Prospect Park You’re never gonna believe me, but I was actually named after an old Prophet who basically wrote the Old Testament. I know, right? What the hell were my parents thinking? They must have seen the similarity, since both me and the old guy were diagnosed with epilepsy. Yeah, it’s not too much fun having epilepsy. You get the whole shebang: a heart-gripping seizure and a freaky-as-hell “vision,” not to mention the splitting headaches and bloody noses. Yeah, it’s a real bundle of laughs. And then, of course, because the Universe is a freaking b*tch, the “vision” comes true. The poor prophet— he probably didn’t know what to think all those years ago. I shook my head and brought myself out of a dusty old tale and back to the balcony, watching the light fade on the Plaza. My empty stomach growled like a caged animal. You’re never gonna believe me, but this was the first year I had fasted for more than six hours. Crazy, right? But the rabbi said that since my Bar-Mitzvah was only three months away, I should start practicing my fasting, like it’s some kind of twisted hobby. Twenty-two hours so far, two more to go. So anyway, I was aware of the sluggish evening traffic while I watched them. My family was cutting its way down to the sidewalk, on their way to Temple. I was skipping the services. They thought I had left with Solomon hours earlier, but I was sitting up on our balcony, watching them from ten stories up. Slid right under their noses. They never even noticed that the French doors in the parlor were unlocked and cracked open. It was Yom Kippur, October 5, 1957. We had spent the whole day in Temple, had come home for a brief rest, and after pondering my hiding place realities, I decided that I did not want to go back. The service restarted at 6, in no less than 10 minutes, and I did feel a little guilty, but it was nicer up here than some stuffy, body-odor-ridden synagogue with far too many wailing children. However, I did have a good reason to skip: I didn’t want to
46 Pillars of Salt
