"The Mitzvah Bombs" Key to Philadelphia 2.26.07

I park myself on the chair with a microphone in hand facing the audience. I study the faces of the group and begin. Kathy is visible but off to the side video recording the event for a future television something (mini-Borat). “I am David and let us talk about some of the things that interest you.” The room is silent in this large building and I sense anticipation but the eyes and the mouths are conveying nothing. “I am a writer, a satirist and we can share experiences with each other.” Silence. “You know,” I continue, there is a hospital around where I live that treats a disease called menopause. Now, when did that become a disease, and have women dealt with this inconvenience forever?” In the fifth row, a woman shouts out, “It should be called heropause.” Very funny, but I am the humorist here. “Yes, quite right.” I say back to this disinterested heckler. May two of her false teeth, fall out.

I am in a structure that has a huge multi-purpose room. I am the guest speaker of the day. This is a senior center where the elderly come at nine and leave at three. They have conversations, meet others, do exercises and have a down right cheap lunch. The ages are from the seventies to the early nineties. But hey, this is a tough crowd. It is like performing at an accounting convention and teasing them that my dogs are named LIFO and FIFO.

“Have any of the men here been in the army?” I persevere. A man sitting close to me holds up two fingers. World War II is the assumption. From the third row, an octogenarian who looks down at the floor and away from me growls, “the Civil War.” “You look great for a guy from that period,” I respond. He does not answer, smile, or make eye contact with me (where is his grey coat?). Pause. “Well, my father was in the Korean war and as part of the intelligence unit, he was stationed in Manheim, Germany sending Morse code for his tenure. Clever guy, I guess. Didn’t have to fight and learned about Europe.” The silence in this room is screaming at me. “Well, I know more about Manheim in the 1950’s than an American should know. It is not that exciting, unless you are heavily into bratwurst.” One laugh, please? Nothing.

“I understand last week that the speaker here spoke of elder depression. Was it an interesting lecture, because I am experiencing mid-life depression now?” A female voice arises in the tone of a teacher, “everyone gets depressed.” I was expecting a guffaw and received an analysis. “Do you know that John Adams and Thomas Jefferson died on the fourth of July, and Jefferson’s last words were “is it the fourth?” I imbue the audience with my vast historical knowledge and pray for any reaction (other than a walker thrown at me). An intelligent black woman in the fourth row then asks, “Do you know that he sired black children whose descendants still exist?” “No, I had no idea, but I would like to learn more about that.” She pries, “What is the name of the book you are writing?” “It is tentatively called “Chronicles of a ‘C’ Student. It is a memoir.” “Seems right,” she acknowledges. Another woman from a back row pronounces to the room that she was an ‘A’ student. Nah, nah, nah, Nah. I should have asked this bully for proof. Kathy is cracking up and I am schvitzing.

I have always venerated old people. They are soft and cuddly and honest. Some are even wiser than they once were, although many still are what they were when they were eighteen less the saggy skin and diminishing hairline. I have sought conversation and advice from my elders since I was a boy. This was not a senior center, this was morphing into a seniority center and most of the audience was probably ex-U of P graduates from the ‘50’s who never had the opportunity to have a building or a stepping stone named after them. And in front of them is a schnook (me) who possibly went to a college that had no association with the word ‘IVY.’ I would probably feel safer shopping for plantains in Camden then speaking here now where I think I see a mushroom cloud through a window. The talk ended at lunchtime. Though there was no proffer of an invitation to join them for lunch, many gracious people there were satisfied with themselves and with me. They came to talk to me in person while eighty percent of the audience is already on their third saltine.
“Has anyone here heard of text messaging?” I am still trying. No answer, so I ask if anyone has heard about email or the internet. While I see most eyes glazed, an intelligent woman in the fifth row says she threw away her computer because it was overwhelming. I told her I agree (why not?). “I only read books,” she offers. “What are your favorite books?” I ask. “None of your business.” I am very tolerant and deferential to my elders so I allow her the benefit of the doubt. Maybe she did not want me to know that she is into Turgenev or Joyce because she was sympathetic to this ‘C’ student sitting in front.