1972. Fourth grade.
Every Wednesday, after school, I car-pooled across town to this
tenement Hebrew school in Cincinnati with my sister and two other sets of local
children we couldnt stand, the Siegels and the Lipschitz. Karen
Lipschitz was the worst human alive. Incredibly mean. She was twelve and stocky
and had this big blonde permy afro, and wore grandmother clothes and
Coke-bottle glasses. She looked like Little Orphan Annies mutant twin.
And I had a bad lisp at the time and she would tease me, mercilessly. And one
day, at the religious school canteen that was the highlight of religious
school; after an hour in Hebrew Hell, your Mom gave you a dollar and youd
spend it on whatever you could stuff in your pockets Hershey bars, Pop
Rocks one time, Karen caught me off-guard, and asked me what my favorite
candy was. And not thinking clearly, I said
And that was it. For the next three weeks, in the car, at
school, everywhere I saw her, Karen chanted:
Hey, Reethe cupth! Want thome Reethe Cupth, Reethe
Cupth!? Maybe youd rather have thome Thnickerth? Or Three Muthkateerth?
Or Marth Barth? Or Thmarties? Or Thweet Tartth? Or or or
or Pixthie Thttixth! Yeah! Pixthie Thttixth! Or maybe youll jutht
thtick with Reethe Cupth, huh, Reethe Cupth? Thee ya, Reethe Cupth! Bye!
I wanted to thtrangle her.