I’m with the Meah Shearim Yid…
A story told by Yisroel Besser of Mishpacha:
I was once at a wedding in Yerushalayim, in one of those unlikely banquet halls under some stores, down a dark hallway, with mirrors and marble slapped on the wall and some bizarre lighting. Inside, there were bourekas and mushroom sauce and a poiker, the drummer with no playlist or notes or sheet music, just his imagination and energy.
An old-time Meah Shearim Yid was sitting at the table near me, a crusty sort of gentlemen with heavy-lidded eyes and a voice turned sandpaper by years of smoking unfiltered cigarettes. It was election season and he was doing a monologue about the religious politicians and their spiritual patrons as well, flicking his wrist to indicate his feelings for the whole lot.
Toward the end of the night, one of the roshei yeshivah closely associated with Degel HaTorah party, one of the great men of Bnei Brak, entered the wedding hall. My tablemate didn’t even look uncomfortable as he stood up to take his place on line for a brachah, leaning in close to whisper the name of his ailing wife to the rosh yeshivah.
It wasn’t shver. It wasn’t even a question. Yeah, he talked too much, like a Yankees fan dissing the Mets, but that was just white noise. In real life, his value system was intact. He wasn’t distraught or distressed as he faced the gadol, and there was no “say it ain’t so” expression of hurt on his face.
Then he went back to table, to savor his orange ices. He didn’t apologize or even feel a need to explain. Perhaps he even continued the diatribe, I don’t remember.
I do remember the look of satisfaction in his face, however. The night had been well-spent. He’d gotten a brachah from the rosh yeshivah to take home with him.
He got it…