As told to Rivky Neuhaus

“H
ey, look!” I say to my friend Ilana. “There’s Avraham Fried!” I point toward the front.

We’re in the auditorium, Ilana and I, with our children. The show hasn’t started yet, and there are lots of people milling about. Maybe that’s why I’m kind of proud of my ability to spot the man himself in the crowd, not unlike the “Where’s Waldo?” puzzles I used to like as a kid.

“Where?” Ilana says, craning her neck. “I don’t see him.”

“There! Near the stage... the man posing for a picture with that little boy in the red cap.”

She squints and frowns. “That’s not Avraham Fried!”

Evidently, my prowess was lost on her. I should have dropped the subject right there, but I’m not one to let things go so fast. “Yes, it is! Look!”

“I’m looking, I’m looking! I see the man you’re pointing to, but that’s not Avraham Fried!”

I’m not sure what to say. Why can’t she see that it’s him? I was just pointing out the obvious.

I try again. “But it is him, I’m telling you.”

“No, it’s definitely not! Hello? You think I don’t know what Avraham Fried looks like? That’s not him.”

I chuckle. “I’m telling you—”

Wait, stop. Just stop. Am I really having this conversation?

But Ilana won’t give up. “We have every HASC concert video and I would recognize him anywhere.”

As ridiculous as this conversation is, I feel myself getting annoyed. Why is she insisting she’s right? As sure as one and one make two, that is definitely Avraham Fried! Same smile, same beard…

But who cares, really? I do, a little. Actually, I have a pretty strong urge to prove I’m right.

Something holds me back. It somehow feels beneath my dignity to dispute this… this silly, inconsequential, unimportant, petty thing. I vacillate between this realization and my sense of moral duty toward The Truth.

There’s movement on the stage and the musicians are arranging themselves behind their instruments. I realize that in just a minute our argument will be over. As soon as the concert starts, she’ll see for herself that the man is indeed Avraham Fried. And then she’ll turn to me and concede that I was right after all.

So I let it slide. I simply don’t respond. I feel so virtuous, sure there must be a halo glowing over my head.

There’s a drumroll, and the emcee introduces the singer. And there, striding onto the stage as the band starts up with a crash, is the smiling man, with his long beard and trademark smile, his distinctive energy crackling from the stage.

The same man we saw a moment ago in the crowd.

I wait a beat for my friend to concede her error, to say the words, “You were right.” I will not gloat, I tell myself sternly.

When she speaks, her words aren’t what I expect to hear.

“You see?” she says triumphantly, “I told you that man wasn’t Avraham Fried! I was right! Look, that’s the real Avraham Fried on stage!”

Arggggh!
(Excerpted from Family First, Issue 611)