The Matzo Ball Heiress by Laurie Gwen Shapiro

Author:Laurie Gwen Shapiro
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Red Dress Ink
Published: 2004-11-08T05:00:00+00:00

Alcohol has always given me funny dreams. Tonight, sometime after I pass out with my clothes on, I’m a hen. A hen who lays an egg that Hitler bursts out of, laughing manically and saying: “Jew hens to the left.” I wake up like a newbie soldier in sweaty sheets, and grope in the bathroom for my hotel glass to fill with water. Nude on the toilet seat, I sweat fear in a wet isolation. Eventually I brave it back to the bed, and pull a notebook out of my suitcase and a pen from the Bible drawer and begin to draw: snails, elephants, a whole zoo of animals until I’m groggy enough to fall back to sleep. Even then I stare at the ceiling for twenty minutes, my tongue sticking out like I’m an overheated dog.

I start to finally drift off to sleep, when the room phone rings.

“What time is it there?” Jake says when I pick it up and answer after a clumsy delay.

“It’s 4:00 a.m.”

“Oh, I thought it was 4:00 p.m.”

“It’s okay, I was having nightmares anyhow.”

“About what?”

“Chickens and Hitler.”

“You know what I dreamed about last night?”

I yawn. “Let me guess, Britney Spears doing the breaststroke in your swimming pool?”

“Ooh. So close. Christina Aguilera gave me a lap dance.”

“Jake, is there a reason you’re calling? I’m dead tired.”

“Just seeing if you had any luck finding Uncle Sol.”

“None.” I yawn again. “But I’ve found out the reason the Dutch are so tall. It’s the dairy.”

“Then how come the Jews aren’t taller? Look how short Grandpa Reuben was. I’d say he ate a vat of sour cream a year.”

“He also ate stuffed intestine.”

“That will set you back,” Jake concurs. “Look, I had an idea about how to find Uncle Sol. I called the bank to see where his ATM withdrawals come from in Amsterdam. We deposit his money in his New York City account, but he has to take the cash out somewhere in Amsterdam.”

“Any luck?”

“Well, all they can tell me is that he seems to take it out of the ABM-Amro branch in The Jordache.”

“The Jordaan. It’s not a jean, it’s a neighborhood.”

“Listen, Miss Condescending, I’m trying to help you.”

“No address?”

“None.”

“So what am I supposed to do—wait in that branch for him to show up?”

“Well, if you keep to the area, don’t forget about the supermarket there.”

I yawn again. “Yes, the Quacken guy.”

“You’re making me sleepy just listening to you.”

“Let me go then.”

Jake quacks like a duck before he hangs up.

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