The Instructions by Adam Levin
Tonight, the first night on which Israelites have received these instructions, is May 27, 2006. Do as you’re told and one week from tonight 183 Israelite boys will be armed with pennyguns. Two weeks from tonight, 2,380 Israelite boys will be armed. Three weeks from tonight, 30,941 Israelite boys, and four weeks from tonight, just three days beyond the summer solstice, 402,234 Israelite boys will be armed with pennyguns. Well in advance of the start of next schoolyear, every Israelite boy in North America, if not the world, will be armed with pennyguns. Never again will we cower amid the masses of the Roman and Canaanite children.
Bless Adonai, who helps us protect us.
Blessed is Elohim, Who blesses our weapons.
Chazak! Chazak! Venischazeik!
Say it.
Now leave my yard. I will see you tomorrow. You will be stronger tomorrow than you are today.
Whereas, apart from all the other doctoring done to it (e.g., any statement conspicuously addressed to a plurality had been individualized, any line that read speakerly made writerly, all references to backyards and Israelites omitted, the title changed from Ulpan to Instructions), the document I’d delivered to Nakamook had ended like this:
Now that you have been delivered these instructions, make of them ashes. Burn and never speak of them lest we enter into enmity.
And so, on seeing Ulpan (or, more accurately: on seeing what he thought was Instructions) in the possession of an unfamiliar fifth-grader, Benji assumed betrayal was afoot, and even if I had known what to say to stop him, I would not have had time to.
Nakamook flew.
With the nasty hand, he grabbed the kid’s shirt’s alligator and pulled him to his feet. He took hold of the kid’s nose. “Where’d you get Instructions?” he said, “I’ll twist your cute fucking nose off I swear to God I’ll dot your i I’ll fucking kill you.”
I told him to stop, but he couldn’t hear me. The others were saying, “Unhand our buddy,” and “Hurt him and you’re dead,” and “You’re dead.”
Now came the beginning-of-fifth tone and, as if it were a go-signal, one of the fifth-graders punched Nakamook in the back. I had to jump up and hug the kid away because Benji had let go of the nose kid and turned.
I spun us and my hood whipped sideways. Benji’s fist caught in the peak and tore an inch off at the seam, but he missed the kid, baruch Hashem. He said, “Let me cross his t, Gurion. Let me double-space him.”
I said, He was protecting his friend.
Benji said, “He punched me.”
But he didn’t hurt you, I said. I said, You’re not hurt, right?
“He wants to hurt me,” Benji said. “Look at him.”
The kid’s jaws were crab-appled with teeth-clenching. I said, “This is Benji Nakamook. This is Nakamook, okay?”
The strain against my arms faded and the kid said, “He attacked Mr. Goldblum!”
“Who the fuck is Mr. Goldblum?” Nakamook said. He started laughing a special pirate-laugh he’d only laugh when he was murderous. The first time I’d heard it, I thought to call him Captain Kidd, but the moniker died on my tongue because I killed it. No nickname could ever rightly stick to Nakamook.
The kid half-tried to force himself out of my grip again. He made a sound like nyah, like he really meant it, but he’d realized who he’d punched and he was already shivering. I put a hand on his head to calm him. He pushed his face into my armpit and cried.
Benji turned to the one whose nose he’d just held. “Are you Mr. Goldblum?”
“You’re dead,” the nose kid said.
He was Mr. Goldblum.
Benji said, “I’m not anything even like dead. And I think you’re Mr. Goldblum. Do you like being called Mr. Goldblum?”
“I don’t care if you’re Nakamook,” said Mr. Goldblum. He said, “My friends will kill you anyway.”
“We’ll kill you in your sleep.” “You can’t fight while you’re unconscious.” “We’ll burn your house down.” “Nyah!” “You can’t fight when you’re tied up.” “And suffocating on fumes.” “And dying of fright.” “You’ll be shocked to the very marrow.” “The very very marrow.” “Nyah!”
Then two new events took place at the same time. Nurse Clyde rushed out of the Quiet Room to investigate the noise we were making, and a tiny sick-looking girl in a dress made of t-shirt came in from the hallway. The sick girl sat where I’d been sitting before I’d had to hug the kid I was hugging.
Nurse Clyde said, “What’s happening here?”
Mr. Goldblum said, “The Levinson tripped on his shoelace. Gurion picked him up.”
“I tripped,” said the kid in my arms, who was called The Levinson.
“Why didn’t anyone knock?”
Nakamook said, “I just got here, Clyde. Check the partial stigmata.” He waved the hand and blooddrops dripped on the carpeting.
Nurse Clyde ignored Benji. He said to The Levinson, “Your shoelaces are tied, little man.”
“It’s a miracle.” “He’s very clumsy.” “I tripped on my heel.” “Spontaneous knotting.”
“Unfortunately, ’e doyed of spawntineous comboostion,” Nakamook said.
Spinal Tap.
Here the sick-looking girl threw up on her legs. Just one heave. Then she apologized.
“Oh, honey,” Nurse Clyde said. He carried the girl into the examining room, which was right next to the Quiet Room.
Benji said to Mr. Goldblum and The Levinson and the other two, “Good move not ratting.”
“Nakamook dies at dawn.” “Darkness forever.” “Choked.” “Strang-ulation.”
Benji said, “Who are these little guys?”
Israelites, I said. They tried to protect their friend Shpritzy from getting beaten up by a Shover and—
“You mean like Bernard Shpritz? That violin whiz?” said Benji.
“That’s him.” “That’s Shpritzy.” “And he’s not just our friend.” “He’s our best buddy.” “He’s the best violinist ever.” “He’s the best guy in the whole world, next to these guys, who are also the best guys.” “And it wasn’t Shovers who messed us up.” “And it wasn’t a Shover who messed Shpritzy up.” “What do we have to do with any Shovers?” “What does Shpritzy have to do with any Shovers?”
You said you were friends with Berman, I said.
“Friends, sure, but not buddies!” “And barely even friends!” “There’s a distinction! A huge distinction!” “Huge.” “That’s why it was weird that the kid who hurt Shpritzy said ‘say hi to Josh Berman’ and ‘tell him sharp scarf,’ cause what do we have to do with Berman? We’re not Shovers and we don’t have anything to do with any scarves.” “Let alone Shpritzy!” “Poor Shpritzy! Man!” “Stupid scarves!” “Shpritzy had nothing to do with Berman!” “Shpritzy had nothing to do with those scarves!” “Shpritzy!” “Aw, Shpritzy!” “Poor Shpritzy!” “Aw, Shpritzy!”
Nakamook said, “That Shpritzy kid really is a good kid. He plays The Godfather theme-song for me on the bus whenever I ask him to. I don’t even have to ask him anymore. I just make a twetching noise, like I’m twetching on the floor in anger, and I say to him, ‘I’m a Cor Lee O Nay,’ and he plays it. Who beat him up? Give me a name. I’ll beat that guy up. And steal his bike.”
I said, These guys are gonna do it.
“We’ll do it.” “Don’t say who it is.” “It’s ours to do.” “We’ll get that guy.” “Don’t say his name.” “Don’t even hint.” “He’s ours.” “We’ll damage him from a distance.” “He’s ours, Nakamook.”
Nakamook said to them, “He’s yours.”
“He’s not ours because you say so.” “He’s ours because we say so.” “And because Gurion says that what we say is so.” “And you didn’t even say sorry.”
“If you apologized to me, it would mean nothing,” said Nakamook, “and nothingness commands nothing if not reciprocity. If I apologized to you, nothing I said would ever be worth anything again and so I would be worth nothing. And what happened, anyway? Mr.
They huddled for a second. Whispered, nodded. Then they un-huddled. “Friends, but not best buddies.” “Not buddies at all.” “Or even great friends or good friends.” “We’re just friends.”
“I don’t keep buddies, anyway,” Nakamook said, “and if you wanna take care of the guy who hurt our friend Shpritzy, that’s cool, but if you get your clauses spliced while you’re trying, I’ll gladly indent your enemies. Count on it.”
“What does that mean?” “What’s he talking about, indent?” “Spliced clauses?”
Don’t act ignorant, I told them.
I let go of The Levinson, but The Levinson didn’t let go of me. I said, How many Israelites at Aptakisic have pennyguns?
The Levinson said, “All of us, Gurion.” “We delivered your instructions to all of us,” Pinker added. “Almost all of us,” Mr. Goldblum corrected, in a low, conspiratorial tone.
I said, What do you mean almost? What’s the tone?
Mr. Goldblum popped his eyes out at Pinker and The Levinson.
The Levinson and Pinker winked at Mr. Goldblum. “Well there’s a…there’s a new one we’re not friends with,” said The Levinson, “and we don’t know about him. He might be an Israelite, but he also might just be a Jew.” “He only started school this week,” said Mr. Goldblum. “He’s orthodox.” “Co-Captain Baxter knocked his hat off.”
That’s Eliyahu of Brooklyn, I said, and there are no more Jews, only Israelites. So don’t get toney just cause someone who dresses sharper than you knows more—
“It’s not cause he’s Orthodox.” “Nathan Feingold’s Orthodox.” “And he’s a really good buddy.” “It’s just we didn’t know him, right guys?” “Right.” “Yeah.” “He’s new.” “We didn’t know him.”
I know him, I said. And he’s your brother, and if you saw him get his hat knocked off and didn’t do anything about it, you should be ashamed and repentent. Not toney.
“We didn’t see him get his hat knocked off.” “We just heard about it.” “And if you say he’s our brother, then he’s our brother.” “And if you know him, then maybe he has a pennygun.” “We can’t say for sure.” “We can’t say for sure, but we’re not being toney about him, Gurion. Really.”
And it was true. At least it seemed to have become true: the tone was gone.
Do you have them on you? I said. Your weapons?
“We keep them at home,” The Levinson said. “We’re waiting.”
For what? I said.
“More instructions.”
There aren’t any more, I said.
“You’re instructing us to stop waiting?”
Sure, I said.
Then Shpritzy came out of the Quiet Room. He had a fat lip and a temple-bruise. His shirt was torn on the sleeve-seam. Besides that, he looked just like the rest of them.
“So who messed you up?” said Nakamook.
“Don’t say!” said the four. Shpritzy didn’t say.
I’m Gurion, I said to him.
“Finally,” he said.
He sat down in the middle of his friends. They were, the five of them: Shpritzy, The Levinson, Mr. Goldblum, GlassMan, and Pinker. They leaned into each other, back-slapping.
Nakamook said to me, “Why’s it okay for them to betray your Instructions?”
I said, They didn’t.
“How’s that?” he said.
Their document’s different.
“Different,” said Nakamook.
From yours, I said.
“Why different?” he said.
They’re, I said, Israelites.
“Okay,” he said. “So what, though?” he said.
You’re not, I said.
“But so what, though?” he said.
So I didn’t want you spreading my instructions.
“Spreading them to who?”
Others.
“Other goys.”
Goyim.
“Goyim, whatever. Other goyim like who? Like Vincie? Main Man? Goyim like Leevon?”
Hey—
“Or no, you mean goyim like Botha and Slokum, right? Like Floyd and Desormie? Acer and Berman? Pinge and Brodsky?—no, not Brodsky; not a goy, Brodsky. Not Berman, either.”
Listen—
“Right—I know. It’s okay. I know. I’m making it too complicated. Just goyim, right? All of the goyim. Any of the goyim. Vincie and Slokum, Main Man and Botha, Leevon and Floyd and Sandy. Same difference.”
Benji.
“What?”
I—
“Why would I spread your instructions, anyway?” he said.
I didn’t say you would—it’s just theirs say to spread them.
“These five little Cubs-fan knuckleheads here.”
Yes, I said, but—
“These little guys you don’t know—theirs say to spread them.”
Yes, I said.
“And mine not only doesn’t say spread them. Mine says burn this document or we’re enemies,” said Benji.
I know what yours says. I wrote it, I said. I wrote both of them, I said.
“Mine says if I don’t burn it we’re enemies,” he said. “Theirs say, ‘Strangers, please spread this to other strangers.’”
Other Israelites, I said.
“Other Israelite strangers.”
Yes, already. So what? I said. I said, Why don’t you just take it as a compliment, Benji?
“A compliment?” he said.
A compliment, I said. I said, You’re the only non-Israelite I ever gave it to.
“You didn’t, though,” he said. “You didn’t give it to me.”
I—
“You changed it,” he said.
But—
“You didn’t?”
I did. That’s established. We’ve long since established that. I did it for you though. Because you’re you.
“Nakamook the goy. Gentile me.”
Nakamook the friend. My best friend Benji.
“A mensch among the goyim, but a goy nonetheless.”
The only non-Israelite to whom I’d give Ulpan.
“Ulpan?”
That’s what it’s called. I changed the title of yours.
“Whose is better?” he said.
That’s, I said. That’s a weird question. I don’t think it makes… It depends on who—
“To you,” he said. “To Gurion. Whose is better? The one you gave strangers to spread to strangers, or the one you gave the goy containing the threat?”
In answer, I shrugged = I don’t want to lie to you.
“He shrugs. He’s speechless. He stammers and shrugs.”
Back off now, I said.
“‘Back off now,’ he says.”
What do you want from me? I said.
“What do you think I fucken want, man.”
You’re not an Israelite. I can’t do anything about that, Benji.
“Jesus fucking Christ.”
You want contrition? You want me to apologize? Cause you’re not an Israelite? Because I am?
A tube above us flickered and made him look dead.
Benji said, “Tch.” He said, “Nevermind.” He pulled the pencil-stub out of his hand with his teeth. “Flesh wound,” he said, and forced a laugh. He folded it up in a “Say No” brochure from the D.A.R.E. shelf by the door, said, “Relic in an envelope.” Another forced laugh and he left into Main Hall.
I had done, from the beginning, the best I could. Why couldn’t he see that? Why can’t he see that? Why can’t he see my side of things? I thought. But he did, I knew—he did see my side. And so I attempted to see his side and saw it, and saw that I’d seen it—I’d always seen it; I hadn’t missed anything—I just wasn’t on it. Benji’d get over it. He’d have to get over it. It wasn’t a thing I had to get over.
I pressed al
My fingers wouldn’t break.
The cracking sounds stopped.
For three or four seconds, Main Hall was quiet.
Then Benji set off the fire alarm.
The sky was always prettiest when I hadn’t known I’d see it. It seemed less round, more like a blanket. The clouds all looked sewn in and deliberate.
As soon as we got outside, I felt watched.
For mid-November, it wasn’t cold. The air didn’t make steam of our breath or crust our gooze, but still I was coatless and I shivered a little.
Nurse Clyde, who was holding the puker in a fireman’s carry, led me and the Five across Rand Road to the two-hill field and told us to find our fifth-period teachers and let them know we were safe. Then the nurse set the girl in the grass and she puked more.
Most students and teachers were still exiting the school. The Five followed me past the ones who’d already exited—none of whom were June—and I took us up the high hill for a better view. I started a circle by leaning on a stump. The Five finished the circle and we sat facing west.
A paramedic and a cop were consulting with each other outside the front entrance, from which students and teachers continually emerged to cross the street in single-file lines. Each teacher, once her class arrived in the field, ordered her students to stay where they were, then headed to an area just east of the sidewalk where a growing group of teachers huddled and gossiped. No one else climbed the high hill, but many of the students, once their teachers had gone, abandoned their classes to find their friends, and they all faced the school, some hugging themselves and some rubbing others’ shoulders and others playing slapslap for warmth. As their numbers grew and their density thickened, more and more of them stood, and more cop cars and fire engines came up Rand Road.