Just sharing some memories here....
Hey Guys...
Aaron and I were walking around the Midrahov in Jerusalem when this guy who looked like a professional body builder walks over along-side us, extends his head uncomfortably close to our faces like the socially retarded guy on Seinfeld who didn't get the thing about personal space. I thought he was going to try to offer us some Hashish. It was like he was going to let us in on a secret. Anyway, while looking into our eyes, this guy says, "Hey guys... you like good meat?" We could feel he breath on our faces.
Aaron slowly turned his head left to look at me with with his eyes wide, eyebrows raised, and head tilted up a bit in a funny expression of being creeped out. It was such a bizarre thing to say to someone out of the blue that it became a sort of iconic inside joke between us from then on. One of those things that always cracked us up and never got stale.
I can't remember how we responded, but I'm sure it was pretty funny. Aaron used to crack me up.
The body building guy was promoting a new shawarma shop that had opened up on the corner. Ironically, there will be more about him later.
Love for Animals.
Aaron had a very special attachment to a street cat he took into our house in Pisgat Zeev. Actually, I think I had moved out already, and Shelly had replaced me. It was a long time ago -- maybe 1995, but I do remember the cat was incredibly affectionate, and she had white socks on her front legs. She was such a cool cat -- I wish I could remember her name. Aaron used to cook for her, and she would hang out on his lap in his bedroom. He loved that animal very deeply. He had a soft spot for animals, and it was another thing we had in common.
The first time I saved Aaron's life.
This isn't about me despite the title. Aaron would repeat this story over and over, so we'll write about it here.
Wrong answer.
This could also be named "The second time I saved Aaron's life." This one also isn't about me, but it was an exciting day for both of us. It's a pretty gritty story, but it was a meaningful moment for both of us and a defining one for Aaron.
Cab drivers in Israel are often boorish types who prey on those whom they perceive to be weak. Sometimes they won't operate their meter as if by accident and then come up with some preposterous price, on which they won't pay taxes anyway, as the meter did not record the transaction. Other times, they throw a curve ball and tell you that the price they quoted you at the beginning was for "each person," which of course they did not reveal until it was time to pay. Other times they will run the meter when you call them, and have the meter obscured by objects in the front seat, so that you wouldn't be aware of the added fee for coming to pick you up.
With the scene set, one day I get a call on my cellphone from Aaron. He's whispering and I can hear that he's in big trouble. "Alex, you have to get me out of here. There are a lot of people on their way and they're definitely going to kill me. I'm totally serious." He gave me some vague details but didn't have time to explain the whole story. Something about a taxi cab. He was breathing hard and I could hear by his footsteps that he was running on gravel or something.
He told me the name of an intersection in Pisgat Zev and told me to keep riding until he would contact me. It was all very vague. So I grab my old AGV helmet, Dainese gloves, and jacket and start up my bike.
I was definitely motivated to bail him out of trouble, but any excuse to ride my new bike was a perfect opportunity to go riding. I had just purchased the motorcycle either a few weeks or a few months earlier, and was at that time not an experienced rider. The year was 1997, and I had what was purported to be the very first Suzuki GSX-R600 that was brought to Israel. Because of its technological superiority over the older bikes, it broke the mold for sportbikes and was very sought after. In those days it was probably the most desirable bike a person could own after a Ducati 916; it was a serious attention getter among motorcycle enthusiasts and drivers alike, just because it looked so cutting edge. Here in the States, it would not have been a big deal. In Israel at that time a top of the line motorcycle would set you back at least twice of what it would cost in the States; they had almost a Lamborghini status. I just could not believe that I owned one after living in crap for so long. Aaron had never seen the new bike although he had heard that I bought it. He was probably expecting some crappy Czech 2-stroke with knobby tires. I don't think he realized what kind of bike it was.
I come roaring down to Pisgat Ze'ev from Downtown Jerusalem with my RPM needle frenetically moving around between 10,000 and 12,000 RPMs. As soon as I hit the junction to Pisgat Ze'ev that breaks off from the highway that extends East to the Dead Sea, it was apparent there was something going one. Taxi cabs. Everywhere. White Mercedes taxi cabs converging on Pisgat Ze'ev. Now in our brief cellphone conversation Aaron did mention something about a cab driver, so I suddenly realized I was going into a shark pit. Once I reached Pisgat Ze'ev, the white cabs were everywhere, swarms of them, driving up and down the streets like sharks looking for the same piece of meat. It was really weird.
I'm in a low gear making my way down the main road heading due East, looking around for Aaron. I'm sure everybody in the neighborhood heard the engine whining. It sounded like a Formula 1 car. As I pass an apartment, suddenly I see him stealthily walk out from behind the building, head down, cigarette in his hand, hood over his head. His eyes are fixed downwards but you can see he's observing every little thing. He flicks the cigarette, grabs my spare helmet and gets on the bike's pillion. "We have to get out of here now--watch out for the cabs. There was a pause and I recall him saying something like "Nice bike." I pull a U-turn and mashed the throttle, lofting the front wheel slightly off the ground as we torpedoed up the hill. The bike was screaming. Aaron was hanging on as we roared past cabs after cab. It all happened so fast that there was no way they would be able to put 2 and 2 together. Once we were at 12,000 RPMs on the long sweeping road that led out of Pisgat Zev there was not a single cab or anything else with wheels in the vibrating rear view mirror. Chalk one up for the rescue team.
Aaron had no idea I had such a cool bike, and he would always say that the journey out of Pisgat Ze'ev was like being carried out of danger on the wings of an angel. He said that the moment he got aboard, he knew we were getting out of this. The whole thing just really had a lasting impression on him, and he'd always remind me that I saved his life. For me, it wasn't a big deal at all, but I can understand his relief given that situation. Having hundreds of angry, tire-iron-clutching Moroccan Jews after your ass is not something that will leave one unphased.
When you're in Pisgat Zev, there's really only one main way out of there, so if you're being hunted down by a big search party, there are not a lot of places you can go.
To be continued...
Sometimes he's big and sometimes he's not.
One of those stories that still makes me wince. Coming soon.
Habibi
Coming soon.
The Shelly period.
Coming soon.
Thugs no more.
A story of a not so quiet Shabbat.
Another side.
Aaron was not afraid to fight, or do extraordinary things in public that take a lot of balls; he would express that he wasn't afraid to die. But the only time I saw another side of him was when I took him for a ride on the back of my sportbike. I think I scared the crap out of him -- and I'm not the type to take someone on a hell ride; I can't stand those kinds of idiots who take others' lives into their own hands. It's just that when you feel the incredible power and corner performance of a modern sportbike for the first time, it can catch you off guard.
He kept telling me to slow down and I could feel a real concern and--more importantly--the will to live. This was a moment I still remember because he seemed to have committed himself to the desirable notion that he would die young. But when it really came down to it, and we perceive that we're walking on the cusp of existence, there was indeed a will to live. Fight or Flight is a strong biological defense mechanism, and despite our thoughts, the body goes into automatic override -- which is quite scary.
This memory makes his absence more painful, because I can almost feel that he experienced the same emotions during his last moments when the moment of truth finally arrives. We will all experience it, but when we are left behind by a friend, it seems worse than to experience it myself.
Alien abduction
My visit to New York on business. Coming soon.
The last time I saw Aaron.
Coming soon.
Keeping the virtual candle lit for our friend. See you on the other side, Brother.
