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    The Day The Rains Came
    The Day The Rains Came
    The Day The Rains Came
    Ebook132 pages1 hour

    The Day The Rains Came

    By David Wolinsky

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    About this ebook

    As the great Mel Brooks said, “ Humor is just another defense against the universe” — and in these chaotic times, an irreverent and chaotic book like When the Rains Came, will definitely help you gird your loins AND laugh your head off. This entertaining collection of flash fiction, has been mysteriously spun out of the very deep, extended, chaotic, intense, personal experiences of a unique, one-of-a-kind person. David Wolinsky is a retired army officer, an entertainment attorney, restaurateur, businessman, a former memeber of Mensa, and currently, a writer who lives in the Pacific Northwest with his cat Barney.If you are seeking a Zagat-style description, Wolinsky' s work has been described as, “ well-crafted,” “ surprising,” and “ highly entertaining.” He' s been compared to Mel Brooks, and it has been said that he offers “ some of the best Jewish humor of recent times.” His “ brand of funny” was so good it even caused someone to “ publicly snort chicken noodle soup out of my nose.”
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherMosaic Press
    Release dateMar 22, 2024
    ISBN9781771617260
    The Day The Rains Came

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      Book preview

      The Day The Rains Came - David Wolinsky

      Prologue

      Many years ago, while trolling through the internet, I came across a series of personal ads ostensibly culled from the classified sections of Israel’s newspapers. These included:

      I am a sensitive Jewish prince whom you can open your heart to. Share your innermost thoughts and deepest secrets. Confide in me. I’ll understand your insecurities. No fatties, please.

      Jewish male, 34, very successful, smart, independent, self-made. Looking for a girl whose father will hire me.

      Single Jewish woman, 29, into disco, mountain climbing, skiing, track, and field. Has slight limp.

      Divorced Jewish man, seeks partner to attend Schule with, light Shabbos candles, celebrate holidays, build sukkah together, attend Brisses, Bar Mitzvahs. Religion not important.

      Israeli professor, 41, with 18 years of teaching in my behind. Looking for American-born woman who speaks English very good.

      Humor is to Jews what a dram of whiskey and a song is to the Irish, precision is to the Germans and an affair is to the French. Across the millennia, those who have attempted to eradicate the Jews would have been more successful if they had banned humor rather than synagogues or prayer. Just twenty-two years after the Holocaust, the brilliant Mel Brooks came out with the film The Producers which ultimately became one of the highest grossing Broadway musical comedies ever. It of course featured the song Springtime for Hitler. I know of no other religion that could have found humor in such an horrendous event so soon after its occurrence.

      Whether it’s because of millennia of persecution or just something genetic, Jews will as a last resort always turn to humor and will rarely allow themselves to be offended by even the most outlandish.

      My principal fear in writing this book was that my friends and family would think I had gone Hollywood, was no longer the warm, caring, lovely person I had always been, and now considered myself the second coming of Tolstoy. Which, of course, was foolishness.

      And yet, there are certain inescapable comparisons. Tolstoy was the spiritual son of Russian Aristocracy, and I am a sensitive Jewish Prince. Tolstoy served as a Second Lieutenant artillery officer as did I, and was then promoted to First Lieutenant, as was I. We both studied Law. We both can be classified as distinguished elder statesmen with beards. We both had stories the world waited anxiously to hear. And finally, Tolstoy had an ineffable, warm, loving sense of humor, much like my own. On the eve of his marriage, he gave his bride to be his diaries detailing his extensive sexual past, and the fact that one of the serfs on his estate had borne him a son. Such a kidder, and certainly had I been alive then, something over which we could have bonded. I had considered calling this book ‘War in Pieces" after I was awakened in the middle of the night by what I can only conclude was Tolstoy’s ghost, screaming at me that it was time for me to reconsider the title.

      Most people spend their life pursuing one vocation. I have battled through six different callings, army officer, attorney, entertainment consultant, restauranteur, businessman, and finally writer. And so after Tolstoy’s imprecation, it occurred to me that indeed, my life had been a history of war in pieces, and the stories in this book are the detritus still wallowing in my head at the conclusion of these struggles. Ultimately, however I decided to retain the original title, for no other reason than fear of Tolstoy’s descendants claiming part of my meager royalties.

      In my younger days, there was a city councillor who was famous for his malapropisms, such as You buttered your bread, now lie in it. I mentioned all the foregoing, so that you might be forewarned that certain of the following stories may not be politically correct or even in good taste, but when it comes to humor, for Jews, nothing is sacred. Hopefully you will at least find them to be amusing. In any event, you’ve been cautioned. If you choose to proceed, well then, you’ve buttered your bread, now lie in it.

      Chapter One

      I Am a Sensitive Jewish Prince

      My son nearly broke my heart. There, I’ve said it. I love all my sons. They are each brilliant, moral, kind, generous, funny, considerate, and generally, incredible young men. They worked hard from an early age, self-motivated, asked and expected nothing and each achieved incredible success in their chosen fields of endeavor. Plus they tolerated the insanities of their father with gentle acceptance. But truth is truth, and one of my sons very nearly killed me. To better understand, you’ll require a little history.

      As far back as I can remember, (and being near eidetic, that would be to the delivery room when the doctor turned to a nurse and remarked ‘Fat little bugger, isn’t he?’) I have been a loner. Never part of any group, gang, club, team, clique, association, or other gathering of people normally part of the social fabric. It wasn’t a question of acceptance, more of preference. I have always enjoyed being by myself, an outsider so to speak. Off to the side, observing the world as it passed before him. When you would go to a social event of any type, a wedding, Bar Mitzvah, anniversary, Christmas, or New Year’s party, I would be the one standing off to the side with a cup of coffee in my hand, a smile on my face, observing the event transpiring around him.

      At a very early age I became aware of this predilection and for a while it concerned me. Then I noticed that I resembled neither of my parents nor my older sister nor in fact any other member of my extended family. It was at that point that I came to the only logical conclusion. On the day I was born, there must have been some woman of royal lineage passing through our city who chose at that moment in time to go into labor. Somehow, in what may have been the origin of the term royal screw-up, two babies were mixed up, and some hick from the prairies went back to Europe with my parents and I was left to fend for myself with his natural parents. And please don’t misunderstand me. I loved my adoptive parents. My adoptive parents were Jewish. My adoptive father was the original gentleman attorney, beloved by his huge clientele, with never an ill word for anyone. My adoptive mother was a brilliant and incredibly funny feminist, ahead of her time, heading numerous charitable and political organizations. But both were still, how can I put this kindly, commoners. Somewhere in Europe I knew there was a royal family constantly wondering why their son occasionally lapsed into Yiddish.

      I have always been pragmatic and so I accepted the situation and chose to make the best of it that I could. I did my best to be a good son, attentive to my adoptive parents needs, worked hard and, where necessary, mingled with others, but always reluctantly, since generally I was happier on my own. Although I could have opted for a life of hermitage to indulge my preference, I did not. Soldier, attorney, restaurateur, businessman all required a modicum of social relationships, and I never eschewed the required interaction. But still, my royal blood precluded me from ever joining in whole heartedly. I was born to a higher level, to observe, assist when required, but otherwise remain aloof.

      And then my son nearly broke my heart. I don’t think for a minute it was intentional, but what is, is. My middle son is an advertising genius. He was declared to be the number one under thirty advertising man in the world by Business Insider. The same year, he won the Platinum Lion at Cannes for the best advertising campaign in the world. Shortly thereafter, he was considering taking on a new client, one of the genetic testing websites and suggested that he and I should subscribe for a DNA test. I resisted at first, afraid that once he found out that what he thought was his heritage was in fact a lie, he might lose all faith. Nonetheless I acceded to his request. And the results were conclusive. Our DNA was 97% Ashkenazi, European Jews. Moreover, the site referred us to several relatives, children of my adoptive father’s siblings who also shared our DNA. Which meant of course that my adoptive mother and father were in fact my real parents and my lifelong illusions were no more than that, illusions.

      For days I never left my condo. I refused to answer the phone or texts or emails. My heart was nearly broken. My entire life had been a sham. And then suddenly, realization struck me. Somewhere in my heritage, perhaps even dating back to the twelve tribes of Israel, there was nobility. It may have skipped hundreds or even thousands of generations, but ultimately the royal genes had made their way to my sensitive soul. Royalty may have skipped generations, but there was no mistaking it for what it was. I am a sensitive Jewish Prince and accept it proudly. I shall pursue this heritage now on Anscestry.com, and no matter how long it takes, I shall ultimately determine who in my lineage ruled what country and when.

      One final note. As and when I do determine the origin of my royal blood, I shall be the same humble, sensitive person I presently am. I

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