Weeds, 1555 N. Dayton: Aaron was sitting at the bar, which was covered with itchy wool serape blankets, explaining how he entertains himself for an evening. He goes to a night spot and tells cute girls old Jewish stories, the long kind that start off with a rabbi who goes to a strange town and gets bitten by a small animal or a baker who throws his wife out of the house with only a piece of pita bread.
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“Stories can elicit a deep response,” Aaron says, sitting under the green light that makes the air in Weeds look like old pond water. Aaron’s head tilts to the left or right when he talks. “You look into somebody’s eye and you can see where they’re touched by the story. The eye gets a little teary. Of course, wardrobe is all-important, too. Like the shirt?” He was wearing a large cotton shirt the color of a tomato printed with platters of pears, lemons, and oranges. “My mother picked it out. I’m from Cleveland, University Heights.
“Just the other day I told a story about how the founder of Hasidism attained the 36-letter name of God which he used to work miracles with. This woman in the group really liked the story but she had a boyfriend. Still she gave me her phone number.
“I was at Jimmy’s talking to this girl Melissa who was really beautiful but she was suburban and spiritually barren. I was thinking what I could say that would touch her deeply and then a doorway opened in my mind. I opened my mouth and out came this wonderful pearl sitting in the doorway and she just didn’t get it at all. But this guy next to her, who I knew–tears were rolling down his face, I mean, he was really touched by the story. He said, ‘Aaron, sometimes when you speak, you speak like a prophet.’
Art accompanying story in printed newspaper (not available in this archive): illustration/Tom Bachtell.
