The Instructions

  STEVENS: Well, a little comic relief in the midst of tragic events never hurt anyone, I suppose. Here with me in the NBC studios is our Middle East consultant, Allie Momad. Allie, in your opinion, is the terrorist Gurion Maccabee, as has been alleged, a Zionist?

  MOMAD: Well, Rick, the long answer is: Who can say for sure? He’s a ten-year-old boy, certainly a boy who’s been through Jewish schools, certainly an exceptionally violent boy, certainly a boy who invokes the Jewish God in emails that appear to be some kind of coded call-to-arms, certainly someone demanding to speak to Philip Roth, certainly the type of violent Jewish person that both the Eastern and the Western world have been certain would arise soon enough given the Jewish occupation of Palestine, the Israeli apartheid, the war crimes committed daily by the State of Israel, and the rhetoric used by Israeli and American Jewish progagandists to defend the apartheid and the war crimes and the hideous nature of the Israeli occupation of the Palestinean lands and people, not just men and women, Rick, but children, too. Children.

  STEVENS: And the short answer, Allie?

  MOMAD: Probably a Zionist.

  STEVENS: Thank you, Allie. That was Allie Momad, our Middle East Consultant. Now we go to some new exclusive footage NBC has just acquired from another of the five cameras that were in the Aptakisic Junior High School gym at the time of the terrorist attack. I’m told we’re about to see the gym teacher, Ronald Desormie, just as—there. Oh my. Oh my, that’s vivid. Can we rewind that and slow—thank you, Mark. Yes, it looks, from the way he’s holding his neck, and from the angle at which the projectile seems to have pierced him, as though the fatal shot could not have possibly been fired by Gurion Maccabee, who you can see laying on his stomach on the floor before the unfortunate gym teacher. It looks like the shot was fired from on-high. Can we roll that again?

  “Unless you’re thinking maybe I shouldn’t go back into the gym with this… hand like this?”

  Yeah, I said.

  “Come on, man,” said Benji. “Admit what you’re doing.”

  What am I doing?

  “You’re keeping me away from that dentist Berman and all of his buddies. I make them all nervous, so you’re keeping me away.”

  You both—

  “Like the Cage,” he said.

  That’s—

  “I’m being dramatic. That was dramatic. Overdramatical. Still, I’m right. And look: I understand. I mean, Berman’s got more people behind him than I do. It would’ve been harder to get him out of there. Plus he’s not injured. There’d be no reason to keep him somewhere else. He’d have lost face if you removed him, there could have been a fight, or—”

  I’m sorry, I said. I just thought that after—

  “I’m not asking for an apology, Gurion. You made the move you had to make, and I’ve taken the drugs—I’m being cooperative. This is what I want to tell you, though. Jelly is in there. In the gym. With that snake. She’s in there with that snake, and so are all our other friends, and you need to watch out because you’re acting snakey yourself—for good reason maybe, sure—but you’re acting snakey yourself, and all those snakes can see right through you. Some of them at least. Snakes understand snakiness.”

  I don’t think Berman’s a snake, I said. Maybe he was, but he’s not anymore, none of them are, and everything’s gonna be fine, alright? This’ll be over soon. The scholars—

  “I don’t need reassurance. False reassurance. You need to hear me.”

  Okay, I said. Fine. So what is it I’m missing? What’s the big secret? What did Berman do to you, you hate him so much? Before today, I mean.

  “I can’t believe you’re still— Look. Berman didn’t do shit to me. He’s just a snake. He’s always been a snake. Same way Desormie’s always been—same way Desormie had always been a scumbomb. He was born that way. Born a snake. All those ex-Shovers. And everyone knows this. June knows it. Vincie knows it. Brooklyn knows it. You know it. I know you know it. So let’s not pretend. It’s just you and me here, two best friends, and you’ve snaked me a little, but I’m forgiving you for snaking me, okay? So believe me, okay? Stop making that face. You need to believe me. I’m not trying to fuck with you. I’m forgiving you because you waited to bring me here til no one was around to see where you put me. I appreciate that. That you’re trying to protect me. So I forgive you for snaking me, so now it’s time you stop snaking me—I’m trying to help you out. Those guys are snakes. Especially Berman. And my girlfriend’s in there with them, all of our friends are—did I say this part already? I did. These drugs are quick. BryGuy must have himself some serious… tolerance. But what I’m saying is you don’t have to convince me to stay here. I came here willingly, I took the drugs—I’m on your side is what I’m trying to say. So just be straight with me. Be honest with your friend. Admit you know they’re snakes and we can talk about some strategy for when you go back in there.”

  I’m being completely honest with you, I said.

  “Gurion! Bullshit! You took their phones cause you knew they were snakes.”

  I took their phones cause I knew they were afraid. I didn’t want them to freak out while I was gone and call the—

  “You thinned their numbers,” Nakamook said. “You could’ve sent someone to get a fucken wheely chair—this very fucken wheely chair into which my ass is melting—and sat Brodsky on it and wheeled him to the Cage. You and June could’ve done it. You didn’t, though, right? Instead you got five, then ten of them to carry him because you wanted to thin their numbers because you knew they were snakes, and you wanted to give the Side a fighting chance in case the snakes attacked.”

  I thinned their numbers because I thought their numbers were making the Side nervous, Benji. Nervous is contagious, and— What you’re saying’s not true. I didn’t think anyone would attack anyone, and I don’t think that now. I just thought that the Side was worried about what would happen if they were attacked, so—

  “You thought that because you were worried about it yourself! Stop lying to me! I don’t see why you’re lying. There’s no one to protect here.”

  If I was really worried about the Side getting attacked, I said, I’d’ve thinned the ex-Shovers’ numbers, not the other Israelites’.

  “Wow,” Benji said. “Wow!”

  Wow what? I said.

  “Wow.”

  Wow what?

  “Wow I believe you.”

  Good, I said. I told you I wasn’t—

  “No,” he said. “No it’s not good. Wake the… Wake the fuck up, man.”

  Good elbow on the desk, Benji had propped his chin on his fist at about the same time as he’d said his first wow. He smiled now, and his chin slipped down, so his cheek was on the heel of his hand. The smile went away in the course of the slip, but had come back harder once the cheek was situated.

  “Tchhhhhhhhhhh,” he said, and got his face off his hand. He shook his head, as if to clear it out, but it didn’t seem to work—his face was all slack. “Fucken,” he said. Or maybe, “Fuck it.” The end of the utterance got snapped by a yawn he fought to suppress. When the yawning passed, he thumb-flicked the pointer of his broken hand, let out a muffled throatmoan, flicked again, and seemed, by that second pained jolt, to be driven back into his body.

  Benji, I said. I’m sorry I acted shady about bringing you here. I should have told you what I was doing, but I didn’t think… I don’t know.

  Again he’d set his chin on his good fist and again it slipped, and again he flicked his wounds, made pained noises, and returned to his body, though his eyes this time weren’t as popping. He tried to stand up, and then he stopped trying.

  “Okay say that again,” he said. “I didn’t understand.”

  I was saying how I know it was hard for you not to retaliate against Berman to begin with, I said, but especially after he insulted Main Man’s singing, and whatever else happened between you guys while I was out front with the firemen—I should have told you what I was doing, taking you here, but I didn’t think you’d
be willing to back down any further.

  “I don’t— What? What else would I retaliate for?” he said.

  What do you mean? I said.

  “What do you mean?” he said.

  And I saw what he meant—or hadn’t meant: He didn’t know Berman was the one who’d brought him down at the end of the battle. I bit my lip hard, exercised a fantasy of retroactivation.

  “‘To begin with,’” he said. “You said ‘to begin with.’ What’d I have to retaliate to begin with for? I mean… I mean what—what’d Berman do before you went out front?”

  I said, You should lay down, Benji. Seriously. You’re barely awake.

  “You’re fucken doing it again—but you’re doing it… worse. That fuck—” Benji’d made a move as if to flick himself again, but this time I grabbed the offending hand and held it down flat on the table. “Berman shot me, didn’t he? Let go, now. On purpose. Let go of me. He shot me’s what you’re saying, on purpose. I thought that was friendly, like accidental crossfire. He shot me, that fuck on purpose shot me. And then it was him who jumped on me.”

  He didn’t know you were with us, I said. He thought you weren’t supposed to be there. You need to lay down.

  “No no. No. You said—I heard you. On the megaphone—let go of my hand—you said we’re brothers. Everyone with Damage on his head is brothers. What’s on my head? On my head is Damage. Let go of my hand. You’re the one who wrote it there. I did the same to you. It didn’t wash off. It didn’t sweat off. It didn’t come off.” He struggled to get his hand free of mine, but he didn’t seem to know how to—he kept wiggling his shoulder. “I see it right now,” he said. “Right in front of me, there on your head. Yours didn’t come off, so mine didn’t come off. You said we were brothers.”

  He must not have heard me.

  “Bull. Shit,” said Benji. “I am so fucked up right now, that lucky fucker. I sound like fucken Vincie I’m so fucked up. And he’s in there with Jelly. I want to see Jelly.”

  I’ll tell Jelly to come in here.

  “Yeah, you do that, you fucken do that, you tell her you fuck, you fucken liar, Gurion. You’re a fucken liar. Trying to make me feel paranoid… wrong… fucken…”

  I said, You can’t be angry at me like this. I said, I’m the one who got him off of you.

  “I could’ve done that myself. I would’ve done that myself. You think fucken Berman… Another ten seconds… Another ten seconds, I’d’ve killed that kid. You did him the favor. You saved his ass. Not mine. Even now you fuck with me.” Now Benji was crying. I’d never seen it, only heard of it once—the day before as I laid on my back in the field beneath yud-clouds, ashamed in front of June. I couldn’t help but wonder if he knew he was doing it. There wasn’t any sniffling and there wasn’t any gasping. There wasn’t a glug or whimper. He was about to pass out, face slipping on his fist, his lids nearly shut, but that should have, I thought, had the opposite effect—should have lessened his control over how he cried. Maybe it did. Scholars might wish to suggest that it did. They might wish to suggest that this orderly, dignified way of weeping—even the tears themselves were subdued, crawling from his eyes just one at a time, waterpark-goers in line for a slide, each waiting to climb from the squeeze of the duct til the one just ahead had safely cleared chin—was, in fact, for a soldier like Nakamook, as close to a demonstration of the chaos inside him as could be expressed without his resorting to the usual violence, of which, sedated, he was not capable. Whatever it was, this Nakamookian weeping, a show of strength or a show of weakness, an act of restraint or a loss of restraint, I didn’t like to see it, and I didn’t think that he’d like me to see it, and so I looked away, looked down at my hands, and let Benji finish berating and threatening me, cursing and hurting til he fell asleep, telling myself we’d patch it up later, outside the school. Safe among brothers. Surrounded and protected. The scholars would arrive and all would be well. I looked down at my hands and waited him out.

  “Fucken liar,” he said. “What a fucken even now a fucken miserable dissembling fucken liar you are, man. Treat me like you’re Botha. Manage me like I’m just some dumbfuck SpEd to manage. Made a mistake… I’ll fucken… kill that fucker. I’ll fucken burn your… you fucken lie… liar. Like a… God! Fucking SpEd… I’ll fucken burn down both your houses.”

  “…to the right of your screen,” the anchor was saying.

  The photo to the right was from the fall before. It was cropped from a two-pager in the Schechter yearbook which showed me leading a discussion in Torah Study. In the original, ten scholars sit around an oval table, all of us using our hands to gesticulate, and we appear to be having the best conversation. Magnified, though, and with the others cropped out, I looked psychotic—my eyebrows straining to meet at my nosebridge, my pointer extending from a fist toward the viewer—a darker, beardless Uncle Sam in a yarmulke.

  Both TVs were still tuned to NBC, both pictures snowy, both volume levels cranked. One sat in front of the eastern bleachers, which, except for June and Jelly and Brooklyn and the Five, were occupied by all the Israelites in the gym. The other sat in front of the western bleachers where everybody else was but Vincie and Starla, who each pressed an ear to the pushbar door.

  I had entered the gym through the central door, and now I was standing before them all, between the TVs, where the noise was most blurred. Few of the soldiers seemed to notice my entrance. Some were crying, others shaking their heads, most leaning forward and hugging themselves or stretching their arms, balling their fists, blinking hard, jaw muscles bulging.

  June and Jelly and Eliyahu approached to my left, and Berman was descending from the bleachers to my right, the ex-Shover Cory Goldman trailing just behind him. I couldn’t hear anything.

  I sirened the megaphone and held the trigger til the TVs were muted by Googy and Main Man, who held the remotes. June, by my side now, whispered, “Be careful,” and Jelly said, “Where’s—”

  I said, Go to Nurse Clyde’s.

  Jelly cut out.

  “Where’s she going?” said Berman.

  “They were saying on the news,” Eliyahu said, “that hundreds of scholars from your former schools got emails from you with directions to Aptakisic, and then they were saying they were spotted on trains, and now they’re saying hundreds more scholars from other Israelite schools in the suburbs and the city are missing as well.”

  I strained to keep the relief off my face: I was supposed to have been certain all along that the scholars would show.

  So why’s it so somber in here? I said.

  “Because they’re also saying,” said Berman, “that cops have blocked the roads off to stop your friends before they get here.”

  “But,” said Eliyahu, “that’s not the end of the world. I gave the Five the phone and they called their friend Feingold to warn him that the cops had seen the email with the directions to Aptakisic, and this Feingold said it didn’t matter. He said there were two groups of at least two hundred scholars from the suburbs, each heading south along the lakeshore—Feingold was with one group, and he could see the other one a quarter mile up the beach—and since your directions were for the scholars of Chicago, the cops didn’t know the route that the lakeshore groups were taking, so there won’t be any kind of roadblock to stop them, right?”

  “Except,” said Berman, “we’re a mile east of the lakeshore, so even if they were directly east of us, they’d still have about a mile to go, and they’re not directly east of us—they’re still heading south—so we’re talking about at least another twenty minutes til they get here.”

  “At least,” said Cory. “And that’s a while. And you sound crazy on TV.”

  “Enough of that,” said Eliyahu.

  “Yeah, enough!” said Pinker. “Cut that shit out!” The Levinson said.

  By this point, both sets of bleachers were empty. Much as the last time I’d returned to the gym, the Side and Big Ending and the Five and their Ashley mobbed up to my left behind June and Eliyahu,
while the rest of the Israelites were mobbed to my right behind Cory and Berman.

  “What Cory means is Philip Roth,” Berman said. “That stuff you said to the camera about talking to Philip Roth… It’s…”

  “It’s weird!” an ex-Shover said. “I thought we were waiting for scholars, not an author.” “And what’s this stuff about a holiday that doesn’t have a name?” said another ex-Shover. “I think you should call it Last Day of School Day,” said the Flunky. “That’s completely dumb!” an Israelite yelled. “It’s completely dumb and it doesn’t sound Israelite!” “Who cares if it sounds—” “Fuck you who cares! We care.” “Who’s Philip Roth?” “How about Shut the Fuck Up You Fucken Coward Day!” “How about you fucken idiots don’t even know who Philip Roth is!” “And the way you keep sending Israelites out to guard the doors!” “Yeah! Why don’t you send any of them, you know?” “It’s like you’re trying—” “He’s not trying anything! You just want to watch TV and bitch and moan!” “We have to get out of here. Gurion. Baby.” “You’re supposed to be the messiah, but you’re sending Israelites into danger!” “What’s the messiah?” “You should send them instead!” “Did that dumbfuck just ask what’s the messiah?” “Is he the messiah?” “Are you the messiah?” “What’s the messiah?” “And where’s that bully?” “The messiah’s a who!” “Where’d they hide Nakamook?” “Why’s he friends with that kid?!” “He might be the messiah and he might not be the messiah!” “There is no might! He is or he isn’t!” “What the fuck do you know? You dropped out of Hebrew School!” “He’s our leader!” “Why, though? Why’s he our leader if he isn’t the messiah?” “He might be the messiah!” “Why’s he leading them if he’s our messiah?” “He might not be the messiah!” “He is or he isn’t! He can’t have his cake and eat it too!” “His cake?” “Our cake!” “Our cake?” “Cake?” “Our who?” “He’s our leader!” “Where’s he fucken leading us!?” “He’s protecting us!” “You feel protected?!”