Don’t Judge a Book . . .

Laurie had graduated college and had boomeranged back home to Seattle. She met a cute guy with horn-rimmed glasses. He invited her on a picnic at the beach. She said yes.
“Have fun,” her mom said when Greg came to the house.
Greg drove to a sandy spot with a view of the city. They were enjoying red wine with cheese and apples while they got to know one another a little better. The discussion turned to politics and religion, and the next thing Laurie knew Greg was putting down Jewish people.
“Those kikes are all alike,” Greg said. “They always try to jew you down.”
“For your information,” Laurie said gasping, “I am Jewish.”
“No,” said Greg, “you can’t be. Your last name is Muscatel.”
“We are Sephardic Jews,” Laurie said, “from the Iberian peninsula. You know, Spain.”
“You don’t look Jewish,” Greg said. “I didn’t mean you.”
“I am,” Laurie said, “and I am leaving. Don’t ever speak to me again.”
Laurie grabbed her pocket book and headed for the main road. Her mom had wisely taught her to carry $5.00 with her at all times (this was forty years ago). Laurie reached Alkai Way and found a pay phone. She called for a cab and waited in front of the gas station, looking over her shoulder to make sure her anti-Semitic date hadn’t followed her.
The cab came, Laurie got in, and it took her back to her mom’s house. Her mom calmed her down from the experience and suggested they watch bad B movies and cuddle up on the couch together. They watched a remake of Dracula and ate ice cream.

Couldda Wouldda Didda
By having $5.00 with her, Laurie was able to escape her prejudiced date back in 1973.

One thought on “Don’t Judge a Book . . .

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