Way to Go
By Jeffrey Goldberg
The Jerusalem Post, November 13, 1992
We’re deep in the pit of the flu season—at least in my head we are—so I’ve been thinking about obituaries. It’s a Jewish thing, I suppose, to worry about death on a crisp November morning as the birds make their joyful noise outside my window. Shut up, birds.
Despite the traffic jam in my nose, I don’t fear that death is imminent—I haven’t felt that way since a cement-faced Palestinian security prisoner told me in broken Hebrew that he would really enjoy, if it is no bother, to stick a shwarma knife in my eyes.
That’s not true—not the part about the shwarma knife; that’s true. But it is true that I fear death quite frequently, mostly while riding the New York City subways, and not for the usual reasons. Criminals rarely bother me, on account of my psych waves. What I do is scrunch my forehead together to gather all my extra-sensory powers into a tight little knot right above my eyes, and, pow, I zap bad thoughts right into the tiny little minds of screwdriver-wielding sociopaths.
“Don’t mug that guy with the Land’s End briefcase and the vacant look in his eyes,” my psych wave tells the target. “He’s a violent gun-runner sought by the security agencies of 12 countries, who, when trapped, fights like a mongoose on speed.”
You should see them run.
WHAT MAKES me think of death on the subway are the advertisements. Have you ever been on the subway? Have you ever read the advertisements on the subway? Have you ever been trapped in an Istanbul bathhouse with a group of Libyan ex-convicts looking for a good time? (I’d especially like an answer to that last question, please. )
On a recent excursion to the fun-filled neighborhood of Crown Heights, I had a few minutes to study the advertisements lining the walls of the subway car. This is something that impressionable hypochondriacs should never do.
“Do You Have Lupus? Did you Know That Lupus Can Kill? HERE ARE SOME OF THE SYMPTOMS: Headaches, Chills, Digestive Irregularities, Fever. GET HELP BEFORE IT’S TOO LATE!”
Funny, but I’ve been having recurring headaches lately. And I’m feeling a little cold. Does anyone have any Maalox? Am I sweating? How could I be sweating? It’s fall already. I must see a lupus specialist immediately.
Just to the right of the message from the good people at the Lupus Foundations is this sweet reminder: “YOU DON’T HAVE TO BE GAY TO GET AIDS. You Can Get the Aids Virus Any Number of Ways. Be Careful. Wear A Condom. All The Time.” It doesn’t say in what setting one should wear a condom, or on what body part to wear a condom; just, wear a condom. Should I wear it on my face? Can I avoid lupus if I wear a condom on my face all the time?
Across the aisle is a message which advertises a toll-free telephone number: 1-800-TOE-HURT. “Do Your Feet Hurt? Does Walking Bother You? You Could Be Suffering From a Severe Case of Hammertoe.”
Hammertoe? Sounds like the name of a Jethro Tull song, not a foot condition. Maybe it’s both. And what a loaded question—Does walking bother you? Of course it bothers me; I’m a lazy dog. I’d rather take cabs everywhere, but there’s the small issue of paying cab fare, which even my generous Jerusalem Post stipend might not be able to cover. Of course, it would probably be cheaper to rent a limo than it would be to treat my incipient hammertoe, which I suspect could lead to a particularly dangerous form of lupus if left untreated.
Next door to the hammertoe ad is a request from a New York charitable organization: “PLEASE—Bleach Your Needles, Or Come To Our Clinic For Free Needle Exchange And Health Consultation.”
No need to worry here—to the best of my knowledge, I’ve never actually been a heroin addict, though I’ve played one on TV. On the other hand, how would you know if you’re a heroin addict if you’re always high on heroin? Excuse me while I check behind my knees for needle tracks.
Maybe I should have someone check for me; it’s not wise to exert myself, given that a particularly virulent form of hepatitis B is currently raging through my body. “Hepatitis B-12 is FIVE TIMES as deadly as Aids!” another ad warns. What does this mean? Since Aids is always fatal, how can another disease be five times as fatal?
By the time I got to Crown Heights, which is an unhealthy place to begin with, I was feverish and hallucinating that I was being surrounded by hassidim who were thrusting their tefillin into my face; this was due either to the fact that the hepatitis had begun to poison my brain or that I was starting to suffer the pangs of heroin withdrawal. Or that hassidim were thrusting their tefillin into my face.
I couldn’t stay for long; none of the stores were giving blood tests. I went home to take my temperature. Wonder of wonders, it was normal—103 degrees (centigrade).
BUT BACK to obituaries. This is my concern—what happens if I should, has vehalila, get hepatitis B-12 or an inoperable hammertoe, and make the big aliya? How long an obituary would I get? Would it start on the front pages of all the major international dailies, or would it only make the newsbriefs sections of trade magazines? What happens if I’m not mentioned at all? Yikes.
As a seasoned hypochondriac, I have these thoughts every time I get a head cold, but I’ve been more depressed about it than usual because I’m staring at a book written by Raphael Patai entitled “Nahum Goldmann—His Missions to the Gentiles.” How humbling. Talk about big. Not having missions to the gentiles, but having a book written about your missions to the gentiles. I hope someone writes a biography about me called “Jeffrey Goldberg—His Missions to the Gentiles.” Or maybe, “Jeffrey Goldberg—Friend and Counselor to the Gentiles.” Or at least, “Jeffrey Goldberg—He Knew Some Gentiles.” And if nothing else, a pamphlet entitled “I Once Knew a Goy—the Jeffrey Goldberg Story.”
Modesty, I know, is an admirable and Jewish virtue—but can I help it if I want to be remembered for all eternity? Not only remembered, but mourned; actively, mournfully mourned. I don’t want to hear any of this, “he would have wanted us to go on with the show” crap when I go. Whole armies should stand at attention at news of my demise; schools and factories should be shut down; kings and queens should rend their clothing in despair. They should also be allowed to sell their clothing, should they feel that to be an appropriate response.
I must get to work doing great things. I will make many missions to the gentiles. I will make many missions to the gentiles even if they don’t want any missions from me. No matter—this is the only way to make sure that, no matter when I go, the world will notice.
Or maybe I’ll just live forever. All I have to do is wear a condom on my face.