If I can use the story line in something I’m trying to write, then who’s to say it can’t and won’t happen in real life? Two people are chatting about something of minimal consequence, when their gabfest turns into a real conversation. It did happen to me, and I’ll tell you all about it. But first a little background information.

It was Monday, and I was coming back from the shuk… Wait a minute, don’t you usually go on Thursday? Well yes, except the Thursday in question was Yom Kippur. (Digression: when I was a callow youth, I composed a little ditty entitled, ‘I’m feeling chipper, ‘cause tomorrow is Yom Kippur.’ It only works if you do it New York style, Yum KIPper) I wasn’t going to wait until the last minute, i.e, Wed., to head into Jerusalem, and I had other plans for Tues (see below), so it was Monday or never, because I had, and you will agree with me, important things to take care of, to wit:

One friend sometimes asks me to pick up an order from Many’s, a homeopathic pharmacy opposite the open shuk. (Don’t ask me what it is, what it’s for, or why anyone thinks an herbal concoction would cure whatever it is that’s ailing. None of my concern.)

More to the point, I was making my last foray in search of the few remaining 2024 Israeli rosés still on the shelves that I hadn’t purchased for Barbara Levine’s annual rosé roundup. (Two bottles from Mesameyach stuffed into my backpack) And even more crucial, her usual coffee order, one kilo of Power Coffeework’s house blend, half light roast and half dark, and one kilo of Sumatra dark roast. Except that, as I discovered to my horror, they were out of almost everything and the new shipment of beans wasn’t expected until AFTER Yom Kippur.

As long-time readers of my modest efforts are aware, there are some things that should never be allowed to happen, one of which is having our dear friends spend Chol ha moed with us and return to their mountain top without a batch of Brandon’s best beans. BRANDON, HELP!!! On top of his game as always, Brandon came up with some reasonable and appropriate substitutions, so that I had 2 ½ kilos of whole beans to take back with me, along with a few(?) things for us. (I’m not supposed to be shlepping this much; my Barbara will kill me if she finds out.)

The light rail, restored to service after a summer of repairs, slowly made its way to Ammunition Hill, just in time for me to catch the bus back to our home, a little bit east of Yerushalayim. I sat down next to M., a longtime member of our shul, and opposite Y., someone we both know from the neighborhood.  The latter got the conversation going, extolling the quality of a particular cut of meat at Chofetz Chaim (the store on Agrippas, not the well-known opponent of lashon haraa.) That’s a great place for American freiers, I replied, people who are prepared to pay top dollar for imported frozen meat with labels in English, so one doesn’t need to learn how Israelis categorize their roasts.

That exchange got us most of the way to the machsom, where inbound traffic may be stopped and checked. No surprise, the traffic going into Jerusalem was backed up for miles. All I could think of at that moment was E-1, the never-built neighborhood next to us. For decades, it has been bruted about, but for many reasons, mostly political, has remained a ‘concept.’ The go-ahead was recently given, to the huzzahs of many folks I know. Great, sez I, build a community the size of Efrat on the way to Jerusalem; add a thousand or so cars to the traffic and turn route 1 into the Long Island Expressway. Just what we need.

M. had a completely different take on the traffic situation. He had to get to Ma’ale Adumim and then head back later to Ein Kerem for an appointment at the hospital, so his sense of dismay at the delay was not a matter of what might be in ten years.

I’ll be at the hospital tomorrow, said I. Now things were getting serious. We were no longer discussing the flavor profile of shrink-wrapped bovine carcasses. Instead, we were fixated on the health and well-being of two guys who are getting good mileage from their medical insurance. My prostate is the size of the American president’s ego, but at least I still have one (a prostate that is). My bus mate had ‘lost’ his a year or so ago (cancer, you know). And he has been taking pain medicine for his bad back for almost as long, which is why he was more or less on his way to the hospital. The way things have been going recently, with all the new members to be added, we will need to find a larger virtual room for the virtual meetings of the Oy Vey Club. However, consider the alternative, that we would fit in smaller quarters. That would mean…. Let’s not go there.

I thought I would be at Ein Kerem the next day as scheduled, but you never know. Later that afternoon, Barbara got a call from someone at the hospital. Our urologist, Dr. Muhammed, was sick, and they would have to reschedule, probably to a slot weeks in the future. But my Barbara is made of sterner stuff. NO WAY! She explained my situation and that my original appointment had been put off for almost a month. He’s got a catheter!

That did the trick. The lady on the phone found an appointment for me at 10AM the following Sunday, two days before Sukkot. Not a time slot I would have wanted if I had a choice, but under the circumstances…  Fortunately, Dr Muhamed had recovered from whatever it was that ailed him, and my cystoscopy took place as scheduled. Good news! Unlike the traffic on the way to Jerusalem, my ureter was now free of impediments and good to go. That meant that a) my abdominal catheter could be swapped out for a regular one, which would be less uncomfortable; b) I was now a candidate for laser surgery to whittle down my prostate back to normal size, meaning I could pee with the best of them.

Do you have private insurance?, asked our good doctor. If so, I could go sharap, whereby I would pay up front for the surgery, get it done much faster, and, one hopes, get some of the cost back from Maccabi. Assuming that my outlay would be smaller than the U.S. federal debit, I sure as hell would go that way.  (Pain, pain, go away, even if we have to pay.) Whereupon our doctor called Dr. Lorber, the specialist who does the surgery – that is, when he’s not dealing with traumas in Gaza as a miluimnik. A while later, Dr Muhamed returned to the room where I was being cleaned up and told us, per Dr. Lorber, that I was too old to go sharap. Too old for that, but not too old to wait my turn to get it done? Something doesn’t compute. We’re trying to figure out what the sticking point is. Maybe I’ll get a chance to ask the surgeon – when it’s my turn. Dr. Muhamed, clearly as puzzled as we were, said he would speak to the surgeon and at least get me advanced in the cue. He would get back to us when he could. Now it’s post-hag. Will he remember me? Will we have to track him down? As I keep saying, stay tuned for the latest developments.

A caffeinated postscript

The three of us, Barbara L., Iris, and I, were sitting during chol hamoed and sipping cups-ful of the blend that Brandon had concocted for me. Whatever is in it, it’s great. Their usual chetzi-chetzi mixture is quite good, but this knocks the socks of the regular offering. The next day, I sent Brandon an e-mail to that effect. To which he replied, If you think that’s amazing, wait until I swap out the Columbian for the Sumatran I just received. And so tomorrow, I will sample this new blend. My first thought was to call it ‘Brandon’s best,’ but in the end, we agreed on the ‘Bad-Ass blend,’ in tribute to our friend from up north. I may not have a time to get my prostate shrunk, but at least I have some coffee. And that’s almost (almost!) as good.