My Own Private Bailout

Aunt Rachel sits at the breakfast table rummaging through old recipe cards. The dull glow of fall rain and haze tentatively enters the room. The paper flakes in her hands. I sit opposite her, hands pressed underneath my thighs, waiting. Every morning the same thing, three weeks now. She sorts recipes at this time of year. She prepares for the New Year by sorting recipes. She prepares for the New Year sorting recipes by day light and reading during the evening by candle light. She does this because every year she cuts the power in her home in what she deems the holiest month. The power will be restored once all sins have been atoned for. One month to remind us (and all of her tenants---God only knows how they tolerate this nonsense!) of the privilege we are afforded living in this most modern of ages and how we regularly ignore said privilege in pursuit of our basest impulses.

Aunt Rachel is not a mean woman. There is a fierce and comical pragmatism to her annual power outages. Part of it is religious devotion. The other part of it is that, traditionally, there is no need to follow the Cubs during the month of September. So, she has suffered too. But, regardless of motivation, she has imprisoned me, watching my every movement. She has decided to keep me under her eye till Yom Kippur. And her will is God's will.

I had plans. Plans to travel the backroads of Ohio and Pennsylvania, interviewing the 'average' American, Tocqueville-style, and seeing what was actually happening in the vast swath of land between New York and California. Unfortunately those plans were going to be paid for by liquidating money invested primarily in AIG stock. So it goes.

But now it is too much. I have to bail on Aunt Rachel. Kastelbaum has offered me tickets to the Palin/Biden debate next week (he actually mailed me a letter telling me as much). I must find my way there. I am broke sure, but one more morning of the recipe cards and I will truly have sins to atone for. Big sins. Ones I haven't even conceived of committing since Venezuela.

I have sent a note to Menachem Stein. Aunt Rachel and I will be at synagogue tonight, for Shabbat. He will help me escape from Brooklyn, escape from the crazy clutches of what Jews refer to as hospitality. I have an idea for a book, a novel, simmering in my head. I must see the Palin woman upclose to know if this idea has any merit. But first I must escape. I have noticed Aunt Rachel watching me closely these past few days. I have never been good at keeping secrets. I wear them like Christmas ornaments tangled in my payot. So, I must be careful.

Tonight, I escape. Tonight with luck, I may be free.