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Shecky Shalom

Simon Easton

    “So, you wanna join up, huh, kid?” asked Judas Iscariot.
    “Yes, sir. Very much so, sir,” Shecky stammered nervously.
    Judas looked the young man over carefully.
    “Do you know what it takes to be one of us? You gotta have chutzpah, kid. You know what that means? You gotta have balls. We got your Romans, your Sadducees, your Pharisees, meshuggah villagers, and Herod up our tuchuses all day every day. You think you can handle all that, kid?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Another thing you gotta do is get people to listen. They gotta listen to what the Boss is sayin’, and what he’s sayin’ ain’t what some folks wanna hear. So you gotta be classy. You gotta have class, kid. You got class?”
    “Uh huh,” Shecky said, nodding vigorously. Judas spat on the ground reflectively.
    “It ain’t easy, pullin’ off miracles day in and day out. You know, your basic raisin’ from the dead and leper cures. It takes hours to put them stunts together. You gotta get up before dawn and go to bed afta midnight. You think you can do that, kid?”
    “If Adonai wills it, if I pray hard enough, if my faith and devotion are...”
    “You’re a believer, ain’t ya, kid?”
    “Yes sir, Very much so. With all my heart and soul.”
    “Where’d you catch the act?” Judas asked.
    “I was there when He turned water into wine.”
    “That was a good one,” Judas reminisced. “Real good. I had a hangover for a week.”
    Shecky looked at Judas hopefully, his head cocked slightly to the side like a suppliant dog.
    “Ya know what I’m gonna do, kid? I’m gonna give you a chance.”
    “I don’t know what to say. Thank you, Mr. Iscariot.”
    “Don’t thank me yet. You see all them people coming around this hill?” Shecky nodded. “They’re here to see the Boss. But He don’t like His audiences cold, see? You get your ass out there and warm ‘em up.”
    “But...” Shecky stammered.
    “But what?” Judas asked peevishly.
    “What does it pay?” Shecky blurted.
    “You don’t get paid,” Judas said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “There are rewards in Heaven. That’s better’n gettin’ paid.”
    “How will I eat?”
    Judas sighed.
    “I’ll tell ya what. Cause I like ya, I’m gonna comp your meals. How does that sound?”
    “I don’t know. I mean, I want to help, but...”
    “But nothin’. Working for the Son of God ain’t good enough for ya?”
    “It’s not that at all,” Shecky protested. “It’s just...”
    “Enough! You get up there and entertain ‘em ‘til the Boss is ready to talk.”
    “What do I say?”
    “I don’t give two shits what’cha say, just be classy. And entertaining. Try some jokes.” Judas gave Shecky a little push in the direction of the top of the hill.
    Shecky’s knees shook as he mounted the crest of the little mountain. He didn’t have anything prepared. He had wanted this ever since seeing the miracle at Cana. His big chance was here at last, and it was teetering on the head of a pin. He breathed a prayer to the Boss’s Dad. The Boss himself was near the bottom of the hill in his green tent, getting ready. In the midsts of his prayers, Shecky felt peace and confidence and faith wash over him. As he looked out over the crowd, he knew that he would without a doubt succeed because his belief was pure.
    “How are you doing today?” he called out. There were a few belated moans from the people seated around the slope. The sun was beating down savagely on them all with the intercession of shade for none. Some were trying to fashion makeshift parasols out of their head cloths with sticks, mostly without success.
    “I said, how are you all doing today?” in a larger voice. The moans grew louder, but they were still moans. “I just got in from Athens. Speaking of Athens, are there Greeks here today?”
    Silence.
    “Great. Let’s talk about them. So there I was in Athens, ordering a gyro platter. I told the guy I wanted extra cucumber sauce, but he said I couldn’t have any. So I said, ‘Buddy, you got a hell of a Minerva!’”
    Shecky noticed a few audience members look at each other quizzically. There was no laughter.
    “Nerve. Minerva. Get it?” Shecky explained.
    More silence.
    “I guess you guys don’t like Minerva jokes. Okay...”
    Shecky wracked his brains for another joke.
    “Okay. A Greek, a Roman, and a Jew are walking down the street when they all get hit by lightning. When they get to the underworld, Pluto says...”
    “Idolater!”
    “Salucid! Samaritan!”
    “Roman-lover!”
    “Look, guys, it’s just a joke. Just play along. Pretend, okay.”
    Surprisingly, the audience quieted.
    “So anyway, Pluto says that Atropos made a mistake. He says they can go back to the land of the living, but to stay there they have to give up one thing they love. Naturally, they agree, and back up they go.
    “So they’re still walking along. As they walk, the Roman sees a crucifixion underway, and crucifying criminals and freedom fighters is his favorite thing. He tries to resist, but he can’t. He rushes over to hammer in the last nail, and poof, he disappears.
    “So the Greek and the Jew are left. They go a little further and the Jew sees a shekel lying on the road. It’s so beautiful and shiny. It beckons to him. He bends over to pick it up...and the Greek disappears!”
    Shecky held his breath for the inevitable laugher which, for some reason, never came. His stomach began to knot with embarrassment and failure. He looked down to make sure his tunic wasn’t split down the middle, then he looked over questioningly at Judas, who shook his head and gave Shecky a thumbs-down. Shecky looked around. At the back of the crowd, two Roman centurions were leaning on their spears looking hot and bored. Inspiration struck.
    “So, what’s up with these Romans?” Shecky asked desperately. “Aren’t they a million laughs?”
    The crowd began to boo and hiss.
    “Now, now, I don’t like them any more than you do. But you have to admit, they’re not very bright.”
    The crowd quieted, interested in what Shecky might say next.
    “What do Romans do? They conquer. They conquer everywhere they go. And how do they conquer those places? By tearing them down. Nothing strange about that, happens all the time. You want to take someplace over, you don’t give them a place to hide. Your tear down their homes, steal their cattle, drink their wine, et cetera et cetera — to use a Roman turn of phrase.”
    Shecky was rewarded with the faintest possible titter of laughter.
    “Okay. So the Romans come in, conquer, loot, and tear everything down. So what do they do after that? They rebuild it. They build aqueducts and roads and buildings to replace the stuff they just destroyed. Well, duncus maximus, why didn’t you just leave it the way it was to begin with?”
    The crowd laughed and cheered. Shecky absorbed their energy and felt it lift him up toward euphoria.
    “And how about that emperor of theirs? All those names! Caesar, Octavian, Augustus! Augustus-schmustus! He should pick one already. And while he’s at it, change the picture on the coins, because, damn! Talk about your graven images!”
    Shecky felt a sting on his behind. He turned to see Judas lower his sling and mouth “the Boss” while pointing to a figure outside the green tent dressed in a simple white tunic, stretching and doing lip and tongue exercises.
    “Well,” said Shecky, “I’ve just gotten word that the Man Himself has just arrived — on his ass.” The crowd chuckled. “Of course I kid. Please give a warm welcome to the Man of the Hour, the Man with the Plan, the Messiah and Son of God and Man, my good friend Jesus ben Joseph of Nazareth!”
    The crowd went wild with applause. Shecky ushered Jesus onto the top of the hill, shaking His hand warmly. Jesus muttered a benediction as He propelled Shecky downwards and Himself into full view of the assembled crowd.
    Shecky almost ran over to Judas, flush with excitement over his success on the mountain as well as his meeting and touching the Boss.
    “What did you think?” Shecky asked.
    “Eh. I think ya got what we call potential, kid,” Judas said grudgingly.
    “Thanks, Mr. Iscariot.”
    “Call me ‘Judas.’”
    One year later:
    “I know what you’re thinking,” Shecky said to the over-capacity crowd at the Synagogue of Nazareth. “You’re thinking that hanging around Jesus is an easy life. It isn’t. You’re thinking that if you hang around Jesus you always know what to do. Well, that just isn’t true.
    “Let me give you an example. Kaddish. The Kaddish prayer. Seems easy enough, right? The guy’s dead. You say the Kaddish, you light a candle and boom, you’re done, right?”
    The crowd murmured a reluctant agreement, not sure where Shecky was going with the joke.
    “But now you’re hanging out with Jesus. All bets are off. What do you do if you’re saying the Kaddish prayer and in the middle of it Jesus brings the dude back to life?”
    The crowd guffawed.
    “I mean, do you stop saying it? Because, after all, the guy was dead, right? And, let’s face it, sooner or later he’s going to be dead again. Can you use the first half of the prayer like a deposit or something for the next time the guy gives up the ghost?”
    The crowd roared. Shecky could swear he felt the floor tremble with their laughter.
    “Not only that, but then there’s the fact that you’re saying Kaddish over a live bro instead of a dead one. People are bound to talk. The rabbi may crack you across the knuckles with his yad. What do you say? ‘Well, he was dead when I started?’”
    Shecky let the audience laugh itself dry.
    “And don’t get me started on meals. It’s one thing to give thanks to G dash D in the abstract, but when He’s sitting next to you? You can’t just turn your head and say ‘Hey, Jesus, thanks for the grub.’ You’re kind of on the spot, you know. It has to be worthy of the occasion, like “These eats are divine!” or something like that.
    “And another thing. Like, what do you do if you don’t like the food? Do you still have to eat it because the Lord is now your lunch monitor? Will I go to hell if I don’t eat my lentils? I suppose I could ask Him to make me like lentils. After all, I’ve always said it would take a miracle to make me eat them! I can hear the miracles being listed now: ‘Well, let’s see, Jesus raised from the dead, cured lepers, turned water into wine, fed the multitude, and got Shecky to eat his lentil beans. ‘What? Shecky ate his lentils! Surely Jesus is the Son of God!’”
    The crowd applauded.
    Shecky saw Judas making the cut-it-off signal across his throat in the wings.
    “And now, folks, here’s what you’ve been waiting for. Here he is, the G-dash-Dmeister, Jesus of Nazareth!”
    Jesus and Shecky shook hands warmly as they traded places on the stage. Before exiting, Shecky turned back to the audience and shouted “Now I want lentils! He truly is the Son of You Know Who!” The guffaws drowned out Jesus’s first words.
    Backstage, the apostles clapped him on the shoulder for another good show. Thomas handed Shecky a skin of wine, and Andrew offered some of the roasted kid the caterers had brought while Shecky was in the middle of his act.
    Another year passed:
    When Shecky and the other disciples finally entered Jerusalem, the last leg of their Judean tour, the twelve apostles were mortified to find that Shecky (who now went by the stage name “Shecky Shalom”) had been given top billing over Jesus. There was a great dissension among the apostles about how to correct the problem.
    “Chop him up for bait,” said Simon Peter. “Jesus won’t mind. Then I’ll literally be a fisher of men.”
    “Sounds good to me,” said the other Simon. “And I’ve got just the thing right here.” He unsheathed his sword halfway to show off its dull, notched, rusty and never-sharpened edge that promised its victim a particularly slow and gruesome demise.
    “Let’s feed him to the Romans,” said the usually quiet Bartholomew. “Let them deal with the problem for us.”
    “Or we can sell him into slavery,” Luke offered.
    “Let’s not be too hasty here,” said Judas. “We might need him to take a fall if you know what I mean. You seen them hands and feet of his, so pristine, so ready for the centurion’s hammer and spike? King Herod and the Romans are both startin’ to take a closer look at what we’re up to, and that ain’t so good. I got a plan.”
    In a hushed voice, Judas told them his plan.
    “Whatcha think, Boss?” he asked after he had explained his intentions.
    “The first shall be last and the last shall be first,” the Boss said. It was settled. Shecky would go on first and the Boss would follow, just as it had always been, and Judas would enact his plot before the Passover seder began.
    Shecky was incensed when he learned that the billing would be reversed.
    “Who the hell do you think you are?” he asked the Boss.
    “The Son of God and Man,” the Boss replied.
    “And you think that gives you the right to go on after me?”
    “Yes.”
    “Ha! If it weren’t for me you’d still be making benches in Nazareth. I’m the one they want to see. I’m the one who’s bringing them in for five shekels a head and a two-goblet minimum. All you do is give them advice. Do this, don’t do that,” Shecky said mockingly. “My Father this, my Father that. Well, let me tell you something: Religion is easy. Comedy is hard.”
    “‘Pride goeth before the fall,’” Jesus quoted in response.
    “Of Rome, maybe,” Shecky rejoined quickly, unable to take a hint for the want of a cheap laugh. Jesus sighed and shook His head.
    Despite his attitude, Shecky’s last Jerusalem show was a triumph. If it had been held in flaps, it would have brought the tent down.
    “How about this Pontius Pilate?” Shecky said as he approached the crescendo of his routine. “He’s our procurator. ‘Procurator’ sounds like the name of a butt doctor. But it fits because his name sounds like a type of hemorrhoid. ‘I’m going to the apothecary. I think I have Pontius’ Pilates.’ Or maybe something like ‘Poor fellow. Looks like he’s got a case of Pontius’ Pilates. He’ll never fart right again.’”
    For all of their big city sophistication, the Jerusalem crowd roared. Shecky had learned that everyone loved a good series of crude butt jokes.
    “Pharisees, Sadducees, Essenes,” Shecky said in a ponderous voice. The crowd booed and catcalled.
    “Now, now,” Shecky scolded teasingly. “Doesn’t the Boss teach us not to condemn? Now, just think about those words for a moment. Pharisees. Sadducees. Essenes. Have you ever noticed how each word has the word “see” in it? Yet the only thing I see them doing is spewing goat excrement and sucking up to the Romans. I swear, if (Boss-forbid) something were to happen to the Temple, they’d show up an hour later trying to rebuild it with goat turds.”
    The crowd howled with laughter.
    “Can you imagine them praying over the goats to make them crap out of a few more bricks? Talk about your Passover plotz!”
    Shecky let the crowd laugh itself out until only a few random chuckles remained. Then he softened his voice into a sleek creature that radiated sincerity from his bushy head to his hairy toes.
    “But, seriously, folks, we just can’t go on like this, arguing with each other over these little points of law. Is a mustard seed kosher for Passover, or is it chometz? Who knows, and who cares? Look at us, fussing and fuming and sputtering at one another like a schmaltz lamp. We need someone to tell us the way. We need someone with a plan. Someone who doesn’t have his head up the Romans’ arse.”
    “Shecky! Shecky! Shecky!” the crowd began to chant. Shecky let it go on for just a little while, pantomiming reluctance.
    “No, no, thank you, but no,” he’d finally say, his hand raised to ward off the justifiable temptation offered to him by the crowd. “I’m honored. I’m touched. You’re making me ferklempt. But there’s only one Man with a Plan, and all of you know who that is. Are you ready to meet Him? C’mon, let’s bring Him out here. You know His name. Call Him out here!”
    “Jesus! Jesus Jesus!”
    “That’s right! Call Him out here!”
    “Jesus! Jesus!”
    “And here his is, the Plan Man, the One, the Only, Son of Man, Son of G dash D, my very close personal Savior, Jesus ben Joseph of Nazareth!”
    Jesus appeared, and Shecky shook his hand with a great deal of pretend enthusiasm and made his way off.
    “Where the fuck is my goatskin of wine?” Shecky complained loudly as he stepped off the makeshift stage. He held out his hand expectantly with his fingers opening and closing like a baby asking for matzoh. “Someone’s supposed to hand me a goddamn skin of wine when I come offstage. We’ve talked about this. Come on, guys! Get with the program. If it weren’t for me, you’d be darning fish nets in Galilee or shaking down some poor farmer for taxes or staring at a sheep’s ass!” Eventually, an apostle reluctantly handed him a goatskin. It was a different apostle each time. They drew lots to see who would be responsible for the particularly loathsome duty of waiting on Shecky. Shecky didn’t notice or care.
    “I am Peter, and upon this rock I will drop Shecky on his head,” Simon Peter joked.
    “Let’s kill him slowly,” Thomas whispered to Thaddeus. “The Boss can raise him from the dead and then we can kill him again.”
    “The real miracle is that we haven’t killed him already,” Thaddeus replied in earnest.
    The other apostles made similar remarks, and such remarks had become much less restrained and more audible as they lived through the passing seasons in Shecky’s company. Unfortunately, Shecky was stone-deaf to every jibe the apostles offered, and each season was tainted a little more than the one before it by the ever-brightening glow of Shecky’s impenetrable corona of self-love.
    The Boss ramped that day’s show down early, as Passover would begin at sundown. The apostles and Shecky and the Boss retreated from the crowds to celebrate the holiday with the traditional Seder prepared by John and Peter.
    Before the meal began, the Boss washed the feet of each of his followers. The apostles were uncomfortable with the Boss’s humility, and when their discomfort was blended with the Boss’s pious seriousness, the moment was both solemn and moving.
    “Oh, no! My little piggies aren’t kosher!” Shecky exclaimed in mock horror when his turn came, destroying the mood.
    “Ha ha,” said Andrew through clenched teeth.
    After the foot-washing, Jesus began the meal by tearing apart a loaf of bread and passing it around the table.
    “I know you washed your feet, but did you wash your hands?” Shecky asked with mock seriousness.
    “This is my body you eat,” Jesus said.
    “I thought you’d taste better,” Shecky joked from the table’s nether end after taking a bite. “I don’t know about you guys, but my chunk of Savior could use a little more salt.”
    Jesus poured a cup of wine and passed it to Judas on his left.
    “This is my blood you drink,” Jesus declared.
    “I thought the Messiah would be a better vintage,” Shecky said after slurping loudly from the cup when it got to him. “Hmm. Fruity with overtones of deity.” He swirled the cup around and took a second experimental mouthful. He looked at the cup again, eyes wide.
    “Are these Roman grapes?” he asked in mock horror. “This tastes Jovian.” The apostles grumbled. One of them played idly with a dagger.
    “I’m kidding, I’m kidding,” Shecky said. “Really, it tastes just like what I always imagined the Boss would taste like. We should call it Jesus Juice. We can sell it at the next show.”
    The Boss sighed. They ate in silence for several minutes.
    “One of you will betray Me,” Jesus said unexpectedly. The apostles protested vehemently, Shecky included.
    “If any of us were going to betray You, we wouldn’t be sitting here eating this crappy Seder,” Shecky argued. “No offense, John and James.”
    “None taken,” James growled. John shot Shecky a dirty look.
    “And you, Simon Peter, you will deny Me three times this night before the cock crows,” the Boss prophesied.
    “Heh heh,” said Shecky. “He said ‘cock.’”
    Philip laughed despite himself. Simon the Zealot elbowed him in the ribs.
    “Dick jokes? Really?” he admonished Philip.
    “We don’t seem to be getting anywhere,” Jesus said. “Let’s go for a walk in the Garden of Gethsemane.”
    “You know, it’s funny,” Shecky said as they rose from the table. “You’d think eating the Lord would be more filling. Am I the only one who’s still hungry?”
    John wheeled around, ready to shake Shecky to bits within his tunic. Andrew stepped between them, blocking John’s way.
    “Let’s just get to the Garden,” Andrew said.
    They walked the short distance from the house in which they had eaten the Passover meal to the garden. Jesus was in the lead and the apostles a respectful distance behind, except, of course, for Shecky, who was trying to co-lead the group by walking abreast of the Boss.
    “Hey, where’s Judas?” Shecky asked. “Did the bitter herbs give him the runs or something?”
    “I’m sure he’s around here somewhere,” replied Simon the Zealot, smiling broadly.
    The group soon came to the Garden of Gethsemane and let themselves in through the little, modest wooden gate between its high, thick walls. The garden itself was resplendent with venerable olive trees organized in neat, broad rows.
    “Peter, John, James, come with me. The rest of you will remain here.” Jesus and his three chosen disciples moved to another part of the garden. Shecky was trying to digest one too many matzoh balls, and as soon as he sat down with his back resting against the trunk of an olive tree he was asleep.
    Two hours later:
    Shecky awoke suddenly to two temple guards jerking him off of his comfortable perch and tying his hands behind his back with a leather strap. Judas was standing behind the guard, beaming with delight. In fact, everyone looked happy except the guards and, of course, Shecky himself.
    “Jesus, you’re under arrest,” one of them informed Shecky.
    “What?”
    “I said ‘Jesus, you’re under arrest,’” the guard repeated.
    “I’m not Jesus,” Shecky said. “He is.” Shecky inclined his head towards the real Jesus.
    “Of course you’re Jesus,” Judas said. He moved in and kissed Shecky on the cheek. “See?”
    “What the hell was that for?” Shecky asked.
    “Judas, must you betray him with a kiss?” the real Jesus asked.
    “It felt right,” Judas said.
    “Are you sure this guy isn’t Jesus?” one of the temple guards said to Judas, pointing to the real Jesus.
    “That’s not Jesus,” said Simon Peter.
    “Really? Because that guy looks more like Jesus’s description than this guy,” said the guard.
    “Really. It’s not Him,” said Simon Peter. “That’s Shecky Shalom.”
    The temple guard tugged at his beard reflectively.
    “I saw Shecky’s act in Perea, and this guy looks an awful lot like Shecky.”
    “It’s not Him,” repeated Simon Peter. “I can prove it. Shecky,” he said, head turned towards Jesus, “tell him a joke.”
    “A guy walks into a wine shop with a crocodile,” Jesus began. “He says to the owner, I’ll sell you this crocodile for a jug of wine. What am I going to do with a crocodile, the wine shop owner asks. Whatever he wants, says the guy.”
    “Ba dum bum,” said Andrew.
    “That wasn’t very good,” the guard said.
    “They can’t all be gems, my son.”
    “Okay. I’m satisfied. Let’s go.” He and the other guard each took one of Shecky’s arms and dragged him off. The apostles could hear his howls of protest long after he and the guards left the garden.
    “Okay, Judas, let’s see the loot,” said Simon. Judas tossed him a coin purse containing thirteen pieces of silver.
    “Thirteen pieces, just like I said,” Judas said. “One for each of us.”
    “If it’s enough to get me out of this hell hole, then I’m satisfied,” said Thaddeus.
    “I doubt it will get you out of a brothel,” joked Thomas.
    “If you guys ever talk about this, leave Shecky out of it. Agreed?” asked Jesus.
    They all nodded and made affirmative noises.
    “See you around,” said Jesus. He and the apostles walked away in various directions. Judas hung around under a tree for a few moments so that the Apostles wouldn’t hear his extra seventeen silver coins jingle in his purse.
    A cock crowed.

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