Episode EXTRA! 32: “No One To See” read by E. L. Tenenbaum cover art

Episode EXTRA! 32: “No One To See” read by E. L. Tenenbaum

Episode EXTRA! 32: “No One To See” read by E. L. Tenenbaum

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 https://eltenenbaum.com/wp-content/uploads/2023/02/Episode-Extra-32-No-One-to-See.mp3 BONUS! Episode featuring short story “No One to See” by E. L. Tenenbaum! Listen or read below: (Originally published in Ami Magazine, August 2023.) For those who do good, even if they don’t look the part. For those who do good, even if there is no one there to see. Hear another short story “Hiya, Pops!” He tugs the collar of his black leather jacket tight against his neck, warding off the lingering winter chill. Exiting his basement apartment, he kicks aside the burned remains of cigarettes littering the brick floor outside. He lives in his parents’ home, but he uses his own door. Their neighbor Mrs. Rosenberg sniffs audibly as she waters the potted plants on her back porch, as if she can smell the smoke that’s long dissipated. He’d invited some friends to hang out at his place last night, but it had been a quieter gathering than usual. Low music, talk a murmur. She can cut looks his way, but he knows they didn’t keep anyone awake. He also knows she isn’t the only one in his neighborhood whose lips thin when he walks past. Whispered words accompanied with sad head shakes, disappointed looks and glances heavenward, tsks and clicks about kids who don’t fit the system tend to follow him. A boy who wears dark shirts without buttons, fitted jeans and not slacks, a gray knitted beanie or navy blue baseball cap without a yarmulke beneath. He doesn’t wear loafers or shoes with buckles but scuffed boots that add a thud to his step. He doesn’t wear Tefillin for davening, but slips them on long enough for a hasty Shema before he’s wrapping them back up again. His fingers don’t tap a keyboard in the quiet of a temperature-controlled office, nor is his day filled with low susurrations of lessons reviewed over large Gemaras. Rather, his fingernails blacken with car grease and oil changes, the clank of the auto body shop overlayed with staticky sounds of play-by-plays or classic rock. Guys like him work different jobs, but the general track is the same. Academically unlearned but brazenly street-smart, wardrobes designed for gritty work and interests more aligned with cars and sports than the texts of their heritage. They’ve all been to the schools, they’ve all lived the life, but they also all cut out of their studies before finishing the “standard program.” His friend Danny repairs computers and jokingly refers to their group as system failures. He takes the steps up to the pavement at a hop but freezes when he notices something dark on the uppermost one. He bends and his fingers close around the buttery softness of expensive leather. He examines the item in his hand; a wallet. He glances around, puzzled, but looking up and down the block doesn’t reveal anyone grabbing at a purse or pocket in horror. No one seems to be in the area right now at all, so he figures it must have bounced from someone passing by earlier this morning. He turns his back to the street and rubs a hand along the black leather surface, admiring the quality of a wallet surely worth more than the jacket he saved up for all spring and summer. He flicks it open and checks inside; no license, no credit cards, medical cards, or checks with names. He peeks into the billfold and finds a neat stack of one-hundred-dollar bills. They’re so crisp they resist being counted, but there are fifteen all together. Fifteen hundred dollars of clean, unclaimed cash ready to disappear into his pocket. He looks the street over again but whomever he sees is busily going about their day. There isn’t even a straggler to chase down with, “Excuse me, did you drop something?” Even Mrs. Rosenberg is back inside. No one sees what he found. He shoves the wallet into his back pocket and hurries down the street before he’s late for work. He keeps his eyes straight and his head slightly ducked, but he imagines that someone just knows and the wallet burns where it’s tucked away. He tells himself that if there’d been a name, he would go straight to return the wallet, not even a doubt. However, without identifying features, he begins to think of what he can do with the extra cash. Should he be responsible and save it or blow it on something frivolous because it’s money he didn’t expect or earn? He could stick it in the bank or get seats so close to the field he can count individual blades of grass. A night of drinks at the bar with friends? Make a big donation? He can keep the wallet which pairs well with his jacket or sell it and add even more hundred-dollar bills to his windfall. He hasn’t decided by the time he reaches the mechanics shop where he works. The phone is ringing as he steps inside and trips the notification bell. “Hey, Kiwi, get that!” his boss Bernie calls from the back. It’s been two years and Kivi’s beginning to suspect his boss just enjoys the mistake he’s made with his name. Truth is it’s better than other...
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