Turtle Boy: Part One

His big, dumb friend Spencer guffawed “Hwah-hwah-hwah,” and the two of them walked off together, leaving me with my PB and J sandwich.

“There’s quite a gap between the mandible and maxilla,” remarked Dr. Haffetz. “That’s the lower and upper jawbones. I don’t know what your father looks like, but maybe you take after him?”

“They can be minor and purely cosmetic, or they can develop into more serious conditions. They can make it hard to eat, hard to speak—sometimes they contribute to sleep apnea.”

“Snoring is a symptom of sleep apnea,” he corrected, “but apnea itself is caused by a blockage of the airway during sleep. It can strain the cardiopulmonary system, which can lead to heart damage. It’s definitely not something to play around with.”

“Sometimes occlusion can be treated with orthodontic appliances. Sometimes it requires a reconstructive surgical procedure.”

She took a deep, exasperated breath. “You can’t go through life turning down every opportunity that comes along. You need to get out there and do something.”

I resented the phrase “turtle collection,” but that’s pretty much what I did for the rest of the summer: I hung out in my room and read books and took care of my specimens.

At first, I hated Marsh Madness. That’s what Ms. Kuper called the class excursions into the Back 40.

We were supposed to be looking at the flora and fauna.

One by one, as spring turned into summer, I caught my turtle specimens.

“We were there for, like, five hours. Now I have this cool brace, and I’m a full-fledged track-ee-ur.”

As usual, he’s wearing a huge T-shirt that drapes down over his substantial belly.

Some of them look like what you’d find in a typical library: paperback books, hardcovers, periodicals in plastic organizers. But also, he has shelves and shelves of gigantic tomes that look like they belong in a wizard’s laboratory.

I know a mitzvah is a commandment or a good deed. But I’m not doing this because I’m commanded by the Torah. I’m doing it because I’m being coerced by Rabbi Harris.

“The Mishnah, one of our sacred texts, tells us about the importance of every mitzvah of loving kindness. To make peace when there is strife. To make people happy. To welcome the stranger. To visit the sick. All of those are mitzvot.”

“It’s not just helping your own tribe. It’s reaching out to anyone in need. When I’m not at temple, I’m the chaplain for the whole hospital. I spend time with people who are scared, people who need hope, people searching for the strength to forgive someone...people who just need company. Long as they don’t mind hanging out with an old hippie, whatever their religion, I’m their rabbi.”

“It’s shaped like a drum. What do you think it’s for?”
At first I think it’s a rhetorical question—one of those questions you’re not supposed to answer—but he’s glaring at me.

The corner is pulled aside at the bottom, revealing shirts and underwear, a phalanx of 5-hour energy drinks in tiny red bottles, a pair of slippers, deodorant, shaving cream, and some white underwear.

RJ stops drumming and sticks his arm out obligingly.

“Rabbi Harris said I’m never supposed to say ‘goy’ because it’s a derogatory word,” he says.

Mom doesn’t let me have junk food, so I’ve always coveted gas-station desserts like this, but now that I’m halfway through one, I think it’s kind of gross.

“He told me he didn’t want me to be there,” I say, omitting the fact that RJ only yelled this when I got up to leave early.

While she’s gone, I reach over and dangle the thermometer around the heating lamp of the box turtle’s terrarium, making sure to check it before putting it back into my mouth.

As I’m scooping them out of the carrier with a plastic tube, I hear the roiling of water and hurry over to see the smaller Blanding’s turtle nipping at the neck of the larger box turtle.

The turtles continue to tussle for a few seconds until they freeze, sensing the crickets.

“Territory squabble with another turtle,” I say. “It got bit.”

He’s kind of a big deal among herpetologists—he even has his own Wikipedia page.

“Free terrarium!” I say, hoping to sound thrifty and practical.

When I lower the turtle down onto the driftwood platform, it scuttles under it, laying still for a long time.

He’s acting oblivious to my presence, but he definitely sees me.

Shirah is loud and sort of curt. It’s not clear if she’s mad at me, exactly, but she doesn’t seem happy, either.

He’s referring to the only other prayer I know: the prayer over challah.

On the TV is a wrestling match, the kind with skintight outfits and masks and a screaming, hysterical audience.

Arms fly, sticks fly, every conceivable noise flies, faster and faster, and finally, Ba-CLANG! Ba-CLANG! Ba-CLANG!

I can hear the chirring of katydids and crickets, and my mood begins to improve.

It reminds me of chasing waves on the shores of Lake Michigan and charging toward the water line as a wave recedes, then running twice as fast to escape.

The whole universe is squeezed into my stomach, my bile, the sweat beading on my forehead—it’s all throbbing together.

Sensing the sudden motion, the Blanding’s turtle scrabbles at the plastic with its claws.

I had a few dumb things on it, stuff I wanted to do in my life. You know—all the clichés. ‘Make a billion dollars. Buy a Lamborghini.’

We repeat these trope marks over and over, which is a breeze, until we start applying the melody to the Hebrew phrases in my Torah portion.