Holy Cow

41 AND DID THOSE (PIG’S) FEET…

(see Blake, William)

There are two holy of holies in this part of the world. For the Muslims, it’s Mecca. And for the Jews, it’s the Wailing Wall.

As Joe led us into the Old City in the general direction of the Wailing Wall, we walked through some well-manicured residential neighborhoods on the way, and wherever we were, pleasant people sitting in the cafés gave us no smiles and pedestrians got out of our way or muttered things under their breath. “This is a bacon-free zone. It’s heaven.” Shalom giggled. “Eat me? They don’t even want to touch me.” He grabbed a menu from one of the outdoor cafés and read out: “See that, no ham, no bacon, no me! Kosher heaven, bitches!”

“But doesn’t it hurt your feelings a little to be so reviled?” Joe asked him.

“Sure,” Shalom said, “it hurts to be hated by my own people, but it’s a damn sight better than the alternative.”

Joe spat. “Sorry, bad habit, gonna quit. Really gotta quit the spit. I admire how you don’t need the applause of the crowd. I’m learning from you, pig. I have to be my own camel.”

I was getting the willies myself and I could see that Tom was too, because, while it’s true these people wanted nothing to do with Shalom, my brisket and Tom’s reputation as being to die for on rye were still most definitely on the Israeli menu. I was starting to sweat. It seemed like we were just going from wall to wall to wall. Luckily, at least for the moment, Shalom created a kind of treif force field around us and no one came near. I honestly didn’t know how he was going to live like this for the rest of his life. And even though universal disgust was keeping us safe at the moment, I could tell Shalom’s pig heart was slowly breaking.

More and more people started to give the swine downright hostile looks. I got a bad feeling there was no way they were going to let him near the Holy of Holies. As a response to the evil eyes cast his way, Shalom’s favorite rejoinder was “Bite me” or “I taste like chicken,” and that amused him to no end. As we moved through the market, or “souk,” I could feel resentment building as palpably as when you feel a coming storm in the change of desert air.

A few of Joe’s old friends came up to him, nudging him on the hump. Clearly they hadn’t seen the desert recluse in ages. “I’m gonna stay here and tell these guys about my conversion. The Temple Mount is that way and the Wailing Wall is just up there.”

“To the Wailing Wall!” shouted Shalom.

Joe turned back to us and whispered, “Uh-oh, that might’ve been the straw that broke my back.”

The tipping point. A man across the street shouted, “Swine! Devil! You will not go near the Wailing Wall!” Apparently, pigs were associated with devils in ancient lore. Maybe the cloven hooves? I don’t know, but soon there was a growing crowd advancing toward us.

“Jesus…” muttered Tom.

“Wrong word,” Joe said. “Let’s get you out of here!” And we all turned back in the direction we had come. And ran for the desert.