A car turned the corner, slowing near her house. Her heart dropped. Buick, definitely from the ‘60s. This was not a good sign

Chani Steinberg rushed into the dentist’s office, trying hard to remain calm. She hadn’t planned on this. Her little Yanky’s toothache had come unexpectedly, and there was no way their insurance would cover dental outside of state.

She was hoping for mercy, hoping that, somehow, the dentist would understand her desperation and give her a break. She’d been told that this dentist in Woodmere, a short distance from her parent’s home, would be sympathetic.

They’d been in the waiting room for just a few minutes before the dentist called them in. When Chani saw him, her jaw dropped. As did his.

“Uh, Mrs. Steinberg?” he ventured. She nodded, still not quite believing her eyes. The dentist expertly filled Yanky’s tooth, and sent them off with regards, blessings, and, of course, no bill. Chani couldn’t believe the hashgachah.

*******

It had all begun many years ago, back when she was still Chani Hershkowitz, 22 years old, waiting for the right boy to come along. On this particular night she had a date, so she stood by the window squinting into the dark, waiting for that cautious-looking vehicle to turn into her driveway. She knew it was superficial, but she totally judged the boy based upon his car. With three younger brothers she knew all about cars and could tell the make and year from a single glance.

A car turned the corner, slowing near her house. Her heart dropped. Buick, definitely from the ’60s. This was not a good sign. She eyed the diary on her desk, where she kept a detailed description of every date. Sometimes, though, no details were necessary. She guessed this would be one of those times.

She’d come home in an hour, tops, and simply write, “Buick from the ’60s. Forget about it.” Her thoughts stopped short when she heard a polite knock at the door.

******

Three hours later Chani came home, waved at her waiting parents, and bounded up the steps. They knew the drill already. She grabbed a pen, opened her diary, and began to write:

Dear Diary,

I guess I really shouldn’t judge a boy by his car after all. The Buick, turns out it’s a ’67, totally did not encapsulate his personality. He’s actually pretty funny.

I don’t get what happened, but at the toll booth, the man gave him a high five and said, “Hey! It’s you again!” and they fist-pumped. I wasn’t sure what to make of that but I guess it means he has a sense of fun.

But aside from personality, he’s super deep with a weird life story. Apparently, he wasn’t always so frum. He grew up on the East Side, back in ’65, with a pretty rough group of friends. But he became super close with a rebbi of his who totally changed his life around.

It’s incredible, you’d never guess that he’d ever been less intense! Now, he’s so yeshivish, it’s almost like he speaks his own language. It’s all “takeh, eppes, grada,” and so on.

We went to this museum, where there was a display of a sefer Torah. I’ve seen it before, and never paid it much attention. But he was enthralled. He imagined a whole life story behind the Torah, where it came from, and how it dreams of returning to a shul. He has so much depth! If he’s willing, I’d go out with him again.

*****