Matching Cheap Suits

It was a beautiful Sunday summer morning in the Bronx. Songbirds were tweeting and neighborhood rats were dining alfresco on their garbage.  If you’ve never seen a rat trying to scratch off a piece of cheese that’s stuck to the inside of a charred pizza box, well, it’s a sight to behold.

This was also the day of my cousin Freddy’s bar mitzvah party. Mine was still five years away.  My dad bought us both cheaply made matching blue suits for the bar mitzvah. Despite how cheaply made they were, we looked amazing.  

My dad bought us both cheaply made matching blue suits for the bar mitzvah. Despite how cheaply made they were, we looked amazing.    

It was 9:30am and the bar mitzvah was at noon. Dad and I were already dressed and raring to go. 

“We’re going out for a little walk,” my dad said to my mom. 

She belted back, “Julie, NO ROWBOATS!”

 “Ok!” Dad yelled back.

Dad and I loved renting rowboats and looking for fish. After all, what Jew doesn’t like fish? We were always hoping a thinly sliced Nova Scotia lox might swim by. We headed to the lake with no malice intended.  We had nothing against my mom’s wishes.  But my dad had a mischievous side to him.  No harm, no foul.

Before climbing aboard, my dad placed a newspaper across the wood slat seat. 

“I want absolutely no splashing or rocking the boat,” he said. 

“Yes, captain,” I saluted.  

“If we get even one drop of water on us, she’ll know it.”  

Now, usually, when we went out, I would sit facing my dad as he rowed. This time, for some reason, I faced his back.  

The lake was silky smooth, we chatted about nothing, and the sky reminded me of Renoir’s “Pont Neuf.”  

After about 15 blissful minutes he said, “We’re heading in.” 

“Five more minutes,” I begged.

“No. Your mother is going to kill us if we’re late.”

What happened next was very strange. I either jumped into or fell in the water. Even though I knew how to swim, I slowly sank and did not fight it. Everything was moving slowly. I remember thinking I was going to die. But oddly enough, I was not scared. All was peaceful, serene, and meditative. 

Then, with the force of an orangutan pulling bark off a tree, I was heaved up and out of the water. I woke to find my dad performing CPR on me.  

Now wide awake, I saw I was lying in a puddle of blue water on the concrete. When dad helped me stand, I felt a wiggle in my jacket pocket. I reached in and pulled out a small fish. I tossed it back in the water.

I then saw my dad also in a puddle of blue.  

He took a deep breath and took my hand.  He gave it a… “glad you’re alive” squeeze as we headed home sopping wet to be murdered. 

Walking home, I remember his face looked drained of all blood.

Entering the apartment, my mom was standing there, ready to leave.  Still dripping blue water, on seeing her, we froze in the doorway, still as store window dummies.

By now, my bargain basement suit started shrinking and tightening around my right leg.  

I think this was the moment that she realized she was living with two morons. First small tears and then she began to laugh hysterically and out of control.  

I thought of laughing with her for a second but chose not to chance it.  

“You did it. You went against me,” she said, shaking her head.

Like members of Mao’s army, we nodded in unison. 

With her teeth clenched she said, “I don’t even want to know what happened.” 

Combining anger and hysteria while her face took on the color of an over-ripe beefsteak tomato, she kept repeating the word, “Why?”  

My dad tried to answer her “why” with, “We were just trying to kill some time. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” 

She just said, “Zip my dress in the back and go change.”  

Even though my mom was silent to and from the bar mitzvah, we all seemed to have a good time. That night, through their bedroom wall, I could still hear her asking “why” over and over as my father begged her to forget it and let him sleep. 

If they ever talked about having another child, all bets were off after that day.

Mark Schiff is a comedian, actor and writer, and host of the ‘You Don’t Know Schiff’ podcast.