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| "The Retarded Artist From NYC Gets Call From Mr. Bill Asking Favor To Perform For Abel Academy Kids" by The Maverick Artist Victor-Hugo Vaca Jr |
“I just ran into Taylor Swift and Clive Davis, I thought
you were catching the red eye. Where the hell are you guys?”
“We’re at the Boston Red Sox game.” Todd answered his
animated friend, who was calling from a New York City Fashion Week event.
“Well get your ass over here, Beyonce and Jay-Z invited
me to their crib for a V.I.P. after party tonight and they said I can bring
some friends.”
“I can’t make it, the Jewish Sabbath is in a few hours
and we still don’t have a place to stay. Maybe tomorrow, after Shabbat.”
“What? I thought you said your friend set you up at a
beach house with a bunch of rock stars.”
“He did but his friend bailed out on us and now we’re
wandering about like vagabonds.”
The crack of a wooden bat smashing a baseball over the
fence for a home-run sent the sold-out crowd into a frenzy drowning out the
humiliating conversation going on beside me between Todd and his V.I.P. friend
in Manhattan. I could hear every word screaming out of his cell phone as my
Android vibrated to alert me that my manager was calling.
“You’re not going to believe this.” My manager said when
I answered her call. “Mr. Bill told me to have Todd pay for a hotel but there
are no hotels, it’s season, everything is booked.”
“What?” I answered in disbelief as Todd ended his call
and eavesdropped on my conversation.
“Mr. Bill said, Todd’s Jewish.”
“What does that have to do with anything?” I asked.
“Mr. Bill said, there’s no such thing as a poor Jew,
therefore,” My manager sounded stunned by his logic.
“I assume, he figured…”
“I knew it. Mr. Bill’s an anti-semite! He looked at me kind of funny when we met.
Stop being a cheap Jew and pay for a hotel.” Todd growled at me as he
rearranged the black yamaka, adorned with the Star of David, on his head.
“Hot dogs! Peanuts! Get your hot dogs and peanuts here.”
The vendor shouted as timber splintered after colliding with a baseball that
flew over the fence sending hearts soaring for the World Series champions who
manifested another point on the scoreboard as, exhausted, I rose, embarrassed
and confused, in a sea of Boston Red Sox fans.
“That’s not happening. Todd’s not paying for the hotel.
What the hell is wrong with Mr. Bill?” I shouted into the phone as the crowd
around me reverberated with delight.
“Why don’t you tell him that?” My manager asked. “Isn’t
Mr. Bill with you?”
“No. He said he would come by to get Todd and I before
the seventh inning stretch, so we could all go out for a late lunch, it’s
already the bottom of the eighth.”
“I told you, Mr. Bill ain’t coming!” Todd shouted over my
shoulder into the phone. “I’m starving.”
“Get Todd a hotdog.” My manager suggested as I put her
call on speakerphone.
“I’m Kosher! That dog’s not kosher! I need to follow
Jewish dietary law.”
“Listen, I found a beach house for you guys. The owners
are big fans and willing to trade accommodations in exchange for four tickets
to the All Star MAMM Jam in Fort Myers tomorrow night. I told Mr. Bill and he
said he would get back to me but I haven’t heard from him, so if you see him,
tell him to call me ASAP.” My manager said before hanging up.
“Let’s get out of here.” Todd kvetched. “Shabbat starts
at sunset.”
We sat in traffic for hours with all the snowbirds,
waiting to hear from Mr. Bill but he never returned my calls or text messages.
Finally, my manager called with the news that Mr. Bill refused to barter four
tickets in exchange for safe shelter.
“He said Todd should stop being cheap and pay for a
hotel.” My manager added with disgust, as I put her on speakerphone. “Mr. Bill
suggested you guys stay at his house or a trailer that’s supposed to be parked
in his driveway later tonight.”
“I need to find shelter before the sun goes down. ” Todd
insisted. “That anti-semites home is too far away at this point, we’ll never
make it before Shabbat.”
My manager promised to continue searching for hotel
accommodations on the web while we dodged in and out of roadside motels without
no-vacancy signs, through crawling traffic, as the sun beat down on us before
beginning to set.
“There’s got to be
something.” I pleaded with the motel desk clerk who, like all the other hotel
clerks I’d interacted with in the twilight, informed me that because we were,
“In-Season”, there were no vacancies.
“My cousin, owns a motel just over the bridge, it’s
called The Welcome Inn. I will call him now to see if he has any rooms
available.” The pungent smelling clerk said in an almost unintelligible East
Indian accent.
“Please hurry, I think my friends going to turn into a
Pumpkin if I don’t find him a place to stay before sundown.” I said, while
looking out at Todd shifting nervously while reading the Torah, behind the
wheel of our packed rental car in the parking lot.
“Good news.” I told Todd as I entered the car five
minutes later. “We have a room at The Welcome Inn, I made reservations. It’s
just over the bridge. We should make it before sunset.”
And, we did. Just as the sun began to set, we drove past
the hookers and crack-heads into the parking lot of The Welcome Inn. When I
opened the door to our room, the first thing I saw was graffiti. Written in
black magic marker on the dark green wall, beneath the black mildew from the
leaking, air-conditioning unit, were the words, “Fuck You”, staring back at me.
The writing on the wall was literally a sign of things to come during my stay
with The Hebrew Hammer on Shabbos at, what came to be known as, “The Unwelcome
Inn”.
