Dance the night away

The long Presidents' weekend is over and I'm alone in the house, finally able to resume my search for a job as a pharmacist. I've been looking for almost two months now, with mounting pressure, knowing this job will essentially pay for Ben's Bar Mitzvah in eight short months. It's taken me nearly four years to resurrect the dusty old pharmacy degree from Rutgers College, in which I worked a total of three days back in the 80s, then quit, for three decades. After my recent, painfully oppressive internship in the Walgreens rat race, I know chains are out. I'm thinking a slow, independent store would be perfect, if that even exists anymore. I picture an adorable little pharmacy with a soda fountain, where I can listen to jazz radio or classical. Where it's so slow that when the door opens I look up in surprise. I guess it would be owned by an older retiree who would rather spend his time in Florida. I'm there to keep an eye on the place, basically, and get paid what the poor sap is getting next door at CVS. Somewhere deep down I do know I'm in denial.

I'm all good intentions, but as soon as I turn on the computer my facebook account floods with comments and photos from a group named "Bradley Beach memories." It's a jewish memory lane from the 60s and 70s, and I'm back there, to my cherished childhood home, with a smile on my face.

Many comments are about the small temple in town, an orthodox shul, where quite a few of us went. I think back to the women sitting separate from the men, the feeling of warmth, of a safe haven, my comfortable, cozy temple, my extended family of jews. A few people comment about the strict Mr. Rabinowitz, the first year hebrew school teacher. I post if he actually used a ruler on the hand. Some say he was tougher with the boys. Maybe it was used on my brother Paul, one year older than me. I remember sitting on the floor of our front porch with my beginners hebrew book open, reciting the strange looking vowels- the different ooh, ah, eeh sounds. I was eager to learn, excited to be embarking on this journey into this strange, exotic language. I can't help but feel Ben never got this kind of excitement learning the language. Or for that matter, of being Jewish, feeling such a strong connection to it. I know the town of Bradley Beach was so instrumental in instilling this feeling. It was such an insular jewish town in those years, especially in the summer, when jewish teenagers from all over the state sat together on Brinley Avenue beach, blanket to blanket, transistor radios playing in the background. I suppose it was the last time for a generation to be connected in that jewish way. I know for my mother who went to the all jewish Weequahic High School in Newark, it was highly diluted for me. And now for Ben, is there really much of a jewish connection left?

So I decide to forge a connection. A few weeks earlier, Sherri had forwarded me an e-mail from a group called Kadima, a social group for jewish tweens across the state. Our temple was to be hosting an upcoming party, and Sherri throws in the added incentive that if anyone from Ben's class sleeps over, they don't have to attend Sunday school the following morning. It does the trick.

The Saturday evening of the party, I drop off my shy, rather resistant son at the temple. When I walk in a few minutes later to check on him, I'm reminded of the pre-USY dances that I attended at his age, where we'd board a bus headed for unknown parts of New Jersey with foreign sounding names like Iselin or Rahway, and spend the night searching the disco-lit room for the cutest boys. It was a thrill, getting all dressed up, actually putting on stockings and high heeled shoes, sitting on that darkened bus in total anticipation with my closest friend Ellen.

Ben's friend Ezra won't be there. But Kalman will, and a few of the girls in his class. Rob waits in the car, reminding me to hurry so we can catch the movie "The Artist." But I can't just leave Ben there in this mostly empty room with a DJ, I feel I should introduce him to the three tall, good-looking eighth grade boys from the nearby town of Livingston. They tower over Ben and he looks uncomfortable, awkward as can be, finally turning to me, "you can leave now."

When I get in the car, Rob is upset, how could I spend so much time in there, we probably missed the movie. He's right. But I can't help myself. The last place I feel like going is to a movie, what I really want is to spend the entire night observing Ben, like Jane Goodall taking notes on her favorite young ape. Sherri was actually looking for adult chaparones but I just knew that would be a disaster. I could just picture Ben leering at me all night from the furthest darkened corner of the dance floor.

The plan is to stop at the temple on the way home from the movie and see if Ben wants to sleep over. I can barely contain my excitement as Rob and I walk into the rap-filled room with strobe lights pulsating. I see groups of girls running zigzag en masse to groups of boys, a continuous migratory shifting. I notice there is not one couple in sight. Or Ben. Or anyone from his class.

We go downstairs to another large area, and there, sitting in a row with backs against the wall and headphones on, are Ben and his cohort from hebrew school. Ben still looks shy, but it seems they all do, and are giving each other comfort. It's sweet, somehow. And then I approach, hovering over them asking Ben if he's having a good time. He looks up in horror.

"Do you want to sleep over?" I ask, as if I have a reason to be there.

He gets up and we walk. "No. It Sucks. The kids from Livingston are wearing $300.00 sneakers."

"Who cares? Why would you even notice?"

"They're snobby."

"Fine, you don't have to sleep over. But you should probably tell your friends."

From a distance it seems the girls are suddenly very animated and chatty with Ben. He comes back to me and Rob. "Fine I'll stay."

On the way out, Rob comments on the futility of saying no to a Jewish woman.