The Instructions by Adam Levin
“The Israelites, Rabbi, of Aptakisic.”
Well, I have no plan for the Shovers, I said. That’s a misunderstanding.
“But they’re enemies of the Israelites!”
No, I said. No they’re not. They’re enemies of some Israelites, I said.
“Because they’re Israelites,” said Ally. “Which means they’re enemies of all Israelites.” He was standing up by then. So was Googy.
Sit, I said.
They sat.
The Shovers, I said, are the enemies of those Israelite Shovers who defaced their scarves with stars of David. They’re the enemies of those Israelite Shovers because those Israelite Shovers—who are dickheads, by the way, bigger dickheads even than the Gentile ones—broke Shover rules.
“I always thought they were dickheads, too, Gurion, and so did Googy—they’re all the enemies of comedy, and that’s not up for argument—and the Israelite ones, we thought, were especially big dickheads—not everyone thought that, but some of us did, and me and Goog especially, because they embarrassed us—so you have no disagreement from us that the Israelite Shovers have been dickheads. But then, like you said, they broke Shover rules, and the reason they broke Shover rules was because they wanted to be good Israelites. Or at least because they didn’t want to be bad Israelites.”
They should have just quit.
“They did, though. They quit.”
They didn’t, I said. They got kicked out.
“I’m telling you they quit—you must not have read the email. They got kicked out on Wednesday, but yesterday afternoon they held an emergency meeting and they quit, and Berman sent this, like, press release to everyone announcing it last night.”
I said, Tch.
“Tch what?” said Ally.
I said, They’d already been kicked out by then.
“I see your point,” Ally said. “And I’m with you,” he said, “and I know it looks weak. It probably even is weak—quitting after you’re fired, it looks like caulk, but still, they’re no longer Shovers, and they are Israelites, and since they’re Israelites, it seems like they should be given the benefit of the doubt. At least it seems that way to me. That I should give them the benefit of the doubt. Am I wrong, Rabbi? Isn’t that the right thing to do?”
He wasn’t wrong. It was the right thing to do.
I told him so. Then Googy nodded vigorously, pointed at me, peek-a-booed, shrugged, choked himself, and shrugged again.
Ally said, “What Googy wants to know is why did you reveal yourself yesterday if it wasn’t to bring us together to attack the Shovers over the scarves?”
The Five were looking for me, I said to Googy.
Googy waved me off like a beggar.
“Googy finds that hard to believe,” Ally said. “So do I. They just happened to be looking for you yesterday? The timing’s too perfect. There has to be some connection between—”
There is, I said, but it’s not through me. Shpritzy got attacked by Shlomo Cohen yesterday—
“It looked more, to us, like he attacked Shlomo. Him and the other four.”
Shlomo attacked Shpritzy first, I said. During Lunch-Recess. He beat Shpritzy up and some other guys restrained the other four so they couldn’t interfere, and when he was finished beating on Shpritzy, he made it clear it was because of the scarves. He said, ‘Say hi to Berman for me. Tell him, ‘Sharp scarf,’ and—’
“Tell Acer sharp scarf, you mean,” Ally said. “Acer’s the one who started the fishes.”
No, I said, Berman, who started the stars.
“I don’t like that,” said Ally. “That’s lousy. I don’t like it. You know, when the Five brought Ulpan to Aptakisic, Shlomo was the only Israelite who didn’t get it. I was there. So was Googy. In Pinker’s backyard—Pinker was the one who invited him, Shlomo, but Shlomo didn’t show. There were only twelve of us at Pinker’s. Everyone else was divided up between the rest of the Five’s backyards. Everyone else but Shlomo, like I said. And anyway, we waited for an hour for him to show, and he didn’t show, and he didn’t even call. And since the way Pinker invited everyone to receive your Ulpan was by going up to them in the hall and handing them a list of supplies with his address on it, and saying, ‘Tonight, my place. Secret meeting for Israelites,’ lots of people, that night, said Shlomo was a self-hating Jew. That he didn’t come because he hated Israelites. But I told them no. I defended Shlomo. I thought that was too much, them calling him that name. That’s a bad thing to call someone. It’s one of the worst things to be. And, really, I thought Shlomo probably just didn’t want to hang out with us, but now you tell me what you’re telling me, and I’m thinking you’re saying maybe Shlomo Cohen is, after all, a self-hating Jew. Like, you know, like Noam Chomsky, or Philip Roth or whoever, so, I mean, is that what you’re saying?”
I said, Philip Roth’s not a self-hating Jew. I said, No one with half a brain even considers that a possibility anymore. It’s not even a conversation. Shlomo Cohen, though—yeah, he must be. I guess I’m saying he must be. It’s the only explanation, right? Shlomo Cohen is a self-hating Jew, so when all of a sudden the Israelite Shovers start making a big deal out of being Israelites, he wants to distinguish himself from them, I’m saying. He wants everyone to know that even though his name’s Shlomo Cohen, he is not on the same side as you’d think—he is not on the side of starred scarves, loud Israeliteness, and—
“Except but then he’d attack Berman. Berman’s the one who started the scarf-starring.”
You’d think so, right? But Berman’s a big kid, I said, and Shlomo, as we all saw yesterday in the two-hill field, is a serious bleeder, and if all you thought you needed to do to get your message across was beat up a conspicuously Israelite kid at Aptakisic, a conspicuously Israelite kid who’s a known associate of all the other Aptakisic Israelites, and so a known associate of the Israelite Shovers, you wouldn’t pick Berman. Not if you didn’t know how to fight. And not if you were a giant coward. If you didn’t know how to fight, and were a giant coward, you’d pick the smallest kid you could to inflict your message, the kid who’d put up the least resistance.
“Shpritzy,” said Ally.
The violin whiz himself.
“Okay. I’m sold. You’ve sold me on that. Shlomo’s a self-hating Jew and Berman starred the scarves, so Shlomo attacked Shpritzy, told him say hi to Berman, and that’s why the Five came looking for you. Okay. We’re sold. Me and Googy the both. But we’re still not sold on not attacking the Shovers, and—”
Googy grabbed hair from the back of his own head and smashed his face into the seatback in front of him.
“Exactly,” Ally said. “Why did you mess up Blake Acer so bad?”
Acer was writing WE DAMAGE WE bombs.
“You’re against the Side of Damage?”
I lead the Side of Damage.
“That’s what we heard, but—”
Acer’s not on it.
“But he’s not the only one not on it who writes WE DAMAGE WE.”
You?
“Well… yes.”
Don’t worry, I said. I said, Write it all you want.
“I’m on the Side of Damage?”
You’re an Israelite, I said.
“Israelites are on the Side of Damage?”
Some are, I said, but that doesn’t matter.
“You’re really confusing me. If I can write WE DAMAGE WE whether or not I’m on the Side of Damage, why can’t Acer?”
Israelites are my brothers.
“Acer’s not.”
Acer’s a Shover.
“So tell me again why we shouldn’t attack the Shovers.”
Who said you shouldn’t?
“You said you didn’t have a plan.”
I don’t have a plan.
“And then you said they weren’t antisemites, the Shovers.”
They’re not, I said.
“But they’re dickheads, you’re saying.”
Total dickheads. Arrangement gizmos.
&
You’d have my blessing.
“But no further instructions.”
I said, I taught you how to build weapons and use them. I told you to protect each other. I’m telling you you’re Israelites. What better instruction do you need? Damage dickheads and gizmos whenever you get the chance, and protect each other while you do it. Adonai will take care of the rest.
“That’s all?”
What more do you want, Ally?
“Will you help us?”
I have helped you. I am helping you.
“But will you lead us?”
Am I leading you right now?
“I don’t know.”
Then neither do I.
“Riddles.”
I don’t speak in riddles, Ally. Riddles are for pagans. If you’re following me, I’m leading you.
“I’m following you.”
Good, I said.
And I saw that it was.
The rest of the ride I sat by Dingle and Salvador. Dingle said, “Bro,” and banged fists with me. Salvador offered me a lime-wedge. I sucked it and tried not to wince, but did. “Almost,” said Salvador.
“You almost had it,” said Dingle. “For real. You want to see me bleed? I won’t even charge you.”
That’s okay, I said.
“What’s your favorite Palahniuk?”
I’ve never read him.
“Bro,” said Dingle.
What? I said.
“Dude,” he said.
The parking lot was thick with unfamiliar vehicles and non-scholastic personnel. Long-haired guys wearing leather eased a giant spotlight down an eighteen-wheeler’s trailer-ramp. Men chokered with chunky headphones erected broadcast dishes in the beds of tricked-out pickups. It wasn’t that cold outside, just a touch below freezing, but the air was damp from the morning drizzle, and the first breath I took after stepping off the bus gave me a one-shake chill and came out white.
Main Man and Vincie played slapslap on the curb. Scott kept saying “Smack.” I didn’t see June anywhere.
“Smack,” Scott said, and Vincie pulled his hands away.
I came up beside them. None of us wore gloves.
“Smackattack,” said Main Man, and he scored again.
Vincie cocked his chin at me and winked ≠ “I am letting Main Man win,” though I thought it did, and I didn’t believe him—his flinching seemed authentically defensive. He said to Mookus, “Four–one you, but that’s the last time I fall for it.”
He fell for it once more, or seemed to, and then it was his turn to slap.
Main Man said, “Smack.” Vincie balked, lost the point.
“That’s cheap,” he said.
Haha, I said.
Main Man looked past me, saying nothing.
It would take him another minute to rout Vincie 13–5. Between the clouds, strips of sky shone green. Wind blew low and hard and sudden enough to tousle the loops of our shoelace-knots. A shallow puddle on the pavement spread.
“Smack-ack,” said Main Man, and the game was over.
Vincie cocked his chin and winked.
He beat you sound, I said.
“Fuck does that have to do with anything?” Vincie said. He cocked his chin once more and I saw that his winking wasn’t conspiratorial. It was a blinker-action for the chin-cocking, which had, itself, been a brandishment: there was a mouth-shaped welt near his collarbone. That’s what I was supposed to look at.
Nice hatermark, I said.
“It’s called a hickey when you’re in love.”
Wouldn’t that be when it’s called a lovebite? I said.
“If you’re some kinda gothy fucken sap, maybe,” said Vincie. “You ever get one, though? You should really get one from June, man. Starla Flangent, I’ll tell you what. When Vincie held her hand she felt e lec tric ity.”
Benji, I said.
“Fuck does Benji have to do with anything?”
When Benji held her hand.
“I don’t think you’re right.”
I’m right.
“We’re talking about the same song?”
‘The Love You Save,’ I said. I said, Jackson 5.
“Whatever, Gurion. All I’m saying is getting a hickey like this one—I want to play drums for a Motown outfit. I want to rob banks. Listen—”
“No you fucken listen!” Scott said.
“Okay,” said Vincie.
Okay, I said.
We’d never heard Main Man curse before, and his eyeballs were trembling like Mr. Klapper’s, as if straining to take in a sight too large for Main Man’s field of vision to accommodate. He lifted his left foot a couple inches off the pavement, said, “I’m singing today? I’m singing today,” then lost his balance and set the foot back down.
What’s wrong? I asked him.
“I forgot,” he said. Then he did the foot thing again.
“He’s nervous,” Vincie said, “cause his parents aren’t coming.”
That true, Scott? I said.
Main Man wouldn’t look at me.
“His little brother Jimmy called me last night to tell me,” said Vincie. “I never even knew there was a little brother Jimmy. What a nice little brother. You got a nice little brother, Scott. Jimmy called and told me their parents had to go to some long-weekend Christian retreat thing in Wisconsin today, and Scott forgot all about it til they reminded him last night during dinner when he told them he was psyched for them to see him perform. But I say: So what? I say: So fucken what? I say: Better no parents, especially real Christian ones, since how many girls are gonna be in that audience, and girls are the ones that give hickies, not parents. So no parents isn’t something to be nervous about, right? So he shouldn’t be nervous about that, Gurion, should he?”
No, I said. You shouldn’t, Scott.
“If he’s gonna be nervous, he should be nervous cause he’s about to get famous, right?”
Right, I said.
“Why he should be nervous is cause, starting second period, every Jenny and Ashley at Aptakisic’s gonna chase him through the hallways Hard Day’s Night–style for the rest of his life just to touch his fucken shirt, right?”
Exactly, I said.
“‘Scott Mookus! Oh my God! It’s Scott fucken Mookus! I want to touch his shirt! That’s a shirt he once sweated in! I want to touch his shirt and then suck on my hand and make him a part of me!’”
Vincie put his fist out, but Main Man wouldn’t bang it.
Main Man, I said, Vincie’s telling you—
“Am I still singing today?” he said. “Do I still get to sing?”
Yeah, I said. Of course, I said. I said, Don’t worry. What’re you worried about?
He handed me a letter in an unmarked envelope. I didn’t need to open it to know from who.
11/16&17/06
Gurion,
For the past few hours, I’ve been thinking I’d call you as soon as I figured out what to say, but I haven’t been able to figure that out, and it’s almost ten, and I hate the phone anyway, so instead I’ve decided to write you this letter. I still can’t figure out what to say, though. I can’t figure out the right way to start. I know THIS isn’t it, but I’m thinking: Well, at least it’s honest so far. At least you can be honest. Try and stay honest.
We’ve had about forty imaginary conversations since sundown, and none of them have gone the way I wanted them to. You call me one name then I call you the same name and then we start yelling, or I deliver some high-flown speech that explains pretty much everything but for what it’s supposed to. One’s about the meaning of love. Another’s about the trappings of loyalty. A third’s about friendship, a fourth about enmity. You get the idea. Anyway, after each speech, you call me out. You say, “That’s all just great, Benji. You’re a really smart guy, what a talent for discourse, what a way you have with words, but why the fuck did you stand there in the two-hill field, crying like a fucken baby instead of helping me?” And I tell
I’d like to tell you, “I froze,” but that sounds like I’m saying I didn’t have a choice. I did have a choice, I know I had a choice, and what’s more is I knew I had a choice at the time. I chose at the time to stand there and watch. And I could say, “I wish I hadn’t made that choice,” but that doesn’t really hit the mark either. It’s more like I wish that I hadn’t been me, a person who’d have made that same choice every time. I might as well be wishing we lived on the sun.
So. What.
You ever know a kid who says he’s in love, and then a little time passes, maybe even a lot of time, and he tells you he’s fallen out of love? Instead of just saying, “Look, I thought I was in love, but it turns out I was wrong,” this kid twists the whole thing around. Because you can’t fall out of love, right? You fall in love forever. Any kid who says otherwise—he’s either a fool or a snake. He’s misunderstanding the meaning of the word, or twisting the meaning deliberately. I think usually the latter, he’s usually a snake. Either way, his word is worthless. And I don’t want to be that kid. I don’t want to be anything like that kid. You don’t either. I know you that well, at least. We’re alike in that way.
With loyalty, it’s different, though. You and I, I mean. We’re different on that. Loyalty’s as permanent as being in love for me. Not so for you, which is probably one reason why none of my imaginary speeches to imaginary Gurions were able to get across what needed getting across.
This morning, in C-hall, I asked you what would happen if a friend of yours got into a fight with someone you had given your loyalty but not your friendship. Your answer came fast and easy. You said you’d side with your friend.
I don’t get that, though. For me, if you give your loyalty to someone once, you’ve given it forever. For me, in order to be truly loyal, you have to be loyal despite preference and hardship—even despite betrayal by the person you’ve given your loyalty to. Which means you can’t let your heart govern your loyalties, right? Your heart’s the first thing you have to lock down. Because your heart’s what bucks the hardest against the loyalties that are hardest to maintain; and those loyalties—the ones that are the hardest to maintain—their maintenance is the only real measure of your loyalty.