Going for Shookie

"Shookie? Shookie Cohen?" Nigel said while smacking his forehead in exasperation. "Are you thinking of opening a falafel stand? You must be kidding!"

"What's the problem, Nigel? I have to start somewhere."

"True, but not with Shookie Cohen, Prupas the Dufus producer."

"What's wrong with that? It's a super successful show--"

"Among the four year old nose-picker crowd..."

"So it's a kid's show. It pays, it would give me some experience."

"Sure, if you call two grand for a seven minute episode, money. And as for experience, you'll get pegged as a kid's cartoon writer which will take you on the great road to nowhere. Shookie Cohen?" Nigel covered his eyes with the palm of his hand.

Harry opened the palm of his hand and studied the henna stain.

"Next time use toilet paper when you wipe your ass," Nigel suggested.

"I told you I met him at a henna party."

"I don't care if you met Shookie Cohen in a vat of hummus. Working for that schlockmeister is a gauranteed career-killer."


In his office on the twenty-sixth floor with a panoramic view overlooking the military cemetery, sat Shookie Cohen behind his oak boat of a desk, phone suctioned to the left ear in Hand One, fried piece of pita dipped in hummus in Hand Two.

"Nu?" he grunted.

" ?" Harry blanked.

Really, what could Harry say to Shookie? That this was a divine moment? The Shookie, the hummus, the phone, the nu. A creation as perfect as a hummingbird. The vulgarian revealed atop Mount Prupas the Dufus.

"What? You gonna sit here all day looking into my eyes?" Shifting conversations and languages from English to Hebrew, Shookie whined into the phone. "B'seder, b'seder," okay, okay.

"But you asked me to come here about a writing job..."

Shookie laughed into the phone while Harry blushed. "Don't worry, I not laughing at you, it's dis story about my cousin Hummi who met dis sexy sexy baby on the Tel Aviv and tried to marry her a week later, only to find out she was dis aunt of his from Morocco dhat he never met. Funny, nu?" He dipped another piece of fried pita into the tub of hummus.

Harry cracked up so hard, he nearly keeled out his chair. This Shookie was hysterical. There was no way about it, he had to work for this guy. Whatever would happen, it would be worth all the stories.

"You go to de story editor, my brudder, Doudou, and you tell him I hired you."

Without anyone having ever read a word Harry wrote.

"O-okay," he replied, fully aware that this was a bad idea, that history was repeating itself, that he would soon be plotting Shookie's murder, that he, Harry Starr, was a schmuck. But fuck, would it be worth the story.

The Henna with Gomez VII

While the men were silently praying the Amidah, the meditative part of the service where talking is prohibited, Harry slipped out undetected among a passing group of businessmen.  Free at last, free at last, O Lord I am free at last, Harry thought.

Until a henna gaggle of thick-ankled, cleavage-popping aunties and slutted-up sisters emerged from a side door escorting the tiara-wearing Cleopatra bride-to-be. She was ensconced on her royal litter, the curtained couch that was being carried about on the shoulders of her retainers, her burly thick-browed uncles and disco-duded brothers. The aunties were hollering yu-yus, the party battle cries, while the royal princess's painted mother and waddling grandmother carried tubs of mucky, magical, mystical henna. Mud. Fucking mud. Rub it between your palms and good fortune is yours.

Harry froze while he took in the scene. This was the same indifferent little Cleopatra Gomez tutored throughout her high school years to no avail. The little princess had zero interest wasting time on an education when she knew that her hot looks and family connections could deliver the good life on a silver platter. Find the right rich guy like Guy, her husband-to-be and coast for life. Education? Fucking waste of time.

Gomez popped out from among the throng and pulled Harry to the side. "They're doing the henna. We can't miss this," he said while motioning at Harry to follow him."It's for good luck."

Harry followed. Why not? Who knew how things worked in the unseen world of Fortune? Rub some henna between your hand, kiss a mezuzah-- smear shit on your face, who the fuck knows? Try it all, believe in nothing. What did it matter?

The Henna with Gomez - VI

After a brief but animated discussion it was decided that the direction of Jerusalem faced the men's room across the corridor, so they pray in that direction. Nanou, a trollish twentysomething telemarketer, seized control of the prayer service. Not that he wanted to show off his sweet voice or prayer fluency, Nanou was desperately seeking atonement. Too much shit had happened over the past week to risk getting hit by a bolt of lightening with Yom Kippur months away.

It happened during the groom's stag party in Vegas a week ago where in hind site, Nanou realized that it wasn't the best idea to share that Russian hooker with his best friend, Jackie, another legendary cocksman. And it was even a worse idea to play the gentleman and let Jackie have the crack with the Muscovite treat.

Nanou had no idea that a man  could hold out so long while the sweet Slavic treat slurped away. After a seemingly eternal two hundred and forty-three seconds -- (Nanou was timing it) -- the kid gloves came off. Nanou got up and yanked out Jackie's throbbing member from Tsarina Slurpski's hard working lips.

"Enough already, Jackie! You're exaggerating!" Nanou cried while stuffing the fair maiden's gaping mouth with his mighty warrior. "I'm paying for this too!"

"You fucking grabbed my dick, Nanou. You - grabbed - my - dick," Jackie fumed while rushing off to the bathroom to wash off Nanou's paw prints from his pecker. He took a whiff and felt like vomiting...Pineapple chicken. That Nanou, that rascal -- he didn't wash his hands after the all-you-can-eat Chinese food buffet.

"Get over it already, " Nanou said while writhing in ecstasy. "Can't you see I'm having fun?...Ahhhh...Oh yes, oh baby, oh baby, oh baby..."

But that was then and this was now. Nanou began the evening prayer service.

"Barchu et Adonai HaMivorach," Blessed be the Lord the praised One, Nanou chanted as he exchanged winks with his forgiving cousin, Jackie. That's what friends are for.

The Henna with Gomez V

A man wearing an embroidered kippah with his name (Ari) sewed in, clutched Harry and Gomez by the shoulder and said, "Please join us for a minyan." It was time for Maariv, the evening prayers where a minyan, ten men are needed to get it started. It was about the last thing that Harry and Gomez felt like doing. Unless it was another sign from the Big Guy. "I gave you the Big Break on a silver platter, now go thank me."

"No thanks," Gomez said. "I have to make a call," and then he slipped away into a circle of tubby aunties in a heated debate about soup. Too late for Harry though, he was caught like a deer in the headlights. Holy-rollers wearing kippahs could do that to him, especially this Ari guy who definitely had some kind of look going on, a look no man or woman could resist.

The Look: A cheesy Al Pacino resemblance. Tussled hair, pouchy soulful eyes, weary expression. The first time Harry witnessed cool and religious melded under one kippah. Interesting, Harry always thought that religion and cool were like oil and water.

The Urgency: If this prayer session was as important as Ari made it out to be, then so it must be. Harry was getting off on Ari's sense of urgency which was earnest. After all, he was looking to get off the hook for his latest transgression; bringing his mistress along on his honeymoon. Which made turning all those odometers back on his used car lot seem like child's play.

Ari led Harry and the rag tag minyan of old world bible-thumpers and new world shikse humpers into a corner of the sumptuous hotel corridor. Ari pulled out a pocket-sized prayer book from inside his caftan - (Was he, like Shooky, an underwear-stuffer?) - and stopped in a discrete corner of the hall corridor.

"Here. We pray here," Ari said while pointing straight ahead."Jerusalem is in that direction."

"No no, no," interrupted a crusty old bible-thumper wearing a fedora jauntily tipped to the side. "Jerusalem is that away," he insisted while pointing to the opposite direction where a debauched Hollywood movie producers was leading an underage hooker on their way to a room. Mr. Hollywood Debauched freaked out when the Crusty Bible-Thumper pointed in his direction. The slimester panicked and fled. This bolting caught the attention of Crusty Bible-Thumper who gave the underage hooker a once-over.

"Nice tits," he whispered to Ari.

The Henna with Gomez IV

And then Harry had a moment while he watched Shookie scurry off to the men's room. He just had a near parallel event to when Alvy hired him at the bar mitzvah luncheon. A successful vulgarian makes him an out-of-the-blue proposition at an affair over hors d'oevres at a time when he was needed to get into a new situation. He wished that he had a witness there, someone who had been with him during both those moments, someone to tell him that it couldn't just be coincidence, that other forces were st work, some other-wordly entity like Fred Flintstone's buddy the Great Gazoo, someone to explain that moment of epiphany.

It's not like Harry had much, if any faith in God or that he was put on earth for a reason. He would've like to be one of those believers, but it all seemed so infantile to him. How could a world so full of misery and peril be the work of some grand master? Why bother creating so much crap, so much chaos?

But if there were other forces at work, then it was all kind of hysterical. Theatre of the absurd. What if that's that's how God was manifesting himself to Harry? Moses had his burning bush, Harry had his hors d'oevres.

The Henna with Gomez III

Gomez took a shot of scotch and squeezed Harry's bicep in apparent disbelief.

"I lied. I totally lied...Well, I wasn't sure."

"Don't tell me Wendy's here," Harry said in a panic.

"No, no, no. I mean the part about there being no TV people here. You see that guy over in the navy caftan wearing that embroidered kippah?"

Harry followed the line of vision of Gomez's pointing pinky, something that annoyed him. Why couldn't Gomez at least point with his index Ginger? Pinky-pointing was so gay. He hoped no one was watching, thinking that they were a couple.

"Yeah, You mean the little dumpling Wolfman Jack guy with the thumb in his nose?"

"Right. He is kind of gross looking, but that's Shookie Cohen, one of the biggest animation producers in town. Y'know Prupas the Dufus?"

"The retard show about the kid with the little apple tree growing out of his head?"

"It's hysterical and Shookie's the producer. Let's go talk to him. Maybe you can get some work?"

"Writing that crap?"

"That crap pays." Gomez led Harry towards Shookie who was fressing at a plate of sticky spare ribs. Harry wondered why he was letting Gomez lead him along by pulling his hand. People might think they were a couple.

When they arrived at the table there were only a couple of lonely spare ribs left.

"Yum yum," Gomez said to Shookie. "Mind if we snatch the last two spare4ribs?"

Shookie's chomp seemed to indicate a yes. Gomez snatched the remaining spare ribs and popped one in Harry's gaping mouth. Kill Gomez after the party, was all Harry could think, although he did take note that the spare rib was delicious.

Shookie licked his fingers and said to Harry,"You like?"

"Me like," Harry replied and then grunted.

"Me too," Shookie said while coming up for air in between bites.

"Me Harry." He pointed his pinky at Gomez who was chewing away."Him Gomez." Shookie laughed.

"Me Shookie."

"Prupas the Dufus Shookie?"

Shookie nodded beaming great pride.

"Me writer. Me want to write for you." Harry said while wondering why his business always seemed to begin around a plate of hors d'oeuvres?

Shookie's arm disappeared inside his billowing caftan and he pulled out a business card from...Snap!The sound of an elastic waste band snapping back...From his underwear. He handed Harry the moist card with a pubic hair stuck to it and said,
"You funny. Call me Monday." Shookie placed his hands on his rumbling pot-belly.

"Uh oh..." And Shookie made a mad dash to the exit.

The Henna with Gomez II

Harry looked around the hall; it was like he jumped into an issue of National Geographic. Swarthy tribesmen with exaggerated features glazed in sweat, clad in caftans and fezzes, dripping in gold, caked in garish make up, ululating like hyenas, wiggling like inch-worms to the twanging sound of the arabic music. A vat of body heat, a soup of celebration.

Gomez scouted the landscape, spotted his pretend-girlfriend and made a beeline towards her with Harry in tow.

So she wasn't bad looking, actually almost cute if not for that peaked hairline and simian brow. Tight little body, almost delicious if not for the hairy arms. Still, well put together. Certainly good enough for Gomez if they were a couple. Introductions.

"Regine, this is Harry, Harry - Regine," Gomez said.

Regine kissed Harry on both cheeks. Harry clumsily reciprocated, kissing the air near both of Regine's cheeks, but grateful that his lips were spared contact with the downy peach fuzz sprouting along the sides.

"Hi," Harry said while scoping the party in his tapered navy blue suit which made him stick out like a sore thumb. "I feel out of place here. Maybe I should've worn my silk bathrobe?"

Regine laughed while displaying her intricately gold embroidered royal blue caftan. "Definitely caftan country here."

"Where underwear is optional," Harry said.

Regine laughed.

"Please excuse my friend, Harry. He's a work in progress. Not a bad guy when you get to know him though," Gomez said while directing Harry towards the bar. "Think I'll start him off with a drink. Can I get you something, Regine?"

"No thanks, I think I see my cousin from Marrakech waving at me. She's a sorceress you know. Better say hello before she gives me the evil eye..."

Gomez led Harry to the bar, elbowing his way through the scrum of guests and ordered a couple of scotches. Harry noticed another fish-out-water hanging out next to the bar, an elegant Chinese man in a suit, who was chatting with a fez-hatted slickster, the father of the bride-to-be. Definitely a business guest. Harry sidestepped into optimal party eavesdropping position. The Chinese man, Winston Lu, was speaking.

"Prosper, you have to sell many sweaters to pay for this wedding. Hahaha."

That, or not pay the key Hong Kong supplier, Harry thought. Prosper had the mark of the devil written all over his face. The phony smile, the exaggerated laughter, the overly interested concern, the dipped left eyebrow advertising his  smoldering look.

Prosper clutched Winston's shoulder and bragged, "Business is booming, my good friend. Just the Bloomingdales fall order will cover the whole affair!"

Yeah, right.

Meanwhile Prosper's fading sportswear line, Flirt-Flirt, is going down the tubes fast. Cut to three months later where Marco is four months late on a $600K payment to Winston.

"It's just a little cash flow thing," Prosper lies. "I'm getting paid any day from a big customer. I'll pay you in a few days, I swear."

Which of course never happens. If Winston doesn't get paid soon, he'll have to close his factory.

Winston calls up a friend in L.A. to check on Prosper. It doesn't look good:

Prosper is downsizing. He put his twelve million dollar Beverly Hills home up for sale, and is on the market for a more modest abode - in the six to seven million dollar range. But the Bentley stays.

Put a lien on his home, the friend advises, only to learn a day later that the home is held in trust by Flirt-Flirt Investments, a shell company that is incorporated in Antigua.

A week later, still no payment. It's the end of the work day in Hong Kong and Winston is sitting at his desk with a bottle of vodka, sobbing uncontrollably.

The next day he blows out his brains in the office.