking to are worth listening to and not just laughing with.”

Before he sits down with the comic, Jesse does an extensive amount of research about them. “I research so much and during that process that I fall in love with the person. My goal is that through the interview the listener will see what I love about the comic.” He uses a sheet of questions to guide the interview but wishes he didn’t have to. Jesse is so confident in his ability to know what the comedian's process was, that question is designed to lead the comedian towards a specific answer that will then transition into the next question. His goal “is for the person to realize what I want them to realize.” In many of the episodes he has done just that. For example, when interviewing Gary Gulman on his Trader Joes joke, Jesse steered him to a discussion of mental illness based on a small detail of the joke about receipts. He knew that Gulman had a new set about depression touring and chose to ask about the one point in the otherwise light-hearted joke to create a more emotional conversation.  

Despite how close to the industry he is, Jesse is still an outsider. He knows the comedians well enough to gossip about other people before interviews, but he is not considered as one of them. He jots down jokes in his phone and organizes comedy fundraisers, but he is not considered as a comic. Jesse tried stand-up once after getting flack for analyzing comedy without doing it himself. He did a five-minute set and got one laugh. “I remember thinking that doesn’t matter to me. The thing about comedians is that they get one laugh one time and they’re like, ‘I have to do this for the rest of my life.’ I don’t have that.” He believes that he is not being hypocritical by not having the complete understanding of what it means to be a comic. “My job is not to understand comedy better; my job is to translate what people who are in comedy do to people who aren’t, so I need to be more in touch with them [the audience].”  

•••

Jesse enters the giant glass doors of the New York Magazine office. The office is split into sections for the different publications of the company. It is crowded with gray cubicles that would be dull if not for the various decorations that staff members have put up. He recalls a joke from the charity event he went to last night—“the first bad joke I’ve seen told unironically in years”—and laughs to himself. The comic said something along the lines of “I walked into a room full of peanuts and said ‘What am I? An elephant?!’” It is moments like those that remind him why he loves comedy so much.  

[sarajoymerkin]

A Sense of Sight

Exuding a pain that permeates the room, she beckons me among the other paintings at The Met. She sits there, eyeing a mirror in her left hand. In her other hand, a thick braid of silky chocolate hair is held to the side of her head. She wears a thin mud-toned reminder of a vest over a shirt that once was white. And she sits there, mirror in hand, with a dense brown backdrop enveloping her.

Her face swells with exhaustion. Dark streaks reminiscent of nights spent contemplating her limitations drip below her lifeless eyes. She is pretty, but she is worn. A shadow cuts across her jaw, levitating her head above her neck. The only color she is welcome to is a slight brush of pink that runs from her cheek to her lips, softening the void of the shadow.  

There is a frayed thin tear in her ragged vest that lies right below her left breast. Its few stray white threads shine like a beacon of hope among its drab shadows. She is aware of the rip and appears to know exactly where it came from by how casually she wears it. She won’t bother to fix it.  

She slouches, her body too weak to hold itself up as all its strength focuses on the mirror in her hand. I slouch with her, as my eyes are pulled away from her harrowing existence and on to the dreadful mirror in her frail hand.  

Together we sit there, mirror in hand, staring at the person she thinks she is. In the mirror she is cloaked in gloom. In the mirror she has no color aside from varying shades of brown. In the mirror she wears an expression of knowledge and rigidity. The manifestation draws her viewers in, placing them under her thrall of darkness and presses a false reality of self-doubt upon them.  

I notice her reflection’s gaze is fixed lower than her assumed line of sight. I notice that she is not staring at herself, but rather looking past at the deep abyss of emptiness that lurks behind her diabolical other. I notice that outside the mirror she is missing, her soul locked in to the depths of misunderstanding and mystery.  

I force my expanded pupils to unlatch as I quiver at the inefficacy of the mirror.  My eyes return to her. She is pretty but worn. The pain she so loudly exuded now a devilish power that I refuse to heed to. The mirror’s influence dominates the air around me, beckoning me to come closer.  

A French tourist walks up next to me and I walk away. I look back at him, hoping he too manages to break away from the piece. I remind myself that it is merely a reflection, sitting there in a delicate hand, interfering with a sense of sight.  

Do, Juan. The Sense of Sight. Circa 1600s, The Metropolitan Museum of Art, 1000 5th Ave, New York, NY 10028.

[sarajoymerkin]

Too Soon?

The first thing that everyone tells you about visiting a concentration camp is that it isn’t going to be this terrible pile of human ash that you might be expecting. That’s still exactly what I went in picturing. Suffice to say, I was shocked by how organized and clean Auschwitz was. But I suppose that makes sense. It takes an immense level of organization to be a masterful murdering machine.  

The worst Nazi run camps in World War II were built in Poland early in the war. It was inconvenient for the Germans to waste their own land on such things and they wanted to make Germany as Jew-free as possible. Poland was the natural choice after it fell so easily to the Nazi troops in 1939, and Poland housed not only Auschwitz-Birkenau, but also Majdanek and Treblinka, two of the deadliest camps established, not to mention hundreds of others. I visited some of these camps during my five-day trip to Poland last year, each more painful to see than the one before it. In the Modern Orthodox Jewish community visiting Poland is seen almost as a rite of passage. The Holocaust has such a powerful impact on Jewish heritage and there has been a big push in the past few generations to gain as much exposure to it as possible before it becomes another distant historical massacre. Whether the trip is done with The March of the Living, an outreach program for religious and nonreligious Jewish high school students, or with a gap year Israel group, most Jewish students make the journey before they go off to college.  

The Holocaust was a large part of my Jewish identity and for so long I assumed I would go on The March senior year.  It was a trip I had wanted to take ever since I read “The Book Thief” by Markus Zusak in eighth grade. From that point on I had a fascination with WWII historical literature and I viewed the Poland trip as a chance to truly witness it and allow the images and stories I had read about come to life. However, it simply didn’t work out at the time and instead I went during my gap year in Israel. The gap year was spent furthering and understanding my relationship with God and it was clearly the right time for me, since Poland was significantly more meaningful with the friends I made in Israel. There’s something about a trip like that that bonds a group together.  

The second thing that everyone tells you is that it’s so much fun, when it isn’t sad. The days are spent in segments, traveling between sites, one terror after another. No one can be that sad for that long. It’s just too hard. So, the bus rides and meal breaks became these sessions of comedic relief for us all. My friends and I had an ongoing wordplay game throughout the experience. Anytime we would go to a new place, we created a series of puns based on its name. It started with the town Lublin (pronounced lube-lin), which turned into Lublin there done that, Lublint, #Lublit and many other nonsensical puns. Then it went on for Leżajsk (pronounced Lee-jance) with hits like, Lezajsk gonna be ok da do do, lehappenstance, allezajsk. And for some reason, every one of these puns was the funniest joke in the world.  

The first day of the trip was spent in Warsaw, visiting the minimal remains of the Warsaw Ghetto and the Jewish cemetery that is still standing. At the cemetery, I was asked to share the story “If Not Higher” by Y.L. Peretz, a famous Yiddish author, as I stood before his grave. It is a story that looks down upon the dissent among different Jewish sects and lack of respect for one and other. It is a story that was especially poignant while standing among a history where it didn’t matter what type of Jew you were identified as. You were going to be persecuted anyways.  

That night we went to the first concentration camp we would visit, Treblinka. Perhaps the worst of all the Polish camps, nothing remains of Treblinka today except railroad tracks and a beautiful monument. Treblinka was the Nazi’s most efficient killing machine. In fact, it was so methodical that it got to a point where 2,000 people were killed every hour. By the time Treblinka was shut down in 1943 it accommodated over ten gas chambers and a collection of Jewish prisoners that had to burn the bodies afterward. Few prisoners managed to escape the camp and share what had happened there. Today all that remains are the thousands of stones, laid out by the Polish government in memory of all the lives lost. The journal from that night reads as follows:

“Treblinka was definitely an experience. I didn’t get emotional, but I felt heavy. Rachel, Talia, and I held hands for most of it. We stood by the monument in a circle. Everyone held a candle and went around saying a name from one the Warsaw Cemetery graves that each of us had chosen to remember. I said, Samuel. It’s my brother’s name. We left the candles on the ground and sang as we walked back. I couldn’t help but wonder who cleans up those candles” (01/31/18).

The third thing everyone tells you is that there are no expectations for how you should react. They tell you that some people cry while others don’t. They tell you that some people get angry while others feel content. They emphasize to you that some people don’t feel anything at all. They don’t want you to feel guilty if you don’t.  Looking back on it now, I find that last journal sentence so enlightening. I was suppressing and denying so much pain at the time that I distracted myself by wondering about the candles. Back at the hotel that night, we added to our list of puns.

The next day we went to Majdanek, one of the camps that are most intact today since the Soviet Army got to it before the Nazis had time to destroy it.  There is a mountain of ashes in Majdanek, all that remains of hundreds of thousands of innocent people murdered there. However, what is possibly the most appalling fact about Majdanek is simply how close it was to civilization. Other camps were far more remote and removed from society, whereas Majdanek was close to many towns and easily accessible. Nowadays there is a town directly next to the remains of the camp. There are homes with their back windows facing the campgrounds. Imagine waking up in the morning and seeing a gas chamber outside your window. Why would anyone want to live there?

“The camp was so shocking. It felt so lifeless, but I guess it’s always been that way. I didn’t cry. The only time I got emotional was when I was hugging Shelli as she was bawling. But I held back tears then, so I could be there for her. It was hard on a lot of people. But it wasn’t on many others. I understood the severity, but I didn’t feel it. I just was. That was all” (02/01/18).

Perhaps the most impactful moment in Majdanek was when we stood inside a gas chamber, with blue Zyklon B stains covering the cement walls, and we sang the song Gam Ki Elech (Psalm 23).

Gam Ki Elech (Yes, I walk)

b'gay Tzalmavet (In the valley of death)

Lo Irah rah (But I fear no evil)

ki atah imadi (Because you [God] are at my side)

גַּם כִּי-אֵלֵךְ   בְּגֵיא צַלְמָוֶת   לֹא-אִירָא רָע   כִּי-אַתָּה עִמָּדִי  

The biblical commentator Rabbi Shlomo Yitzchaki teaches that this song was written while King David was running away from King Saul, who was trying to murder him. Despite the danger he was in David still wrote this testament to God, acknowledging that he is safe since God is there to protect him. But where was God for the people that died in the very gas chamber that I was in, singing those words?  

I got my answer the next day while sitting under a tree in Zbylitowska Góra. The Polish town has a forest behind it that the Nazis used during the war for mass graves. Thousands of Jews and other prisoners in the town were taken to the forest, lined up, shot, and piled into the ground. Today there are blue fences all over this vast clearing in the woods. Below each fence are the bones of thousands of innocent people. One of the fences has a sign that explains that it holds the bodies of 800 children. 800 children that were forced to line up and watch as their friends were brutally murdered, knowing they would be next. Children.  

I cried for my first time on the trip that day. We were each given a letter that our parents had written for us. I stood there, in front of 800 dead children, holding a letter from my parents, and I cried. I cried because I felt so guilty that I got to live past childhood, to experience my parents as people and form real relationships with them. I cried because I felt so guilty that those children will never get to experience that. I chose not to read my letter until I got back on to the bus. Instead, I wrote a poem.

“The coat bloodied    

Jacob crying deeply

Unaware Joseph was lifted out of the pit

And sold into God’s plan

Why did he survive  

For so many to fall

What was the plan

As so many lay dead  

In the pit

The air bloodied

Rachel crying deeply

At the sight of her sons  

Never coming home  

Joseph Joseph

What are you going to do?

This time there are no brothers

To pull you out  

They are shoved in too

Leaving Rachel barren

Crying deeply

Aware they will never come home”  

(02/02/18)

And yet, I wasn’t angry with God. On the contrary, the forest and the letter made me realize that God is still with and protecting the Jewish people because we are still here today. It’s an answer that isn’t ideal but is satisfying enough. I needed my faith more than anything at that time. I needed a crutch to believe in, a reason to still find purpose and meaning to existence, while so many others didn’t get the chance to. Who was I to denounce God for this while so many Jews believed strongly that their torture was a part of a larger plan?  

A much needed mental break came that weekend, while we celebrated the Sabbath and my birthday. I had joked for a few weeks beforehand that instead of cake they’d get me a small ration of bread. Both Friday night and Saturday were filled with powerful singing and biblical learning in Krakow. We visited various gorgeous synagogues that by some miracle survived the war. It was the strangest, yet the best birthday I’ve ever had. And it helped me prepare for the next day when we cautiously walked into Auschwitz-Birkenau.

Auschwitz-Birkenau was both an extermination camp and a concentration camp, meaning it not only had gas chambers but also many residents who did harsh labor every day. There was a sign at the entrance in German that stated, “Arbeit Macht Frei,” which means work will set you free. Many people entered the camp with hope. Many people were immediately chosen to be gassed. Auschwitz-Birkenau is infamous for being the sole executor of nearly 1,000,000 out of the 6,000,000 Jewish deaths that occurred during the Holocaust and totaling to around 100,000 deaths of other minority groups. It is so difficult to understand the vastness of those numbers.

I felt apathetic during Auschwitz. I think I had been warned enough about how difficult it was going in that once I was there, so my walls were stronger than they should have been. The main thought I had about Auschwitz was how huge it was. We spent an entire day at the camp. Not because there was so much information to cover, simply because the camp was so massive it took all day to get through it. I could not see from one end to the other. Everything about Auschwitz was big. There is a museum in the camp that displays all of the leftover prisoner belongings. An entire room filled with shoes. An entire room filled with eyeglasses. An entire room filled with shaved hair. The Nazi’s kept it all. It is so difficult to understand the vastness of those numbers until you see the museum. All of those shoes belonged to victims. All of those eyeglasses belonged to victims. All of that hair belonged to victims. I understood all of this, but I didn’t feel. I just was.  

Walking out of Auschwitz that night, we all linked arms and sang traditional Jewish songs, united as one. No jokes were made on the bus home that night. No one needed the comic relief. The immense connection we had as we walked out, proudly singing, proudly proving we, the Jewish people, had survived, was enough to mend our heartbreak.  

We returned to Israel the next day and I don’t think I ever truly understood the importance of the state until that moment. I suppose the visual in my head of Israel’s purpose changed once I realized how many people viewed it as a beacon of safety and hope. Visiting Poland allowed me to approach the remainder of my year in Israel with a newfound love and appreciation for the State, and my Jewish identity. When a loved one dies you are supposed to grieve and accept and then move on. I feel like we all collectively did that over the course of the trip, whether with crying in the camps, telling jokes to soothe the pain or finally allowing ourselves to feel. We grieved, we accepted as much as we could, and we went back to Israel and partook in a nation moving on.

[sarajoymerkin]

Day Ssssssixxx (Biblical Analysis)

The story of Adam and Chava is a classic. We’ve all learned from a young age about the evil snake that tricked Chava into eating from the Tree of Knowledge and lost its limbs as a punishment. However, recent fossil records conflict with this story.  A University of Florida biologist, Martin J. Cohn, discovered that snakes have the Sonic Hedgehog Gene, a gene required for an animal to be able to grow limbs. Cohn hypothesized that snakes from 150 million years ago had arms and legs but around 100 million years ago the snakes began to evolve. While they still maintain the gene to have limbs, it is no longer activated in snakes today. How does this discovery align with God’s punishment in Gan Eden if the Torah tells us that the story occurred around 5777 years ago?

The theory of Theistic Evolution posits that the world was not created in 6 days, rather that it was created over a 14 billion year time period, each day being a section of that. The Torah itself does not go into detail about every single year since that would be too long and complicated, so instead it shares the important moments. The theory also supports the idea that God set evolution into motion with each creation.

Additionally, it is possible to claim that God created two types of humans. The Torah write about the creation of a man during the sixth day and then, a few posukim later, it details the creation of a man again. The first description could be a Homo Erectus - a pre-historic man, similar to animals, which is why it was created on the same day as the other animals. Millions of years later, the Homo Erectus could have evolved into a Homosapien, the type of man that we know today. Therefore it would now have the ability to speak and comprehend, and the desire for a woman companion. Similarly, the snake, which was created around the same time as the Homo Erectus, would have evolved over those millions of years.

The snake could have been created originally with arms, legs, and the Sonic Hedgehog Gene but the limbs could have evolved over the millions of years to a point of being almost nonexistent when it came time for the story in Gan Eden. The Torah never writes that the snake had limbs. The only reference towards that is in the snake’s punishment where it is cursed to travel on its stomach, eating dust and being continuously in conflict with humans. If the snake’s limbs were almost gone at this point, God could have removed them fully as a minimal piece of the punishment, but leaving the gene to make the punishment natural and based on the already occurring evolution since God doesn’t enjoy doing unnecessary miracles. The main part of the punishment is that the snake would be an enemy of humans from that point on, and the leg evolution was just a method of furthering that tension. That is why the snake evolved and lost its limbs but kept the gene for them after millions of years.

God truly does have a larger plan for the world and sets things into motion so far in advance that we can never be able to comprehend all of it. Adam and Chava were meant to sin and be thrown out of Gan Eden, just as snakes were meant to clash with humans. God didn’t want to do extraneous miracles so He began the snake’s evolution millions of years before the instance to allow the punishment to happen. It’s crazy to imagine that God could have created such a complex master plan for the world, but it is there and we have to believe that in our own personal lives, God causes events to happen for a larger purpose that we cannot begin to explain.

[sarajoymerkin]

Dried Fruit

I want to know

Who thought of

Dried fruit

And who

Who knew it would taste

Good

Who knew others would like it too

Raisins

Cranberries

Dates

Genius

Apricots are known to most

Only as a dried fruit

Which is of course

Ridiculous

All dried fruit is from

Fruit

Fruit ripened on the branch

Is as tempting as it can possibly be

So once that fruit drops or gets picked

Touched by the harshness of the earth where the snakes slither

Or picked by sinful humans

It begins its

Downfall

Yet dried fruit is not rotten

Add sugar

And the seemingly neglected

Sun baked

Original

Fruit is almost brand new

And can taste nearly as good

[sarajoymerkin]

The Vacuum Revolution

The Vacuum Revolution occurred in the summer of 2016. No one saw it coming. Not even the china plates who usually dished about the latest gossip. The revolt started in June, right after school let out, when the children were spending more time at home than ever before. After all, this was 2016 where kids preferred to stay inside on their devices than play in the summer sun. So homes grew dirtier, and the vacuums worked hard to keep them clean.

At first, the vacuum cleaner demand was considered a good thing; the vacuum purchase rate rose, employing many vacuums that until then had spent their time sleeping in cardboard boxes, hope to one day get a job. People raced to buy vacuums to clean the messes their kids were making. Some parents even went as far as teaching their children how to vacuum, but the children just did a lousy job and went right back to their devices.

There were rumors amongst the vacuum community of worked-to-death vacuums. Word traveled fast; soon vacuums from all over the world were gossiping. At first, the stories were about vacuums from cheap brands like Hoover and Bissell. One claimed a young boy forced a vacuum to clean up Legos, as if stepping on them wasn’t bad enough already, this vacuum had to swallow them. The rumors weren’t that impactful in the community. Many vacuums even believed the cheap vacuums had it coming. “It’s their fault they chose to be cheap and not protective,” one vacuum was heard saying. But soon talk of fancier vacuums succumbing to similar fates emerged. A Dyson vacuum from Cleveland, Ohio was said to have combusted one day out of nowhere. This news scared them. The 2016 vacenomic boom was suddenly a threat to all levels of the vacuum community.

So the vacuums did as any threatened group would. They planned a protest. Spearheaded by the most expensive vacuums, worldwide conference calls were held to plan. The revolt leader slyly spread the word to middle and lower priced vacuums that immediately got on board. The plan went as follows: on July 4th, 2016 vacuums globally would strike and refuse to work: not allowing their power buttons to be pushed and then not cleaning. Simultaneously, the leaders would issue their, “Declaration Of The Rights Of Vacuums” to the public. The document included the worked-to-death issue, along with complaints about the taste of dirt and the uncomfortable shock produced when plugged into an outlet. But until the revolution date, the vacuums were forbidden to speak of the revolt and simply act like nothing was wrong.

After days of tireless vacuuming, July fourth arrived.  By the time Americans woke up, news was spreading around the world about the epidemic of vacuums refusing to work.

“Vacuums are protesting due to being overworked this summer. When reached for comments we were told that they were ‘tired of being pushed around.’ More on this story, as it develops,” CNN News broadcasted at 7:32 am that morning.

“The vacuums are taking over. This could be the end of the world as we know it.” FOX News claimed at 10:18 am.

“The end of the world as we know it? Really FOX News? Trump winning the election may be the end of the world as we know it, but vacuums?” Trevor Noah critiqued on The Daily Show at 11 pm that night.

From that day, the revolt took off. The millennials stood behind the revolution since they found it rebellious and exciting: #VivaLaVacuum was the number one trend on Instagram and Twitter for two weeks, a marathon was held in London on July 13th to raise money for the cause, and Weird Al parodied We Are The World for the cause. The lyrics included, “We are the vacuums, we are the cleaners. We are the ones who have been overworked, so let’s stop functioning.” The Haitians were initially offended by this but got over it quickly due to how catchy the song was.

People began to sweep their carpets, fearing they had nowhere else to turn. Vacuums were thrown out onto the street, beaten and murdered. But the revolution proudly continued to protest knowing this was the way they would get fair treatment.

Not long after, the duster community approached the vacuums with the hope of forming an alliance. The vacuum elites were skeptical at first, unsure if the addition of another group would cause them to lose their popularity and power, but they eventually gave in. The slogan “Nobody Puts Dusters In A Corner” was adapted as the dusters also began to protest.

The Vacuum Federation of Labor, or the VFL, was formed after many other groups who wanted to take part in the protest approached the vacuum leaders. The mops were upset that their voices were being drowned out. They wanted to be heard for once. The oven mitts could no longer take the heat of their jobs.

The VFL continued to grow and continued to protest throughout the month of July. On July 26th, the outdoor appliances approached the VFL looking to join. They had formed a union of their own about a week before called the Outdoor Federation of Labor (OFL). It mainly consisted of leaf blowers (community wide asthma attacks were often occurrences), shovels (they didn’t dig the taste of dirt), and hoses (too often mistaken for snakes and were therefore beaten and abused). They quickly integrated into the VFL, which dissolved the OFL. The vacuums did this intentionally out of the fear that they would lose popularity if the OFL movement grew.

By August 1st the world was a mess. The most heavily relied upon supplies was now amidst a major protest and nobody knew how to stop it. World leaders gathered daily for meetings, until August 8th when a plan was finally made. “Lets just shut down all the factories creating any participants in the VFL,” Putin suggested on August 3rd. At first nobody truly considered Putin’s suggestion, rumor has it Obama rolled his eyes when Putin said it, but it soon became apparent that it was the only option. The next five days were spent planning. On August 9th the factories shut down.

The world plunged into a depression due both to the unemployment and the sadness the people felt over the disgusting state of the planet. The dirtiness brought out diseases and there were many casualties, both human and VFL members. Vacuums were stoned daily due to the people’s anger with the revolution. Soon both the VFL and world leaders realized the time had come to put an end to the revolution since it had gone too far. The two groups met secretly and plotted to end the revolution and revive the factories. The vacuum leaders encouraged their followers to ‘suck it up’ and start working again while the world leaders met with factory owners and pleaded with them to reopen. People were re-employed, factories started producing, and, most importantly, homes were cleaned.

The Vacuum Revolution officially ended on Monday, September 5th, 2016 as kids returned to school and homes no longer needed constant upkeeping. The VFL was promised a smaller workload in summers to come and in return they swore they wouldn’t protest again, excluding extreme conditions. Although the revolution didn’t change much, it remains an inspiration to all that hear of its story.

[sarajoymerkin]

A Modest Proposal for South Florida

The expansion of the I-95 express lane has taken a toll on South Florida. The lane originally ranged from Miami Beach to Ives Dairy Rd but recently the Florida Government has furthered the lane to Davie Blvd on the Northbound and SW 24th St on the Southbound. Where the environmentally supportive HOV (carpool) lane once stood, is now a line of bright orange poles that are far too neon for their own good. An eyesore if you will, that is quite distracting to most drivers. Not to mention the pins that are struck by swerving cars or the poor souls that don’t manage to merge out of the leftmost lane in time.

Furthermore, the express lane has produced significantly more traffic than there normally is on the highway. This is due to the loss of the HOV lane and the merging complications. The HOV lane provided a faster way for carpools to reach their destination since fewer cars were in the lane so it moved at a quicker pace than the others. The lane, therefore, motivated drivers to travel with carpools rather than each person separately, saving gas and diminishing the South Florida annual pollution rate by 1.7%. In the absence of the HOV lane, traffic has been heightened since there is no longer an incentive to carpool, increasing the number of cars on the highway and congesting the lanes. Additionally, the entrances and exits of the express lane force all the cars in the leftmost lane to change to a middle lane and the cars in middle or rightmost lanes to change towards the leftmost lane. Excessive simultaneous lane changing is notorious for causing traffic since all the lanes are forced to slow down to allow the cars to enter and leave.

After much irritation over this matter, I’ve developed a solution that will enable the highway to return to normalcy. I would like to propose the addition of a rollercoaster system that runs directly above the highway with stops at each exit.

The tracks would be supported around the highway boundaries and structures would be built by each exit to allow entrance to the ride. The rollercoaster carts will be comprised of ten rows of two seats in each row. It will include tightly sealable compartments on the sides of each cart to store personal belongings. The seats would fashion waterproof cushions to add comfort to the short ride and a covering would be provided for the rainy days that South Florida is often witness to.

The addition of the rollercoaster would, of course, entail the removal of the express lane as the rollercoaster would be doing the same job more efficiently. The price of entrance would cost the same as the express lane, with an advance ticketing system that charges at each checkpoint that the lane once had. Modeled after the London Underground system, the RollerCard would be swiped at the entrance and exit where the machine would calculate how many checkpoints were passed along the trip and charge the card accordingly. At the exits, there will be Government mandated car services, ready to take the passenger anywhere, which would cost 40% less than the average taxi or Uber, plus tips. The use of these services should not be considered an expense for citizens since the price of the rollercoaster and the ride will be cheaper than the money they would be spending on gas.

I have already taken the authority of meeting with Werner Stengel, a world-renowned rollercoaster architect that has designed 500 rollercoasters, most recently the Maverick at Cedar Point Park in Ohio. Stengel claimed that the project would be quite easy to execute and despite his semi-retirement, he would be glad to sit down and sketch out a design. Moreover, in a poll taken in Miami-Dade, Broward, and Palm Beach county 3/5 of the citizens are irritated with the express lanes and 7/9 of those citizens said they would take the rollercoaster if it were an option.  

However, when I have suggested the proposal, there are three main claims of opposition that have arisen: the Turnpike’s existence, the expense of building and running the rollercoaster, and the motion sickness or fear that some citizens may have.

In relation to the issue of the Turnpike, people feel that since it is in existence it can be used as a replacement for the highway in the case of too much traffic. But, the Turnpike costs 0.53c per toll or 0.26c per toll and a $2.50 monthly fee, if you are signed up for a SunPass. This expense is on top of the price of maintaining a car and paying for its gas. While the Turnpike may be faster, the highway is free and the cost of the rollercoaster would remove the price of gas from the equation and cost less annually than taking the Turnpike every day to avoid the traffic that the express lane has produced.

As for the cost of building and running the rollercoaster, it is a highly worthy expense. The construction of the tracks would create numerous jobs, as would running it and providing a car service. The unemployment rate in Florida in currently 4.9% and the addition of this rollercoaster into our state would lower the rate. So, while it may be costly to build initially, the money invested by the State and its taxpayers will be returned to them via the stimulation of jobs, which would lead to greater consumerism amongst the people.

Finally, the complaint of motion sickness and fear of rollercoasters should not be considered an issue at all. With the removal of the express lane, the HOV lane will be reinstated so that there will be minimal traffic on the highway since there will now be the carpool lane and surely fewer people will be driving due to the benefits of riding the rollercoaster instead.  Those who cannot ride will simply resume taking the highway as they did before, now with less traffic than ever. But for those who are opposed to the idea out of fear, I must tell you that there were 52 deaths due to rollercoasters from 1990-2004, only 14 per year, while in only 2013 there were 47 deaths by shark attack. So while there is no guarantee that you won't die riding the rollercoaster, you are much more likely to get killed by a shark.

As someone who has struggled due to the excessive highway traffic causing me to be late too many times, I am simply trying to help others who are in the same dreadful situation as I am. I hope that the citizens of South Florida can work together to push this proposal into action. The rollercoaster will help traffic, the economy, and the unemployment rate, but, most importantly, it’ll be fun.