He squinted in the darkness and stared, unable to process what he was seeing. Reuven? At Heshy Brucker’s tish?

A

kiva Putterman had given a lecture in Brooklyn, and he pulled into Alameda Gardens, well after midnight. He was tired, but the lights from inside the tent, visible from Wimbledon Loop, called to him, and he walked over to peek inside.

Heshy was still holding court, even though most of the people had left, and it looked intense. Akiva slipped in from the rear corner, and moved quietly. No one even realized.

He was about to take a few peanuts from the plastic bowl when he saw a familiar figure, the slim shoulders and straight back of his neighbor, Reuven Stagler.

He squinted his eyes in the darkness and stared, unable to process what he was seeing.

Reuven? At Heshy Brucker’s tish?

He leaned in to hear the conversation.

“It was about sheva brachos, you know? Things take on a different sense of importance, and what should be a small little detail gets inflated,” Heshy was saying, and Akiva had the sense that Heshy was a bit drunk.

He looked around. It appeared that everyone in fact was drunk. He couldn’t see Reuven’s eyes, but he could see his cup and the bottle three inches from him.

“That’s what this Yid told me, that it’s like a terrorist threat. Can you imagine? Every time he skipped a simchah, or didn’t smile nicely at someone or whatever, his wife was like, ‘You need friends, who will come to our simchahs? Who will make our children sheva brachos if you don’t show up to anything?’ ”

There was laughter all around at this, but Heshy looked very serious.