“No,” I said, holding up my hand to stop David, the bartender, who as soon as he saw me automatically pulled out a bottle of soda water, as he had done for the past four months. He smiled when I pointed to the keg of beer.
“I’m so happy,” David said, filling a tall glass. “You know, it was scary, the process you went through. Lately I had become afraid that I’d even start to like you.”
“Give me a frozen-vodka chaser, too,” I said.
“The vodka is on the house,” the proprietor replied.
That’s it. I’m back. I had no alternative. I mean, I had all the alternatives in the world, but enough was enough. If things had ended with just kicking the drinking habit, I could have lived with it, but the process deteriorated into eating health food, going on a serious diet and recently even taking brisk walks at night, along with doing push-ups and pull-ups. I had to end it before it was too late.
“Lechayim!” I raised my glass and nodded at David, who went on smiling behind the bar. I chugged the beer in memory of the good old days, appalled by the thought that just an hour earlier, I had actually considered giving up smoking.
I watched the news with great interest. The hand gestures and facial expressions of the charming female announcer were very convincing: We almost cried when she blinked her eyes a few times after a report about starving children; with her, we seethed with rage when she cocked her head to the side disparagingly after a report about a corrupt cabinet minister.
“Oy, our poor country,” I found myself saying as I nodded at the screen. “What will become of us, Lord of the Universe?”
Shortly before 9:30, after a three-minute tooth-brushing session, according to the clock, we got into bed. My wife went on reading a book that I had passed on to her with a warm recommendation, and I had the latest best-seller. What can I tell you, it’s a work of art: a grand family saga in which the author moves us deeply. A sigh of relief escaped my lips when I reached the end of yet another riveting chapter.
Oh my God, what I have I come to? I, who once used the mirror to help guide scissors into my nose, found myself checking my physique every hour on the hour. Standing in front of the mirror, pulling up my shirt and sighing with pleasure at every kilogram I shed. I - who promised myself to respect only a leader who would stand up and say straight out that he has contempt for all religions - I now found myself applauding with tear-filled eyes as the American president promises peace and quotes from the Hebrew Bible, the New Testament and the Koran. And the really disturbing thought, which made me leap out of bed, was that even my parents were pleased with my behavior of late.
“What happened?” my wife cried out in alarm, sitting bolt upright.
“What happened?” I said, slapping my cheeks with both hands. “Look at me. That’s what happened.”
“Yes,” she nodded and gave me the impression that she understood what I felt. “I was a bit worried when you said you were thinking of giving up smoking.”
“Man, what’s become of me?” I looked at her and tried to calm my breathing. “Tell me, how did I become such a monster?”
“It’s no big deal,” she said, soothing me. “It’s only been a few months.”
“And you,” I said, shaking an accusing finger at her. “This whole time you didn’t say a word. You saw, you knew, and you said nothing.”
“I wanted you to experience everything alone,” she chuckled. “You know, the children asked me this week why Daddy has become boring.”
Naturally I must have frightened the children, I thought to myself. They had never seen me like this and that’s probably why they have been so well behaved lately.
“They must hate me now,” I said.
“No,” my wife replied dismissively. “Don’t exaggerate. Anyway, I had a talk with them. I explained that you were going through a crisis and I promised them that within half a year at most, their anxious and screwed-up dad would be back.”
“So what do you recommend?” I asked. “How do I start to fix things?”
“Hmmmmm,” she pondered and contorted her face. “It seems to me that the way back has to be gradual, in stages.”
“Yes,” I muttered impatiently. “So where do I start, with alcohol or shawarma?”