The Menorah

As a white girl from Orange County whose first exposure to "japs" was in the 80s in Queens, New York when my friend warned me about what I thought were her asian friends, only to learn that they were white girls with big hair, long fingernails and thick accents-- I've had quite the interesting time getting exposed to the Jewish culture. Random Chabbad dinners, gifts of matzo, basically everyone I've met in Hollywood who isn't gay and well, things like this... While surreal in some parts (a criticism which I have yet to rectify), the menorah part was true. And the blow-up bottle. And that's why my friends have always told me I have to be a writer. Because "this shit doesn't happen to anyone else."




THE MENORAH



Alan showed up for their second date with a menorah in hand. For some reason, it bothered Melissa more than the guy who showed up for their date with a party-sized bottle of vodka and a camcorder. Even though it seemed both of them were expecting more from the date than she was. Maybe it was because everyone agreed the camcorder guy was creepy. But the menorah, well some people, like her friend, Chloe, thought it was cute. And sweet. And that confused Melissa. It made her worry she was jaded. That she wasn’t giving guys a chance. And because she had been making so many mistakes in other areas of her life lately, she second-guessed herself and thought maybe her friends were right. After all they were the ones in relationships. And Melissa, well she wasn’t. And she really wanted to be. She wanted a lot of things in her life she wasn’t getting lately. Like a real job.

Melissa had met Alan while she was doing holiday wine promotions at a warehouse club store- one of those places where everything is family-sized so either you have to have a family, a lot of friends, or you end up throwing a lot of stuff out. Melissa got a membership there even though she couldn't afford it only because it seemed silly to leave one store after work just to go to another and buy things. Besides, she thought, it was always better to have too much of something than not enough.

Alan, it seemed, felt the same way. He was single but he shopped at the club store because he collected wine. He didn’t really drink it. But he knew a lot about it. Like a lot of the other guys who came into the department. They knew what the “Wine Spectator” said, they lived by the “Wine Enthusiast” and they dreamed of drinking Robert Parker’s number one picks. Melissa only used that kind of information to sell people on her brands. She herself drank wine that cost $6.99 because it made the lonely feeling go away.

The day Melissa met Alan, he talked to her for an hour while his blonde-haired, blank-faced friend stood idly by. The second time Melissa saw Alan, he circled the wine department four times, then selected one of her wines and asked her out. Even though he wasn’t really her type, she needed the sale. Besides, the extra large portions in her refrigerator were starting to mock her and she was getting kind of tired of drinking alone. So she said “yes.” At first Alan wanted to take her to lunch. But Melissa didn’t like lunch and she didn’t like lunch dates. It was her nights she needed to fill. So she made up a lame excuse about quitting Diet Coke and getting bad headaches midway through the day and having mood swings and needing to be alone when they happened and Alan believed her and the date turned into dinner.

Alan showed up for their date dressed for lunch. He was wearing khakis and a light blue, short-sleeved polo shirt. Melissa didn't care whether it was an authentic polo shirt or not, she just wanted it to be one that buttoned all the way down. One with sleeves that went all the way down. She didn't understand how a man who would spend eighty dollars on a bottle of wine couldn’t be bothered to spend that much on a shirt. And not see that it mattered. He did work in finance after all. And he knew enough to buy a condo. How could that be easier than buying a shirt?

As the waiter recited the specials, Alan handed him a bottle of wine from his personal collection. Since everyone else was sharing, Melissa felt inclined to do the same. She took pride in the dysfunctional family stuff that she pulled out to shock Republicans from good families. She regaled him with tales of a father who tried to run her mother over when he left them, a childhood spent on food stamps and a stereotypically evil stepmother. And it seemed to be doing its job. Only maybe too well.

“You’re one of the most interesting people I’ve ever met,” he said.
“You really need to get out more,” Melissa said.
And although it sounded like she was joking, she was actually quite serious.

“It’s too much responsibility,” Melissa said to her friend, Chloe, who came over the night after the date.
“To be interesting?”
“Yes.”
Chloe didn’t get it.
“I told him the book I read. He went out and bought it. I told him the movies I just watched. He signed up for some online DVD club that overnighted them to his house.”
“That’s sweet,” Chloe said.
“It is?”
And here Melissa thought it was strange.
“He likes you,” Chloe continued.
"I know. It's weird," Melissa said. Because she had no idea why. She felt like she was a car accident and that he had slowed down to see how she happened. That she was there to entertain him or something.
"James does things for me all the time," Chloe said.
"Yeah, but it's not like Alan is really doing anything for me," Melissa said. "And besides, you’re married."
"So? We didn't start out that way. We had to get to know each other first. Did you kiss him?"
"No."
"Poor guy," Chloe said, "All that work for nothing."
"Well, not for nothing," Melissa said, hugging her cat, Fido, "It was just a date."

Chloe's cell phone rang then. And when Chloe hung up, she said she had to go. James was on his way home to discuss their holiday plans. It was only eight o'clock. That was four more hours until Melissa went to bed. What was Melissa supposed to do until then? She'd already checked her email. Already searched for jobs on the internet. There was nothing on TV. She'd read all her magazines. And she didn't feel cheerful enough to send Christmas cards. Melissa drank what was left in her wine glass, then in Chloe's. It was still three and half hours till morning. Melissa just wanted it to be morning.

The next afternoon, Melissa agreed to go out with Alan again. Just in case. Who knows, she told herself, maybe he’d mention a movie she’d want to see. Maybe she'd leave a friend alone one night because she'd want to see him. Maybe she'd actually have someone to spend New Year's with. Anything was possible.


The day of her second date with Alan, Melissa was sent to work at a club store about forty-five minutes from her house. Along with her usual wine bucket, wine glasses and literature display-- which she arranged carefully on a white tablecloth over a TV tray, she was required to bring a six foot blow-up bottle of wine. The directions said to blow it up with either a bicycle pump or your mouth. But Melissa couldn’t bear to have that be the first thing her lips touched in six months. So she drove to the service station across the street to fill the bottle up.

As Melissa struggled to attach the hose to the bottle’s opening, her mechanic, Armand, rolled out from underneath the car he was working on to come to her rescue.
"What's this?" he asked Melissa.
"My life," she answered. Something that also needed inflating, that had no shape.
“How did this happen?” Armand asked, as the bottle popped to attention. All six feet of it.
“I don’t know,” she said. Because she really didn’t.
"You need an oil change, you know," he said.
"I need lots of things," Melissa said.
Then he pointed to the broken antenna on her car.
“I could fix it for a bottle of vodka," giving her a wink, “Come by later this week.” Armand handed her the fully inflated bottle. “We’ll drink vodka and then I’ll take you to lunch.”
“Sure," Melissa said, realizing that now she’d have to find another mechanic. And wondering what it was about her and guys and lunch.

Melissa was late to the warehouse store because she couldn’t see around the bottle, so she had to drive slowly. Every so often she'd try to punch the bottle down out of the way, but it would bounce right back in her face like one of those inflatable clown toys she had when she was a kid. She always hated that toy. Curious drivers ogled her at stoplights and angry ones laid on their horns when she cut them off because the bottle blocked her view so she couldn't see whether she had room to get over or not. To make matters worse, her radio was stuck on one station at one volume and it wouldn't turn off. All it played was Christmas music, loud Christmas music. It was giving Melissa a headache.

Holiday shoppers crowded the parking lot, so Melissa had to park across the street and had to make two trips to her car to get her things. Exhausted and sweaty by the end, she slowly dragged the gigantic bottle past Christmas trees and holiday fruit baskets to her station in the wine department, smiling through gritted teeth as too many too interested people felt compelled to pat it in wonder. One man took a picture of the bottle and got upset when she wouldn't pose alongside. A couple of children begged their parents for their own wine bottle that big for Christmas. And when she went to the bathroom, two cocky teenagers tried to steal it. All of this for thirteen dollars an hour, Melissa thought as she chased them down by the wrapping paper and ornaments.

"Come on, what are you going to do with it?" one of them asked her. The one wearing sunglasses. Inside.
She didn't say a word, just yanked it from his grasp and went back to her station.
"What happened to your spirit of giving?" the other called after her.

I don't have one, Melissa almost yelled at them, but instead consoled herself with the knowledge that she had a place to go that night, had someone to go with, and- when she was kept at work because she had to help a touchy-feely couple pick out four cases of wine for their engagement party- someone to call and say she was going to be late. And when she hung up with Alan, she saw that she liked it. It was as if she had more going on in her life than her shitty job. Even though she didn’t really.

That night, Alan arrived early. Melissa heard the knock when she turned off her blow dryer. And she couldn't believe it. So she turned her blow dryer on again, then off and waited a minute, just to make sure. But there it was again. A knock. It was as if her phone call had never happened. Like what she wanted, what she needed, didn’t even matter. Didn't Alan realize that he was cutting into her girl time, her get ready time? The only time Melissa ever got to spend in preparation to go somewhere special? Apparently not. And it bothered her. Whether Alan was the one taking her there or not. Melissa informed him of the fact in no uncertain terms.

“What time is it?” she asked when he called from his cell phone outside her front door.
“5:45.”
Melissa stood inside, in front of the door, but refused to open it.
“What time were you supposed to pick me up?”
“6:15.”
“Exactly. That half an hour means a lot to a girl.”
Melissa hung up then, without waiting for a response. She opened the door to an enormous bouquet of flowers.
“These are for you,” Alan said, giving them to her.
He was wearing a suit this time and at his feet was a menorah. But Melissa wasn’t Jewish.
“I picked them out myself, ” he said.
At a loss, Melissa left Alan and the menorah at the door, put the flowers in some water, then went to the bathroom to finish getting ready.

Melissa refused to rush. And she resented that Alan's flowers made her feel like she should. Like she was a bad person for not wanting to. And like she should act like showing up with a menorah was typical second date behavior. Not to mention, driving around all day to find one. Which Alan told her he did exactly half an hour later when she finished getting ready and took a seat next to him on the couch. He had been sitting there doing nothing but waiting for her the entire time.

"Bo-ruch A-toh Ado-noi E-lo-hei-nu Me-lech Ho-olom A-sher-"
Without a word of explanation, Alan started to recite what Melissa assumed was a prayer in Hebrew as he lit the candles on the menorah. Her cat slinked over curiously but when Alan paused to pet her, Fido hissed and ran from the room. The last time Melissa's cat had reacted like that was when a Jehovah's Witness had tried to pick her up.

"Ki-de-sho-nu Be-mitz-vo-sov Ve-tzi-vo-niu Le-had-lik Ner Cha-nu-kah," Alan continued, lighting a blue candle, then a white.

Melissa wanted to know what it all meant. The Hebrew. Lighting the candles. Their colors. But for some reason, she was afraid to ask. What it really meant to him. To light these candles. And to light them with her. She was sure it meant too much.
"Shouldn't we get going?" she said instead, once he had finished.
"Yeah."
Then he looked at her with concern, indicated the candles, "We're supposed to leave them lit."
"Oh."
Melissa looked around at her antiques. The pie cabinet, Chinese armoire, down stuffed French campaign chairs. All things she had bought in better days. She pictured them going up in smoke.
"Well, we could always put the menorah in the bathtub," she suggested.
"No, that's okay. I'm sure it's alright if we just blow the candles out."
Melissa didn't know why, but she felt kind of bad. As the last candle extinguished, Alan picked the menorah up. Melissa half expected him to wave it at her like some magic wand that would turn her into the nice Jewish girl he wanted her to be. But instead, he placed it on her mantle. Like it belonged there. At that moment, Melissa decided that no matter what, she was going to get a tree this year for Christmas.

Melissa's primping and Alan's ritual made them late to the play. Melissa discovered once they got there that it was being performed by a deaf theatre company. A musical about slavery, the entire thing was done with the aid of sign language. So you really had to pay attention. Everything about this date is work, Melissa thought. Knowing full well she was being insensitive. But she was still confused about Alan's behavior, still confused about the menorah. Did that really make her a bad person?
Then Alan pulled her hand into his lap.
“Is this okay?” he asked.
“Sure,” she finally managed, not wanting to be disrespectful to the deaf by saying more than was necessary.
But the truth is, it wasn’t okay with Melissa. Not really. Melissa didn’t want Alan holding her hand. She wanted him to give it back. It killed Melissa when she thought about all the other guys in her life she had wanted to take her hand who never did-- Jeff, Jonathan, Andrew. Why did it always seem to work that way? What was she doing wrong?

“Should I come up?” Alan asked when they got to her house.
“You’re parked in the red zone, ” Melissa warned him, then in a further attempt to dissuade him, "and they give tickets to people like you."
“I could drive around the block and try to find a space,” he said brightly.
“You know you’ll never find one,” she said, “not in this neighborhood.”
And for once, she was thankful.
"Yeah. I guess you're right," his face falling, then perking up again, "Do you want to come over for breakfast tomorrow morning?”
Melissa hated breakfast even more than lunch.
“I can’t. I have to work,” she said.
“I had a great time with you,” he said, leaning in.
“I had a great time with you,” Melissa said leaning out, then stepping out of the car.
“Call me when you get in,” he called after her, “so I know you’re okay.”
“No,” she said. And she didn’t. Instead, she pulled the blue and white candles off the menorah, put it away in a cupboard, let some air out of the inflatable wine bottle and went to sleep clutching it beside her.

Melissa didn't have to do much to forget about Alan. After all, when it’s not there, it’s not there. But it seemed like that wasn’t the case where he was concerned, because Alan left three messages for Melissa that week. On his fourth call, he got her. He was home sick. She felt sorry for him, but she still didn’t want to talk to him. She told him she was running out the door, trying to get things done-- do errands, buy Christmas presents.
“I wish I could see you,” he said.
“Well, you can't,” Melissa said quickly, “you’re sick.”
“I wish I could spend everyday with you,” he said.
“Well, you can't, because I have to pay my bills. I have to work."
"I wish I could support you," he said then.
"Me, too," Melissa said. Because she wished someone could. She was tired of doing it all by herself.
"I miss you."
"That's sweet," Melissa conceded, then hung up. She didn't know what else to say. And it was hard to be that mean to him when he wasn’t feeling well.

“You’re leading him on, you know,” Chloe warned her, after Melissa told her about the phone call. The two of them were buying Christmas trees. Chloe's was a hundred and sixty-nine dollars, not including delivery. Melissa still hadn't found one she could afford.
"You should have just told him you’re not interested.”
“I couldn’t,” Melissa said, “He had the flu.”
"Well, he's going to get better sometime."
"Maybe he won't," Melissa said.
"That's a terrible thing to say."
"Well I'm a terrible person."

Despite her vow, Melissa left without a tree. So when she got home, she plucked the blow up bottle from her bed and set it up in the living room. Sure, it was man-size but it was also tree-size, so she figured it would do. She used double-sided tape and stuck the ornaments to the plastic. Grinning Santas, stunned snowmen and perfect angels made the bottle festive. When her cat, Fido, tried to massacre a reindeer or two, Melissa had no choice but to cut her nails. At least one of them could get a manicure, Melissa figured. And besides, it was all in the name of Christmas. The star on the top, the lights strung, Melissa plugged it in. The Chipmunks had barely jingled their bells before she smelled burning plastic. Not the tree she signed on for, Melissa pulled the plug, turned the fan on, then went to bed.


After a particularly bad day at work, Melissa climbed the stairs to her apartment. She had to make a change. A man had kicked her display and broken her only set of wine glasses, after calling her a “dumb bitch." He said she was blocking the aisle. Even though she wasn’t. There was plenty of room. Now she’d have to drink her wine from a regular glass. And that’s precisely what she planned to do. But when she opened up the door to her apartment, she saw that everything was gone. Everything. Everything but the six foot wine bottle. Every single solitary thing she owned, it was gone. Melissa didn’t know what to do. She blinked, walked out the door and entered again. But still, there was nothing else there. She had paid her rent. Barely. But it was paid. She knew it was. Wasn't it? Suddenly panicking, she ran inside and raced from room to room. Her footsteps echoed loudly in the emptiness. And where was her cat? Where was Fido? She wanted to scream, but she couldn't even breathe. She reached for her cell phone. She had to call for help. Someone had to help. Before she could start dialing, it started to ring.

“Hello?” she answered.
“It’s Alan.”
It took Melissa a minute to process who he was.
“Oh. I've got to go. I have an emergency.”
“What is it? Can I help?” he asked.
“No. I don’t think-- No. I’ve got to go and call the police or I don't know-- something.”

An hour later, Melissa was still waiting for the police to arrive. She sat Indian-style on the hardwood floor. Trying to remain calm. There were no appliances. And no wine. Just her. And the bottle. With its cheerful snowmen and Santas, she couldn't even bear to look at it.

Hearing footsteps, Melissa jumped up. But it wasn’t the police, like she had expected, it was Alan. And Melissa was not in the frame of mind to deal with him.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded.
“I was worried.”
“Oh."
“So. You’re okay? I mean, you seem okay.”
Melissa blinked. Wondering how two people could see things so differently.
“No, I’m not okay. Are you blind or something?”
“No.”
From his face, she could see that he still didn't understand. She gestured around then. Gave him a minute to notice that there was nothing in the apartment. Nothing except for them.
“My stuff, “ she said finally, “It’s all gone. Everything. I. Own. Is. Gone.”
“It is? Great. They did a good job, didn’t they? I didn’t think they’d get it all out so quickly, but they did.”
She stared at him. She didn’t know what else to do. Then finally, she took a step towards him, “Who?”
“The movers.”
“Movers? What movers?”
At that moment, she wanted to kill him. She was trying to keep it together, but it didn’t seem to be working. She felt herself lunge for him. But she only got a small shove in before he took a step back.
“Well, I would’ve done it myself," he said, not missing a beat, "but you have a lot of things so I just paid this company to pack everything up and move it. They double wrap everything. So nothing gets ruined. They came highly recommended.”
“Oh, my God," she said, "How could you? Are you insane? You are, aren't you?"
She realized she was screaming when she heard herself echo.
"Your landlord, Dorothy. She gave me the key."
"Why would she-- Why would you-?" Melissa stopped when she saw Alan didn't seem to notice her anger, her fear. She didn't know what to do with that.
"She's happy for us."
"Us? There is no us!" Melissa couldn't help but yell louder. "And what about my cat? Where’s my cat?”
“Actually Melissa, I have to talk to you about that. Now don't get upset.”
Melissa felt like she was going to be sick. She dropped back down to the floor. Prepared herself for the worst. He was crazy. She didn't know how to talk to him because he was crazy. Finally, she found her voice.
“Why? What’s wrong with her? What's wrong with my cat?"
“Well, it’s just...I’m allergic.”
Melissa stood up then. She couldn't take it anymore.
“So?”
“Well, it’s just she can’t stay at my place.”
“I don’t want her to stay at your place. I want her to stay at my place.”
“Well, I was hoping it would be our place.”
“Our place? There is no way in hell it would ever be our place!”
“Well what’s yours is mine and what’s mine is yours right?”
“No. What’s mine is mine.”
“Well I only have a one bedroom so it’s kind of all ours. Otherwise it doesn’t really work.”
Melissa was starting to see nothing she said worked. He was beyond reason.
“Okay, I’m going to try and understand what you’re saying,” Melissa tried, lowering her voice, slowing it, “For some reason, it seems my stuff is at your place. Only I have no idea what it’s doing there.”
“I thought that’s what you wanted," Alan said.
“And why would you think that?”
“Because you said so.”
“I did?"
“Uh huh.”
“When?”
Melissa knew she had missed a lot but she wasn’t willing to admit she’d missed that much.
“Sunday when I called. I said I wished I could support you. And you said, ‘Me, too.’ Or wait was it Saturday? I think it was Saturday... No, Sunday. Well anyway, now I can because I got a raise."
“Oh, really? You did? You got a raise?" Melissa spat at him.
"Yeah."
"Well, who cares, Alan? Who cares? I was just being nice!”
As the words echoed through the room, the sun went down. Melissa went to the wall to turn on the light, but nothing happened.
“I don’t understand,” she said.
“I turned your utilities off,” he said.
“Oh.”
So they both just stood there for a moment. In the dark.