Still no new messages, he moves to youtube where he finds himself watching clips of Harry Nilsson’s live performances from 1970s and cries at the realization of how cold and dark the times are now. No more hope for happiness, no happiness in depressing loneliness, ONLY defeat and apocalyptic feelings. These reflections on our times are interrupted by the sound of sobs between his own that could not have come from himself.
Interior. Bathroom.
The three rabbis are crying in Jack Nicholson’s small New York bathroom. The old wise one sits on the toilet, his face burrowing through his wizened hands; the young one dangles his legs off the side of the sink, biting down on his trembling lip and clipping his fingernails; the fat one comically stomps his fists and untied shoes against Nicholson’s dry bathtub.
JACK NICHOLSON
Why are you guys crying?
OLD RABBI
(looking up from his hands)
We cry because we cannot ascend.
FAT RABBI
(bellowing out)
Stuck below because I tied the laces on my left
foot before tying the laces on my right foot!
YOUNG RABBI
(sardonically)
Those fuckers! They got rules for everything…
Apparently I can’t go up because I messed up the
order for clipping my fingernails on Friday while preparing for the Sabbath. Do you believe that shit?
OLD RABBI
If we want messiach, we must follow the rules. There is an order for everything…
YOUNG RABBI
Well, I’m not sure that I even want the messiah to come. It really doesn’t concern me.
OLD RABBI
And me? I’ve been waiting my whole life for him to come…
The old rabbi resigns his face back into his hands.
YOUNG RABBI
You see, I got this theory that all this shit is really about the waiting for the messiah, rather than his actual arrival. That what differentiates us from the goyim.
FAT RABBI
Oyyyyyy…. I wasn’t cut out to be a fucking rabbi! Aye… I just don’t have the right temperament for it! Ohhh…. I used to dream of becoming a beadle in the synagogue!
(he smiles)
Shushing all who were consumed with idle chatter.
JACK NICHOLSON
Well, you can’t cry here. Go somewhere else.
And with that, Jack Nicholson pushed the three rabbis out of his bathroom.
The bathroom mirror is dirty, but I can tell that my eyebrows are abnormally long. I take out a hair from the left brow with some tweezers and marvel at it. A dead hair. A white hair. A good find. A couple more hairs call out to me, a patch of eyebrow in need of epigamic maintenance, so I clench them between the un-pointed tips and I tug – but I take the wrong strands. It’s painful to pull out soft, youthful hairs, and the rheum over my eyes swells. I remove the correct tuft, and this eases the sting, but the sensation returns when I cannot get a hold of another thatch. More normal hairs taken out. So many that I lose track and wonder if the intended thorn, the messiah hair, can be accounted for amongst the discards.
The peak on my left eyebrow no longer flaunts its summit and, beside it, the right brow looks more ridiculous than ever. To even the keel, I take the tweezers to the right side. The first yank is too ambitious. Many hairs withdrawn, much pain. Tears run down my cheeks, but I am not crying. From the throbbing teems something to push my pursuit, and I occasionally find a hair in actual need of plucking atrophied in the tweezers. The left vertex is exaggerated again. I pull and pull and pull, arbitrarily, like a sniper on a tower. I am crying. An inverted point dips into my left eyebrow. To make everything appear normal, I carefully pluck at both eyebrows, eventually manicuring them into the pencil thin threads I associate with Kabuki theatre. What will become of me with so few hairs remaining above my eyes? What will come of my fingers?
“First cut the nails on the left hand in the order 4, 2, 5, 3, 1, and then the right in the order 2, 4, 1, 3, 5.” Though he was not a religious boy, our hero practiced the same prescribed order since his father taught it to him as the way a man cut his nails on Friday. He even immortalized the process by using it to inspire the obsessive-compulsive attentiveness of his Melvin Udall in As Good As It Gets. “Jews don’t believe in Hell,” explained his father. “You just gotta look around yourself in the now and ask, Is this as good as it gets?” Perhaps I remember the fingernail-clipping pattern so vividly because of the physical awkwardness of my father attempting to teach it after both his arms had been blown off in the war, along with both his hands, along with all ten fingers, along with all their nails. Or perhaps I remember because it seemed, strangely, an attempt to recompense.