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Jonathan Ospa

Kosher

On Saturday I attended Sabbath services with the local Jewish congre-

gation-just out of curiosity, I guess. The congregation met in a small

synagogue downtown, and I sat in the back, wearing a green sweater,

clutching a copy of Popular Mechanics in case I got bored with the ser-

vices. I used to carry issues of Popular Mechanics into church back when

I was a little kid and mom used to drag me there every Sunday. I don't

remember a single sentence from the New Testament, but by the time I

left the church at sixteen, I knew all about internal combustion engines.

Not that any of that has helped me much. .

A young couple-a man and woman-came in and sat in
front of me. The girl was pretty-e-rhin, delicate, pale, with smooth black
hair, breasts that were small and firm, and an ugly gray sweater-and the
guy looked about as ordinary as I did, save for the full beard, which I
guess was facial shorthand for "I'm a practicing Jew." The crowd gradu-
ally filled out more, and the synagogue ended up seating about fifteen
people-a small crowd, but at least I wasn't alone. A scowling teenager
in a t-shirt advertising a heavy metal band sat beside what must have
been his elderly grandmother, who was shriveled and gray-haired and
wore some sort of blue pantsuit. The boy had a peach-fuzz mustache on
his upper lip, and reminded me of my fourteen-year-old self, sitting un-
comfortably in the wooden pew with my mother at my side-I sneaked

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