“Baruch Hashem, you’re the gabbai. The machine said, ‘Press one for Rabbi Eisenman.’ I would never bother a rav with this issue”

The man on the line sounded desperate.

“Ich darf a minyan far Minchah,” he blurted out. “I’m at this place called American Dream, and it’s time for Minchah, and I need a minyan. Can you help me?”

For those outside the New York area, American Dream is the second-largest mall in the United States, located in the Meadowlands of New Jersey. It’s a popular destination for Chol Hamoed trips, Sunday outings, and many other adventures. It has a kosher food court and even has stores that cater to the frum community’s fashion needs.

It features 450 retail shops, an indoor ski slope, two 18-hole miniature golf courses, an aquarium, an ice rink, a water park, and Nickelodeon Universe, among many other attractions. In short, one can spend hours walking among the six atriums, enjoying the extensive garden while marveling at the 60-foot fashion fountain.

However, none of these sights held any attraction for my caller.

“My wife brought me to a place called the American Dream, but for me, it’s all a bad dream,” he said above the background din. “I heard your shul is not far from here. Can I get the amud for the 7:20 Minchah? I’m a chiyuv. Are you the gabbai?”

Haltingly, I answered, “Yes” — as indeed, sometimes, when there is a need, I do fill in as gabbai.

Yankel was thrilled that he had reached the “gabbai.”

“Baruch Hashem, you’re the gabbai. The machine said, ‘Press one for Rabbi Eisenman.’ I would never bother a rav with this issue.”

Deciding not to disclose my true identity, I responded, “There will be a minyan, and if there’s no other chiyuv, you can have the amud.”

“Shkoyach, I’m on my way.”

About 20 minutes later, the phone rang.

“Reb Gabbai, this is Yankel. I’m the Yid from the American Dream. I’m in front of your shul. Where should I park?”

What, now I’m a parking attendant? I thought to myself.

“Reb Gabbai, my wife wants me back in 20 minutes. I never missed a Kaddish, and it’s 7:18. Please help me.”

Although I was starting to like my new title, it did not afford me any protektzia regarding parking spots.

Yankel was getting desperate. “Efsher ken der gabbai mir helfen un ich ken helfen dem gabbai? [Maybe the gabbai can help me, and I can ‘help’ the gabbai?]”

Feeling his desperation, and relishing the opportunity to play gabbai, I said, “Stay where you are, I’m coming.”

I exited the shul sans jacket and hat and quickly spotted the New York plates and Yankel at the wheel.

I approached the window and said, “Reb Yankel?” The man nodded.

I ordered him out of the car and said, “Yankel, gei davenen.”

I took over the wheel of his stylishly dented blue minivan, circa 2003. After clearing away some half-finished bags of Paskez Noshkes (both BBQ and Onion Rings) and accidentally squishing a large bag of Zum Zum, I circled the block for 20 minutes.

I delivered the car back to the front of the shul as Minchah finished. Yankel came out holding a twenty-dollar bill.

“Shkoyach!” he said with a big smile as he tried to hand me the money.

I declined the tip and wished him well on his return trip to the American Dream.

As he was about to drive off, Yankel opened his window.

“By the way, the recording said the rabbi’s name is Eisenman. Is that the Eisenman who writes for Mishpacha? My wife loves his columns,” he said.

(I hear this type of comment often. It’s always the wife.)

“He would love such a maiseh, it’s exactly the type of story that would be great for his column,” he offered eagerly. “What do you say?”

“Yes,” I said with a smile, “this story would be perfect for his column.”

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1065)