Hot Pink by Adam Levin Page A

us and that he would offer up his different answer as soon as I gave mine. That is Heimie’s rhetorical method. That is how he stirs up a controversy under the umbrella by the pool on an otherwise uneventful afternoon of rummy or canasta, even sometimes cribbage: he creates the promise of consensus, then undermines all hope of consensus with his wild assertions. I do not resent Heimie’s thirst for controversy, and in fact think the day tends to get better when it’s quenched. However, to my taste, his method lasts a few beats too long. I think: Why redundancy? Why first ask all of us a question we have the same answer to when all you and we really want is for you to get to your wild and controversial assertion already?
    I’d had enough of this method, so before he had the chance to ask me his question, I said, “What about you, Heimie? How often did you go the extra mile for Esther?”
    At my interruption of the routine, the Goy placed his startled hand on the shoulder of the Schlub and the Schlub spilled a little tea on his cards and his shirt, but Heimie didn’t even flinch. He said, “That’s just what I wanted to ask you, Arthur.”
    â€œI asked you first, though, Heimie,” I said. “So you answer first.”
    â€œWell,” he said, “I’m afraid that before I can answer your question, I’d have to ask you to clarify. I’d have to ask you not to take for granted that I take for granted that both you and I know what it is that the other one of us is talking about when that one of us inquires of the other about this extra mile and how often we went it for our wives. That is to say that I would have to ask you to first define the term extra mile .”
    â€œYou know what it means,” said the Goy. “Come on.”
    â€œWe all know what it means,” said the Schlub, licking some tea-drops off an ace of spades.
    I said, “Go ahead, Heimie. Define it.”
    â€œBut I want first to know how you define it, Arthur.”
    â€œBut you had something in mind when you asked Bill and the Schlub over here.”
    â€œPlease don’t call me ‘the Schlub over here,’ Arthur,” said the Schlub.
    â€œIt’s a term of endearment,” I said. I said, “I call you ‘Schlub’? It means I am comfortable calling you ‘Schlub.’ It means we are acquainted, you and I.”
    â€œOkay,” said the Schlub, sucking tea-dribble from the stain on his shirt. “But when you say ‘the Schlub over here ,’ I feel like maybe I’m being a little bullied, belittled.”
    â€œSo don’t be such a tender-footed sissy,” I told him.
    â€œYou’re right,” said the Schlub. “You’re right.”
    â€œIt’s true,” I said. “So then what did you mean by extra mile , Heimie?”
    â€œWhat did you think I meant, Bill?” Heimie said to the Goy.
    â€œDon’t redirect my question to the Goy,” I said. “I’m asking you, Heimie.”
    â€œI’m not too crazy for when you call me ‘the Goy,’” the Goy said.
    â€œWhat is this?” I said. “Is this group therapy for whiners? You want to be the Schlub and he’ll be the Goy? You’re a pair of goyische schlubs, the both of you. Still, I suppose, if the Schlub over here agrees to it, we could pull a switcheroonie with the monikers—would you like that?”
    â€œForget it,” the Goy said. “Have it how you want it.”
    â€œI’m trying my hardest,” I said. “Now answer the question you were asked. Establish us some mundanity so that Heimie can shock us in good faith with hot controversy.”
    â€œWhat are you saying to me?” said the Goy.
    Heimie said, “He means tell us what you think it means, extra mile .”
    Unable to see clouds for the blockage of the umbrella, the Goy in his shyness studied pinstripes on cloth. “It