HOUSTON, WE HAVE A PROBLEM

Unlike astronauts, who know just exactly whom they’re going to be cooped up with, those of us who fly at 35,000 feet know that whoever’s in the next seat, if you’re traveling alone, is a pretty random call.   It could be a person who forgot his deodorant or, in an election year, the head of the National Republican/Democratic Party (whichever one you’re opposed to) or Charles Manson.   So:   A stranger sat down next to me on a plane and said, “Hi, I’m Tom James.”   (Okay, I can’t remember his name so I’m making one up; stay with me here.)   I said, “Hi, I’m Mollie Newman,” and we shook hands.   He was friendly, and we made polite small talk.   We’d barely taken off when he pulled out his wallet to show me his wife and children.    I said, “You’re a lucky man.”   He said, “It's not luck.   Good things started happening to me the day I accepted Jesus Christ as my personal lord and savior.”   I thought . . . well, you know what I thought:   “Oy. I’m going to have to hear this for three hours?   This is what I get for marrying a Jewish man with a not particularly Jewish last name.”   He went on and on, and I nodded and put a fixed smile on my face.   I didn’t know WHAT I was supposed to do (I couldn’t even imagine “WWJD?”).   Then the flight attendant came up the aisle calling out, “Newman, kosher meal for Newman.”   I raised my hand; Tom looked at me with a fixed smile of his own . . . he learned it from me . . . and said (hold onto your yarmulke), “Some of my best friends are Jews.”

Gevalt.   Let me eat my brisket in peace.


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