Sammy Freeberg: His Mother Loves Him

Warning: This story contains some inappropriate humor, but it should not offend, in contect.

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

"No, Sam. What about the Jew who married a Catholic, and what does it have to do with our Torah lesson?”

"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 could tell he wanted to.

"Sam, Sam Freeberg,” Rabbi said, sitting behind his desk and shaking his head. "Three times this month you've been sent to me. What do I do with you and your jokes?”

"Don’t know,” I answered, wiggling my eyebrows and flicking imaginary cigar ashes on Rabbi's desk, in my best Groucho Marx. “What do you wanna do with me and my jokes?”

Rabbi leaned back, 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?”

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

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

"I’m five-five, 130 pounds," I answered. “I don't fight; I roll away. And I don't play sports. When I tried out for baseball, they wanted me for second base."

"So?"

"They wanted me to be second base."

Rabbi stood up, walked behind his chair, and waited. Rabbi likes to wait.

“I need a stand-up comic for our community center fundraiser next month,” he said, pointing at me. “‘An Evening in Vegas.’ Behave yourself between now and then, and it's yours. Mess up, and you get to hand out programs. Deal?"

“Deal.”

No jokes was like no food during a Yom Kippur fast, but I did it. Each time my brain express-mailed a joke to my mouth, I returned the package, unopened.

I combed the internet for jokes and transferred the best 100 onto index cards. I tried some on myself, in front of my bedroom mirror. I laughed. I tried a few on my sister, Sarah. She didn't laugh. Sarah is 17 and has never laughed.

Sarah's twin, Ira, laughed at every joke, mostly at the wrong time.

l took my savings to a vintage clothing store and got the perfect outfit: 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, where Mom, Dad, Sarah, and Ira were waiting.

"Lemme guess. You’re booked at a shelter for homeless comedians." Sarah said, snorting.

"Sarah," I said, rubbing my hands together and pointing a finger at her. "You’re so ugly, when you were born, the doctor slapped Mom. You’re so ugly, when you played in the sandbox, the cat would cover you up."

No one laughed (Ira said he didn’t get it), but I know they wanted to.

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

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

“Who’s on first?” I asked. I wasn’t trying to be funny, but Rabbi laughed.

"Game’s over, Rabbi," I said, as I felt dinner climb up my throat, “I told a joke in religious school Sunday."

Rabbi patted my cheeks.

"You'll do 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, hand out, palm up. Mom chuckled. I stared.

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

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

Rabbi shook his head. "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."

No such luck. After a bathroom stop, I stood backstage, listening to boring announcements and thumbing through my index cards. After another bathroom stop, I listened to Rabbi’s boring jokes and felt better.

Finally, he introduced me. “Ladies and Gentlemen: Sam Freeberg. His mother loves him.”

I shoved the cards in my pocket and trotted out to the microphone, waving along the way. My bladder felt full again; my brain felt empty.

I stood at attention for a second, blank. Then my brain clicked on.

"Thanks, Rabbi," I said. "What a great guy. Every time he sees me, he yells, 'Yo!'”

I count to three in my head.

“Then I find out he's dyslexic."

That got silence.

“Anyone breathing out there?” I asked. “’Yo, dyslexic, ‘”Oy?”

A few chuckles. Time to move on.

"It’s been a rough week, folks. I went shopping in the mall with my mom and dad, 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.'"

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

"I got kidnapped last month, and let me tell you, that 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 one of my fingers to my father."

Pause.

"Dad wrote back that he wanted more proof."

The laughs started building, like a wave at a football game.

"But seriously," I said, when the laughter had died down. "I've got a great family. Take my mother  . . . please.

“I had a big test last week. I was so nervous, I got diarrhea. So I called home. Know what Mom did?

“She put me on hold."

More laughter. I was hot.

"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 felt like 5-foot-7.

"Confession: I made up that story. Haven't talked to my mother in weeks."

Pause.

"I didn't want to interrupt her."

"My sister's here, too," I said. "Tell me if you think she's spoiled. When she was a baby, she was breast-fed by a caterer."

Laughs. And a few groans. Groans are good.

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."

Squinting, I held my hand above my eyes, like I was looking out to sea.

"There's Dr. Cohen," I said, pointing to the front row. "My Aunt Rose took Uncle Sol to see him last month.  'My Solly is sick,' Aunt Rose tells him. “‘He's not sick,' Dr. Cohen says. 'He thinks he's sick.' A week later, Aunt Rose runs into Dr. Cohen. 'How's Sol?' he asks. My aunt answers, 'He thinks he's dead.'"

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

"Mr. Schwartz, what's that on your head? 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 almost laughing. Someone in the back row stood up. My brain suddenly went dead again. I felt like I was falling from the sky and my parachute wouldn’t open.

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 going. Panic - and sweat - crawled down my back.

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

"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 darts at me, 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. 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 on stage, alone. Alone and scared. Suddenly, Rabbi was standing next to me, beads of sweat dropping like bombs off his forehead.

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

"I think that's for Catholics," he said, looking away. "Maybe they’ll make an exception for you."

“What do I do?"

"That's your problem," he said, finally looking at me. “I'd better work on my problem: damage control." And he was gone.

Standing in the middle of the stage, I slipped my shaking hands into my pants pockets and mindlessly pulled out my index cards, but they dropped to the floor. As I bent down to pick them up, I spotted something dripping, right in front of me. I was crying, and my nose was running.

"Need a Kleenex?"

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

The man stood there. With his thin white hair, wispy goatee, and tweed suit, he looked like a retired poet or scientist.

"Ben Ratner," he said, extending his hand. “And you . . .” He paused. “You are a very funny young man, young man.”

I rolled the name around in my head; then I remembered. He’d spoken at our congregation.

"Buchenwald, class of 1945," he said.

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

"I’d say you're hurting enough already," he whispered.

I nodded.

"Hey," he said, gently poking me in the ribs with a finger. "Hear the one about the kid who told Holocaust jokes to a Holocaust survivor?

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

"I found them in an article about Holocaust humor," I stammered. "It said survivors tell them for therapy, so I figured it was okay for a Jew to tell them to Jews."

I paused.

"No," I said. "I told them because I'm a jerk, and I was scared."

"Scared?"

"I wanted so bad to make everyone laugh, so I panicked. Now I just feel guilty.”

Mr. Ratner looked straight into my eyes. “I also do scared and guilty,” he said. “And angry.”

Surprised, I asked why.

“Scared and angry I think you can figure out,” he said. “Guilty is a little trickier.

“I survived. No one else in my immediate family survived. Understand?”

I didn’t. But I nodded.

“Sometimes, when I’m with other survivors and it hurts so much, we make jokes to ease the pain. We’re allowed; you’re not.”

I started crying again. Hard.

Mr. Ratner looked at me with his piercing blue eyes. "My wife, may she rest in peace, taught me how to forgive.

“I forgive you. Now you have to forgive yourself.”

He paused.

“She said something else that helped.

“Enough pain."

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