Izzy Glick, Nativity impresario
by David Benjamin
BETHLEHEM,
0 A.D. — Contrary to popular legend, the desk clerk at the inn — whose
name was Nahim — was sympathetic to the bedraggled couple who arrived
from Nazareth and asked for a room. After giving them the bad news the
inn was full up, Nahim said, “Wait a minute! I just got word that these
three Magi from God-knows-where, who are searching for the Christchild —
I mean, really! These days, who’s NOT searching for the Christchild?
But they’re running late and I can see that your wife is really
pregnant. Whoa! Is she gonna have a baby or a camel? Seriously, though,
the Presidential Suite is sitting empty. So why don’t I sneak you two in
there, at the regular room rate, at least for tonight.”
The
couple were about to jump at the deal when a man small of stature with
large, soulful eyes, horseshoe-bald with abundant sideburns, a wispy
mustache and wet lips, interceded. “Not so fast there, Nahim, my good
man. Not so fast!”
He shook hands all around. “How are ya! My
name is Glick, Isadore Glick. But you should call me Izzy. I’m what my
friends call a facilitator and you don’t wanna hear what my enemies call
me! Hah! Listen, I couldn’t help but hear Nahim here utter the words
‘Christchild’ and ‘pregnant’ in the same paragraph. And it hit me!”
“What,” said the man from Nazareth, “hit you?”
“An
idea! A brainstorm! The chance of a lifetime? Lifetime? No! This is the
chance of an epoch,” raved Izzy. “Nahim, you have a stable here, am I
right?”
Nahim said, “Yes, but it’s just, well, a stable. It’s not exactly clean.”
“Perfect! Nahim, that’s where you’re gonna put up — wait! Who are you folks?”
“Well, my name is Joseph. And my wife is Miriam — ”
“No, no. Can’t be Miriam. Sounds too Jewish. Let’s just shorten it to Mary, whaddya say? For the sake of the story.”
“Story?” asked Joseph. “What story?”
“You
folks just leave that part to me. Meanwhile, Nahim! I’ll take that
suite off your hands. Somebody’s got to stay there, right? Now, let’s us
three — you and me, Joe, and the lovely Mary — let’s take a look at
that cozy little stable!”
Before they could object, Mary and
Joseph were out behind the inn. They beheld the boniest cow they’d ever
seen, standing forlorn and ankle-deep in manure in a cramped, filthy
stable.
“Nope, not quite ready for prime time,” said Izzy Glick.
“I mean, it has possibilities. But something’s missing. All we’ve got
now for props is a hangdog cow and that broken-down manger. Even if we
throw in your donkey…”
With that, Izzy disappeared. Mary and
Joseph did their best to clear some of the manure, spread straw and
repair the manger. An hour later, as darkness fell, Izzy was back with a
group of men and one boy, all carrying musical instruments. “Hey folks,
look what I found! Shepherds from the hills around Bethlehem.”
“We’re not shepherds,” insisted one of the group.
“Actually,
M&J,” said Izzy in a confidential tone, “they’re the band. They’re
playing the lounge at the inn this week. Hey, Mac, what do you call
yourselves?”
“Little Caesar and the Romans,” said the leader, in
a resentful tone. “Listen, man, you gonna tell us why we have to wear
these cockamamie shepherd threads?”
“Look, man. The Christchild
narrative just doesn’t resonate if the babe is surrounded by a lot of
cool cats in shades with klezmers and Stratocasters, you dig? It has to
be shepherds, okay? With staffs.”
“Well, as long as we get paid,” said Little Caesar.
“Oh, don’t you worry about that!” said Izzy. “Great! Here come the sheep!”
Nahim
arrived, leading a half-dozen sheep. He looked both skeptical and
anxious. He said, “Mr. Glick, my boss is going to miss these sheep. He
was planning to serve them for dinner tonight.”
“Listen, kid.
This deal is way bigger than a few bowls of mutton stew. As Marie
Antoinette is eventually gonna say, ‘Let ‘em eat cake.' Or fish. Or
escarole!’”
“Marie who?” said one of the Romans.
As Nahim
withdrew, Izzy busily arranged sheep, cow, donkey and faux shepherds
around the stable. He added a stray puppy to the tableau, tossed around a
few pine boughs and glowed with proprietary pride. Suddenly, he turned
on Mary. “So, if it’s a boy — oy vey! it’s, it’s gotta be a boy!— whaddya gonna call him?”
“We were thinking, Jesus.”
“Jesus?
Really? Half the kids in Israel are Jesuses. I’m thinking — liberate
your minds here a little bit, kids — something a little catchier. More
exotic! Like — you ready? — Elvis.”
“Elvis?” said Joseph. “What the hell kind of a name — ”
“Look,
Joe, we’re creating an image here. This baby of yours — I kid you not —
could be the Christchild everybody’s waiting for. All he needs is a
good promoter! A facilitator. A man with a plan! Enter Izzy Glick!”
Izzy could tell Joseph wasn’t buying it.
“Picture
it. Elvis Christ! With my help, little Elvis’ll have followers before
he hits puberty. Followers, Joe! Elvisites. Or Elivisciples. Pretty
soon, there’ll be a whole movement. Elvisism. Elvisanity. Something like
that.”
Mary, however, stuck with “Jesus” and crept back onto a pile of straw to have her baby in relative solitude.
The
child was born that night. The pseudo-shepherds got bored and asked if
they could play a few numbers. Izzy agreed but not while tiny Jesus was
asleep. “And tell your Little Drummer Boy to keep it to a low roar,”
said Izzy. “He’s not exactly Gene Krupa, y’know.”
“Gene who?” said Little Caesar.
Joseph
couldn’t understand why his wife had to nurse her firstborn in a stable
amongst at lot of livestock and strangers. He’d been patient with Izzy,
but he decided to finally put his foot down.
“Look, Joe, my
man!” said Izzy. “You gotta start looking Big Picture here. You think
I’m in this deal for the short haul? No way, bro. I can see things ten,
twenty years down the road, Joe. Picture your little Elvis — I mean,
Jesus — booked at every wedding, funeral and synagogue from Tarsus to
Judea. Picture him playing the main gallery at the Temple — in
Jerusalem! He’s talking circles around the Sadducees and ripping into
the moneychangers. As clear as day, I can see this kid — your son, Joe! —
leading throngs of wide-eyed believers, to a mountaintop somewhere in
Galilee. Holding thousands spellbound for hours, praying, preaching,
pontificating, tossing off blessings like lollipops at a Fourth of July
parade! I tell ya, Joe baby. This is going to be huge!”
“Fourth of what?” asked Joseph.
Izzy
kept talking, but Joseph never really understood the concept. The
Nativity miracle might have died there in the stable if the Magi hadn’t
arrived in the nick of time. “Now here,” said Izzy, rubbing his hands
and arching his eyebrows, “is a team I can work with. Yo, Caesar! Strike
up the Romans!”
As the band swung into a ragtime riff, Izzy
huddled with Balthazar, Melchior and Caspar. “Listen, guys, I know
you’ve been on the road a long time, looking for this mythical
Christchild. Believe me, I know what you’re going through. These are
hard times. The world is in sin and error pining. The Romans are running
the show and the king is a sadistic puppet who’s likely any minute to
pop his gourd and serve up the local prophet’s head on a platter for his
slutty stepdaughter’s bachelorette luncheon. And then he might grab you
guys and turn you into dessert! Meanwhile, you’ve got free-lance
messiahs coming out of the woodwork. How you ever gonna tell the
flimflammers from the real Son of God?”
“We’re sure we’ll know
him when we see him,” said Caspar. “The Christchild will reveal himself.
He will be young and innocent, but his voice will be wondrous, his
message irresistible and his faith pure.”
“For your sake, pal, I
hope so. But you might just be barking up the wrong forest,” said Izzy.
“What you boys have to do is think younger! Think
Moses-in-the-bulrushes. Madonna-and-Child. Babe-in-a-manger. Think Jesus
Christ!”
“Think who?” asked Balthazar.
With that, Izzy
pushed aside several sheep. The Three Kings beheld a destitute newborn
swaddled in rags lying in a smelly stable while lounge musicians in
shepherd drag sawed away at the birth of the blues.
“Voila,
gents: the perfect Christchild. This little bundle of joy hasn’t been
ruined yet by rabbis and Pharisees. He hasn’t even been circumsized! His
story is a blank slate. Lucky for all of us, though, it won’t be blank
for long, because I happen to know a young scribe who can write it all
up — my cousin Irv’s nephew Luke. That boy can spin a yarn that’ll
boggle your mind, tickle your fancy, break your heart and turn that
crummy stable into the Good Lord’s tabernacle. By the time he’s done, my
boy Luke will have angels bending near the earth, heaven and nature
singing, hallelujahs falling like snow, giant blinding stars rolling
across the night sky like Apollo’s chariot.”
The Magi, who were
dead on their feet and ready to end their quest, wavered. Izzy sealed
the deal by offering to give up the Presidential Suite at the crowded
inn.
“So,” said Izzy, “you’ve got your newborn King. Did somebody mention that you brought gifts.”
The Magi showed Izzy their stash of gold, frankincense and myrrh.
“Give
Joe there the frankincense and myrrh,” said Izzy. “But I’d better hold
the gold. The last thing the Savior needs, image-wise, is for word to
get out that he’s hip-deep in the old do-re-mi, you dig? The kid’s gotta
be a man of the people. Wear sandals. Catch fish. Work with his hands.
Abe Lincoln and all that, y’know?”
“Abe who?” said Balthazar.
Izzy shouted, over the music. “Hey, Joe! What do you do for a living?”
“I’m a carpenter.”
“Oh
God, is that perfect or what?” said Izzy to the Magi. “Come on. Let me
introduce you boys to Joe, Mary and the Everloving Savior of the World. I
tell ya, fellas. This is going to be huge!”
Wednesday, December 10, 2014
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