Jerusalem Flakes

161

The streets were windy.

Dark.

Grey and overbearing.

Little slits carved into limestone to accommodate passerby.

Endless tunnels, where people lived over the street.

Never walking in a straight line for more a few steps.

This was home. Safe. Familiar.

Where you had to worry about getting stabbed if you walked one block too far.

Where endless tourists jostled you as a mere non playable character in their adventure through an ancient city.

The walls were so unbelievably close. A ring around the mind.

It’s just you, the streets, and the word of God.

And half the streets were off limits because there were women there.

God hates women.

It was a known fact.


The walls didn’t keep the enemy out. They kept you in.

There was no greenery to speak of.

 Anytime a tree died, a new one was not planted in it is place.

Because the rabbis. Because religion. Because God hates trees.

Just grey, grey, grey.

The sunlight couldn’t hit your bedroom winder because you were too close to the wall of the neighbor’s house.

 So close you could almost touch it. Oh wait, you could actually touch it.

A place where neighbors windows opened to your own courtyard.

Where the neighbors crying baby woke you up at night.

Where four schools released themselves on to the streets to play recess games below your window.

You can hide, but you cannot seek.


His idea of adventure was walking around the galityza rooftops, where you could peer down through the grates into the bustling market below. As close to danger as was comfortable.

Those grates weren’t always there. There were added after some Jewish terrorist dropped some grenades down there. The hero we need.

You know who was cool? The kids two grades above. They dangled from the side buildings, with just their fist around the railing keeping them from falling three stories. This is how they proved their bravery.

Also fighting with Arabs. Always with the fighting with Arabs.

By the time his grade rolled around, the teachers had tamed them.

They only had one legendary fight with Arabs. He missed it, he had pneumonia that day.

Teachers taken away in handcuffs.

Classmates identified days later by police detectives because of their distinctive red hair, arrested, and then released at the behest of Charedi politicians.

Fighting for freedom never felt so claustrophobic.


The camera zooms out. The entire city, with its ramparts, battlements and church spires, contained in a bowl.

The bowl is on a table in a bar.

He adds a copious amount of whipped cream on top.

Who eats whipped cream in a bar? He does.

He adds a cherry on top. The kind you can never get in Israel. Big, juicy, like the the spies would have brought back from the land of milk and honey. Two men to a peach, the legend went. Those sizes hadn’t been seen since. Everything was tiny now.

King David’s on the right, talking about Titties and Beer. King Solomon on the left, taking notes. This is good shit, might be a topic for a new book.

He shovels a spoon in, and takes a bite.

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