Ockanock, the New Jew
My carpet cleaning service has a warranty that allows you to get your carpets cleaned as often as needed for one year from your appointment for only $4 per room. I live in a house with hardwood floors throughout the main areas, but the four bedrooms are all carpeted with this lowgrade off white carpeting that has taken a beating over the past 9+ months I've been here by numerous dinner parties, bbq's, and torential rains that turn my yard into a mud pit. Parker likes to get mud all over his paws and quickly run into all of the bedrooms while I'm chasing after him to try to wipe them clean. Needless to say, I need the warranty.
Before my dad came to town, I decided to take advantage of the warranty, and scheduled a service call. At about 11:01 am, a mere minute past the earliest time they could get someone out here, Willie knocked on my door. I invited Willie, a friendly retiree with a strong east Texas accent, into the house to get going. We started on the tour of what needed to be done.
"You ain't vaccuumed," Willie pointed out. "Well, no. You guys do that."
"No. Not on a warranty appointment. They didn't tell you that? We don't move furniture, vaccuum or rake." Raking is my favorite feature of the service! It makes all these lines in your carpet so presisely. It's like a middle class suburban zen garden.
"No way, Willie! I need the raking!" I was clearly distraught. "I'll vacuum though. I quickly run through the rooms while you get your stuff out of the truck."
"OK, I'll do it for you, since you're a nice lady. But don't tell no one."
Ah. Thank God. I ran all through my house, running my Hoover over the carpets, signaling to Willie when each area was ready to be cleaned by his super-swivelly-industrial gadget. I pointed out a stain on the carpet in a corner of the room my younger brother A had stayed in. It had the deep green color of sewage, and had been there for weeks, months, who knew? Please just make it go away, and no, I don't want to know what it is, thanks.
After Willie finished the master bedroom, he came out and noted our sideboard with the framed photos of family and friends.
"Nice lookin' family," he remarked. "Yuh parents alive? Yuh husbands parents?" East Texans, especially black east Texans, lack the twang that most people associate with the state. Since you're bordering on Louisiana, you might get a bit of that accent stuck in there too.
"My parents are alive, and live in California. M's dad lives in North Dallas, but he lost him mom last year to cancer."
"People get sick a lot, huh?" Willie asked.
"It seems so, I guess."
"I mean," he began, "folks seem to be sick more now than when I was growin' up. If someone in town was sick, it was a big deal. Now people just sick all the time. You know what I think it is?"
"More people take small illnesses more seriously than they used to?" I ventured.
"Nah. It's the food. Pestesides. Chemicals. We are pumping all of that into our bodies, and it's not natural. We aren't made for it." Willie sounded like he was on to something.
"That's a pretty good point. Maybe if we-" I started, but Willie cut me off.
"And most people ain't accepting Jesus Christ as their personal savior." Out of left field, I was hit with a holy roller when least expecting it.
"Oh. Uh, well. I don't know i-," was as far as I got.
"You go to church? I'm a preacher." Uh oh. "And I hate other preachers." Oh, maybe this won't be so bad. "Molesting boys. That is an abomination." So far, so good. "And letting women be preachers? That is an abomination in the eyes of God." Oh, great.
"No, we don' go to churcht.
"What are you? Christian? Jew?" Here was where the conversation should have stopped. When my carpet guy started to question my beliefs. But, I am me and all, and can't keep my mouth shut. Walk away, Layla. Walk away.
"Jewish father, Catholic mother. We don't practice either."
"Well, you know if you don't accept Jesus, you going to hell."
"Oh. Well, thanks, but I think the fact that we're good people and help our fellow humans and do good will be enough for me."
"No. You're wrong. If you don't accept Jesus, YOU WILL GO TO HELL." Willie now had his preacher stance. The sermon on the mount in my living room.
"You're kidding, right? You actually think that heaven only has Christians in it? You think that Ghandi is in hell?" I've heard guys like this before. Most will concede that the pearly gates will show some love to Ghandi.
"That Ghandi in hell."
"You are saying that all the Hindus, Buddists, Muslims...they're all in hell?"
"From blowing up buildings, yeah."
"What are you talking about? Who is blowing up buildings? Siddartha?" I'm starting to show my anger now. I'm pretty close to booting him out of the house.
"Who? Sid-Art-Who? Them Muslims are in hell for 9/11." Oh, I have to end this.
"Good talking to you Willie. I need to step outside. Let me know if you need me for anything."
I walk away, about 5 minutes too late. I'm outside pacing, getting all angry that I let this guy get me mad. I walk back in.
"You know," Willie, still standing in the living room, says, "If you a Jew, you go to heaven. God let all the Jews into heaven, cause they the chosen ones."
"Thanks. I'll keep that in mind."
"You know, some Jews believe that Jesus is the messiah," Willie tells me with a wink, as if he's let me in on some divine secret.
"Yeah, I know. They're called 'Christians'," I reply, irked again as I always am when someone throw the Jews for Jesus crap at me. P's mom used to do that shit.
"Most Jew don't though. Not them Ockanock Jews," Willie states.
Ockanock. I'm racing through my head. Ashkenaz? Sephartic? That’s all I can come up with. Who the hell are the Ockanocks?
“Ockanock?” I ask.
“Yeah. Ockanock. They really Jewish. Sometime they wear them hats all the time. Ockanock.”
It hits me.
“Orthodox? Do you mean Orthodox Jews?”
“Yeah. Ockanox. Ocka. Orthnock. Ockanock.”
“Gotcha. Yeah, they’re pretty serious. Are you done with the rugs?”
“Just about. I’ll get back to work now. Pleasure talking with you, Leeleeah.”
“Layla.”
“Leena?”
“Layla.”
“Pleasure.”
About five minutes later, Willie had his stuff packed up and was heading out the door. He gave me strict instructions not to walk on the carpets for at least an hour. Then, he was on his way, and out of my life forever.
I started to feel like I was being too harsh in my judgment of Willie. This is what he knows, what he feels. Who am I to tell him that he’s wrong? As my anger and irritation was subsiding, I walked toward the bedrooms at the front of the house. That’s when it hit me: That mother fucker didn’t clean that green sewage stain! Didn’t even touch it!
What a dick.