Warren Adler 2008 Short Story Contest Finalists

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"Ms. Lefkowitz, know about the Jew who married a Catholic?"

"No, Sam, but I'm sure you'll tell us, and you'll explain what it has to do with our Torah lesson. What about the Jew who married a Catholic?"

"They both go to Confession, but they bring a lawyer."

Ms. Lefkowitz didn't laugh. No one in my religious school class laughed.

Rabbi Stein didn't laugh, but I know he wanted to.

"Sam, Sam," Rabbi said, shaking his head as he ushered me into his office. "Three times this month you've been sent to me. I know your father would be disappointed in you if I had to tell him."

"Don't worry, Rabbi. My father is disappointed in me no matter what I do or don't do."
I tried to read Rabbi's face for any sign of disagreement, but his face kept quiet. That told me that he understood.

"What do I do with you and your jokes?" he asked.

I shrugged, wiggled my eyebrows, and flicked imaginary cigar ashes on Rabbi's desk. "Talk to my agent?"

Rabbi sat back in his chair, arms behind his head. He waited. And waited. Tough audience.

"I love your sense of humor," he said, finally. "But your timing needs work. Impersonating Elvis at your Bar Mitzvah? Offering Cantor Levine a ham sandwich on Yom Kippur? Look, you're 15, old enough and smart enough to know that jokes can hurt, as well as entertain. You're right at the line."

I shook my head. "C'mon. Everyone at my Bar Mitzvah laughed. Cantor Levine laughed. If someone gets offended by some stupid little joke, isn't that their problem?"

Rabbi looked over his glasses at me. I took a sudden interest in the photographs on the wall.

"Why can't you be like other boys?" Rabbi said, leaning back again. "Play baseball, break windows, get into fights."

"Look at me," I answered. "Five-four, 160 pounds. I don't fight; I roll away. And I don't play sports. I tried out for baseball, but they wanted me for second base."

"So?"

"They wanted me to be second base."

Rabbi laughed.

"I'm nobody," I said. "I wanna be somebody nobody forgets, and funny is my best shot."

Rabbi stood up, walked behind his chair, and waited. Rabbi likes to wait. Then he told me he was organizing a fundraiser next month at the Jewish Community Center: An Evening in Vegas.

"You want a stand-up comedy spot? Behave yourself between now and then, and it's yours. Mess up, and you hand out programs. Deal?"

Deal. My first performance before a crowd of 500 real people - 500 grownups.

"I can see your name in lights," Rabbi said, sweeping his hand across the air. "'Sam Silverman, Prince of Comedy.' "

I shook my head.

"'Sammy Spumoni, the Italian Matzoh Ball.'"

"You lost me."

"Think about it," I said. "Jew plays Italian, telling Jewish jokes. It's all about marketing."

Rabbi scratched his head.

"Fine, but remember: It's all about no jokes until then."

No jokes was like no food fantasies during Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement and Fasting. (Ask Cantor Levine). But I did it. Each time my brain express-mailed a joke to my mouth, I thought about "Sammy Spumoni" and returned the package, unopened.

Armed with 100 jokes on index cards, I tried them out on myself, in front of my bedroom mirror. I laughed. Then I tried a few on my sister, Sarah. She didn't laugh. Good sign. Sarah is 17 and has never laughed.

My brother Ira - Sarah's twin - doesn't count. He laughs out of context. He lives out of context.

"Bro, no jokes on me, right?" asked Ira, Mr. Black Socks and Sandals.

"Bro, why would I embarrass my favorite male sibling?"

"How much will it cost me? Ten bucks?"

"Bribery? I am truly offended."

"Bribery is such an ugly word, Sam. I'm investing in your professional development."

I asked Ira for $50 for my professional development.

"That's nuts. I'll do your math homework for two weeks."

While Ira was working on my homework, l took my savings to a vintage store and got the perfect uniform: red flair pants; white belt; wide-collared, metallic blue shirt; red-and-white plaid sports jacket; white shoes.

The night of the benefit, I walked downstairs - hair greased, looking like I was opening for Sinatra, circa 1967. Mom, Sarah, and Ira were waiting. Dad was out of town on a business trip. Dad's always out of town, even when he's in town.

"Are you booked at a shelter for homeless comedians?" Sarah asked, snorting.

"Sarah," I said, slapping my hands together and pointing a finger at her. "You are so ugly, when you were born, the doctor slapped Mom." Sarah didn't laugh.

"Ira, how many Jewish mothers does it take to change a light bulb?" I asked, adjusting my cuff links.

"What's the voltage?" Ira answered.

When we arrived at the community center, Rabbi Stein was waiting outside. In his black suit, he looked like he was opening for the Rosenberg funeral, circa 1997.

"Kid," he said, adjusting my lapels, "you're up first."

"Kid," I said, dinner sliding up my throat, "I told a joke in religious school last Sunday. Game's over."

Rabbi patted my cheek.

"You'll be great," he said. "Start with a song: 'You must remember this, a bris is still a bris, a moyl is still a moyl.'"

Rabbi did a little tap dance, ending with one foot forward, hands out, palms up. Mom chuckled. I stared.

"Bris," Rabbi said. "Circumcision. Moyls. They do the snipping."

I forced a laugh. "How about I introduce you?"

Rabbi forced a laugh: "Go out there and knock 'em dead."

That gave me an idea: I could spontaneously die: "Promising young comedian drops dead before first performance. Audience stunned."

After a bathroom stop, I stood backstage during boring announcements. After another bathroom stop, I waited while Rabbi Stein told boring jokes. I felt better.

Finally, he introduced me, sort of: "Give it up for Mr. Sonny Tortellini, direct from the Walt Whitman High School cafeteria." Everyone laughed as I forced myself to trot to the microphone, waving along the way. My bladder felt full again; my brain felt empty.

I stood at attention for a second. Then my routine kicked in.

"Thanks, Rabbi," I said. "What a guy. Every time Rabbi sees me, he yells, 'Yo!' I'm thinking friendly, right? Then I find out he's dyslexic."

A moment of silence, then a few laughs.

"Let me tell you, folks, it's been a rough week. I went shopping in the mall with my mom and dad a few days ago, and we got separated. I told a security guard, and we looked for hours. Finally I asked the guard, 'You think we'll ever find them?'"

"'I don't know,' he said. 'There are so many places they can hide.'"

Silence. Then somebody in the back laughed. Then a few more. Momentum was building to a trickle.

"Next day, I got kidnapped, and let me tell you, getting kidnapped is no picnic."

Pause.

"Ask me what happened."

A backseater yelled, "What happened?"

"Glad you asked. To prove they really had me, the kidnappers sent a tip of my finger to my father."

Pause.

"Dad wrote back that he wanted more proof."

The laughs came, slow at first, but they built up steam, like a wave at a football game.

"But seriously," I said, when the laughter had almost stopped. "I've got a great family. Take my mother . . . please. You know, I was scared about performing tonight, but I knew I could count on Mom. See, I had a big test last week, and I was so nervous, I got diarrhea. So I called home. Know what Mom did? She put me on hold."

More laughter. I was on a roll.

"My mom, typical Jewish mother. She was assigned to jury duty last month, but they sent her home. She insisted she was guilty."

Laughs. I took a fat cigar out of my pocket and waved it around. More laughs.

"Seriously, folks, I love my mother. See this tie? Mom gave it to me. Actually, she gave me two ties. I come downstairs tonight, wearing this one. Know what she says? 'What's the matter, Sammy? You don't like the other one?'"

The crowd was howling. I was feeling 5-foot-7.

I continued. "Confession: I made up the tie story. I haven't talked to my mother in three weeks."

Pause. "I didn't want to interrupt her."

One more mother joke.

"How many Jewish mothers does it take to screw in a light bulb?"

I mimicked my mother: "'Don't worry about me; I'll sit in the dark.'"

They laughed. Oh, hell, one more.

"My mother is pretty strict. Ask me how strict my mother is."

Ira screamed, "How strict is Mom?"

Everyone laughed.

"Glad you asked, Ira. Mom told me I can't play with Grandpa anymore."

Pause. No laughs.

"He's dead."

Pause. Still no laughs.

"I ignored Mom and slipped his ashes into my Etch-A-Sketch."

A few weak chuckles. No more dead jokes.

"My sister's here, too," I said. "I wouldn't say she's spoiled, but when she was a baby, she was breast-fed by a caterer."

Laughs. And a few groans. Groans are good, the book says.

"I'm sorry, but my sister was an ugly child. When she played in the sandbox, the cat would cover her up."

More groans. I pointed to my brother.

"Don't laugh, Ira. You're so ugly, Mom had morning sickness . . . after you were born."

I couldn't stop. "Ira's so ugly, he worked in a pet shop and people kept asking how big he'd get.

"A girl called Ira the other day and said, 'Come on over; nobody's home.' Ira went over, and nobody was home."

Time to ease out of my family.

"Ira said he'd do my math homework for two weeks if I left him out of my jokes."

I paused. "Anyone good in math out there?"

I squinted and held my hand above my eyes, like I was looking out to sea. Then I thrust out my finger again.

"There's Dr. Cohen," I said, pointing to the front row. "My Aunt Rose took Uncle Sol to see him a few weeks ago. 'What's wrong?' Dr. Cohen asks. 'My Solly is sick,' Aunt Rose says. Dr. Cohen examines Uncle Sol. 'He's not sick,' Dr. Cohen says. 'He thinks he's sick.' A week later, Aunt Rose runs into Dr. Cohen at the mall. 'How's Sol?' Dr. Cohen asks. My aunt answers, 'He thinks he's dead.'"

Next was Morton Schwartz, men's club president, sitting next to Dr. Cohen.

"Hey, Mr. Schwartz, what's with your hair? It looks like a toupee."

"It is a toupee," Mr. Schwartz yelled back, laughing.

"Really? You could never tell."

I caught a few people wiggling in their seats, and someone in the back row stood up.

My brain suddenly went dead. No jokes.

I stood, frozen.

"Impersonating a statue?" Dr. Cohen yelled.

Panic - and sweat - crawled up and down my back. Be a shark, the book says. Keep moving or you die.

I looked to Rabbi, standing just offstage. He hurried me along with his hands.

Still nothing. I wanted to punch my head, just to get something out.

"SURPRISE QUIZ!!!" I heard myself yell. "First question: Why did Hitler commit suicide?"

Silence.

"He got his gas bill."

Gasps. I actually heard gasps.

"What's the difference between a loaf of bread and a Jew?"

A thousand eyes stared at me, a thousand darts. But I had to finish. So I mumbled the punch line, hoping no one would hear.

"A loaf of bread doesn't scream when you put it in the oven."

Silence. More silence. Then a few people stood up, then a few more. Within seconds, the entire audience was moving through the exit doors, looking back and glaring as they left.

I stood, alone, on stage. Alone and stupid. Alone and stupid and scared. Then Rabbi was standing next to me.

"You got your wish, Sam" he said, breathing heavily. "You're now somebody nobody will forget." His face was red; beads of sweat were dropping like bombs off his forehead.

"What happens now?" I asked. "Do I get excommunicated or something?"

Rabbi almost laughed, and he almost looked me in the eye.

"I think that's for Catholics," he said. "But they may make an exception for you."

I tried to smile. '"Pope excommunicates Jew for bad jokes.' So what do I do?"

Rabbi finally looked at me.

"That's your problem," he said. "While you're figuring it out, I'd better work on my problem: damage control." And he was gone.

Still standing in the middle of the stage, I slipped my shaking hands into my pants pockets and pulled out my index cards, but they dropped to the floor. As I bent down to pick them up, I spotted something dripping in front of me. I knew I'd been sweating, but I suddenly realized I was crying, too, and my nose was running.

"Need a Kleenex?"

I looked up. An elderly man, maybe in his late 80s, stood with a tissue in his hand. I took it and wiped my nose.

"Thanks," I said, thinking that would probably be the nicest thing anyone would ever do for me, ever again.

The man stood there, a gentle smile on his face. With his thin white hair, wispy goatee, and three-piece tweedy suit, he looked like a retired poet or scientist.

"I'm Ben Ratner," he said, extending his hand.

I rolled the name around in my head; then I remembered.

"Buchenwald, class of 1945," he said, with no expression.

"Please don't hurt me," I said, immediately realizing how stupid that must have sounded.

"I think you're hurt enough already," he said, softly, as he handed me another tissue. I trumpeted my nose.

"Hey," he said, with a little giggle in his voice. "Heard the one about the kid who told Holocaust jokes to a Holocaust survivor?"

"The survivor asked the kid why, and the kid said. . ." He gestured for me to finish the sentence.

I stared. He stared.

"I read the jokes in an article about Holocaust humor as therapy for survivors," I said, finally. "I figured it was okay for a Jew to use them with a Jewish audience."

I paused.

"That's not true," I said. "I told the jokes because I'm a jerk, and because I was scared."

"Scared?"

"I wanted so bad to make everyone laugh, so I panicked and made everyone mad. I'm sorry."

He looked straight into my eyes. "Why?" he asked.

"Why? Didn't those jokes hurt you?"

He looked down.

"Your other jokes were funny," he said.

I suddenly felt even more shame and guilt. I started crying again.

Mr. Ratner looked at me with his piercing blue eyes. He smiled. "There's been enough suffering," he whispered.

Then his eyes turned misty, as he wrapped me gently in his arms.