“When I was a little kid I could stick my finger up my nose up to the knuckle,” Horton informed me. I pursed my lips, searched for the appropriate response, ended up just saying “Really?”

“Yes.” he paused. “I could still do it if you made it worth my while.” I looked up from my newspaper. “Is that so, Horton?”
“What is the going worth of your while?”
“I dunno – something good and tasty. Like a bag of chupa-chups. A whole bag.” I looked at him. He was deadly earnest.

It would be a change of pace from the Wall Street Journal.


When I was lying in bed, heat-ridden and attempting to stay very, very still, I comforted myself with the thought that were the power to never return, there was always Friday.

Friday I go to the director’s house for shabbat, and I know with certainty that I will be amply fed.

Horton calls it “challah night”, as in “Can I eat that challah that’s sitting there lonely in your backseat?” I was watching the road ahead of me, but I frowned. “No – I mean NO. You know why I have fresh challah. I’m not even touching it directly. Leave it alone, obviously.” I heard rustling and munching. “You had better be eating the meringues.” He emerged with a chunk of bread. “It’s only the end, Lola,” he said between munches. “The Jews won’t notice.”

There were hostilities between Horton and I for quite some time.