Izzy Glick, Nativity impresario

WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 10, 2014
The Weekly Screed (#702)

Izzy Glick, Nativity impresario

by David Benjamin

BETHLEHEM, 0 A.D. — Contrary to popular legend, the desk clerk at the inn — whose name was Nahim — was sympathetic to the bedraggled couple who arrived from Nazareth and asked for a room. After giving them the bad news the inn was full up, Nahim said, “Wait a minute! I just got word that these three Magi from God-knows-where, who are searching for the Christchild — I mean, really! These days, who’s NOT searching for the Christchild? But they’re running late and I can see that your wife is really pregnant. Whoa! Is she gonna have a baby or a camel? Seriously, though, the Presidential Suite is sitting empty. So why don’t I sneak you two in there, at the regular room rate, at least for tonight.”

The couple were about to jump at the deal when a man small of stature with large, soulful eyes, horseshoe-bald with abundant sideburns, a wispy mustache and wet lips, interceded. “Not so fast there, Nahim, my good man. Not so fast!”

He shook hands all around. “How are ya! My name is Glick, Isadore Glick. But you should call me Izzy. I’m what my friends call a facilitator and you don’t wanna hear what my enemies call me! Hah! Listen, I couldn’t help but hear Nahim here utter the words ‘Christchild’ and ‘pregnant’ in the same paragraph. And it hit me!”

“What,” said the man from Nazareth, “hit you?”

“An idea! A brainstorm! The chance of a lifetime? Lifetime? No! This is the chance of an epoch,” raved Izzy. “Nahim, you have a stable here, am I right?”

Nahim said, “Yes, but it’s just, well, a stable. It’s not exactly clean.”

“Perfect! Nahim, that’s where you’re gonna put up — wait! Who are you folks?”

“Well, my name is Joseph. And my wife is Miriam — ”

“No, no. Can’t be Miriam. Sounds too Jewish. Let’s just shorten it to Mary, whaddya say? For the sake of the story.”

“Story?” asked Joseph. “What story?”

“You folks just leave that part to me. Meanwhile, Nahim! I’ll take that suite off your hands. Somebody’s got to stay there, right? Now, let’s us three — you and me, Joe, and the lovely Mary — let’s take a look at that cozy little stable!”

Before they could object, Mary and Joseph were out behind the inn. They beheld the boniest cow they’d ever seen, standing forlorn and ankle-deep in manure in a cramped, filthy stable.

“Nope, not quite ready for prime time,” said Izzy Glick. “I mean, it has possibilities. But something’s missing. All we’ve got now for props is a hangdog cow and that broken-down manger. Even if we throw in your donkey…”

With that, Izzy disappeared. Mary and Joseph did their best to clear some of the manure, spread straw and repair the manger. An hour later, as darkness fell, Izzy was back with a group of men and one boy, all carrying musical instruments. “Hey folks, look what I found! Shepherds from the hills around Bethlehem.”

“We’re not shepherds,” insisted one of the group.

“Actually, M&J,” said Izzy in a confidential tone, “they’re the band. They’re playing the lounge at the inn this week. Hey, Mac, what do you call yourselves?”

“Little Caesar and the Romans,” said the leader, in a resentful tone. “Listen, man, you gonna tell us why we have to wear these cockamamie shepherd threads?”

“Look, man. The Christchild narrative just doesn’t resonate if the babe is surrounded by a lot of cool cats in shades with klezmers and Stratocasters, you dig? It has to be shepherds, okay? With staffs.”

“Well, as long as we get paid,” said Little Caesar.

“Oh, don’t you worry about that!” said Izzy. “Great! Here come the sheep!”

Nahim arrived, leading a half-dozen sheep. He looked both skeptical and anxious. He said, “Mr. Glick, my boss is going to miss these sheep. He was planning to serve them for dinner tonight.”

“Listen, kid. This deal is way bigger than a few bowls of mutton stew. As Marie Antoinette is eventually gonna say, ‘Let ‘em eat cake.’ Or fish. Or escarole!”

“Marie who?” said one of the Romans.

As Nahim withdrew, Izzy busily arranged sheep, cow, donkey and faux shepherds around the stable. He added a stray puppy to the tableau, tossed around a few pine boughs and glowed with proprietary pride. Suddenly, he turned on Mary. “So, if it’s a boy — oy vey! it’s, it’s gotta be a boy!— whaddya gonna call him?”

“We were thinking, Jesus.”

“Jesus? Really? Half the kids in Israel are Jesuses. I’m thinking — liberate your minds here a little bit, kids — something a little catchier. More exotic! Like — you ready? — Elvis.”

“Elvis?” said Joseph. “What the hell kind of a name — ”

“Look, Joe, we’re creating an image here. This baby of yours — I kid you not — could be the Christchild everybody’s waiting for. All he needs is a good promoter! A facilitator. A man with a plan! Enter Izzy Glick!”

Izzy could tell Joseph wasn’t buying it.

“Picture it. Elvis Christ! With my help, little Elvis’ll have followers before he hits puberty. Followers, Joe! Elvisites. Or Elivisciples. Pretty soon, there’ll be a whole movement. Elvisism. Elvisanity. Something like that.”

Mary, however, stuck with “Jesus” and crept back onto a pile of straw to have her baby in relative solitude.

The child was born that night. The pseudo-shepherds got bored and asked if they could play a few numbers. Izzy agreed but not while tiny Jesus was asleep. “And tell your Little Drummer Boy to keep it to a low roar,” said Izzy. “He’s not exactly Gene Krupa, y’know.”

“Gene who?” said Little Caesar.

Joseph couldn’t understand why his wife had to nurse her firstborn in a stable amongst at lot of livestock and strangers. He’d been patient with Izzy, but he decided to finally put his foot down.

“Look, Joe, my man!” said Izzy. “You gotta start looking Big Picture here. You think I’m in this deal for the short haul? No way, bro. I can see things ten, twenty years down the road, Joe. Picture your little Elvis — I mean, Jesus — booked at every wedding, funeral and synagogue from Tarsus to Judea. Picture him playing the main gallery at the Temple — in Jerusalem! He’s talking circles around the Sadducees and ripping into the moneychangers. As clear as day, I can see this kid — your son, Joe! — leading throngs of wide-eyed believers, to a mountaintop somewhere in Galilee. Holding thousands spellbound for hours, praying, preaching, pontificating, tossing off blessings like lollipops at a Fourth of July parade! I tell ya, Joe baby. This is going to be huge!”

“Fourth of what?” asked Joseph.

Izzy kept talking, but Joseph never really understood the concept. The Nativity miracle might have died there in the stable if the Magi hadn’t arrived in the nick of time. “Now here,” said Izzy, rubbing his hands and arching his eyebrows, “is a team I can work with. Yo, Caesar! Strike up the Romans!”

As the band swung into a ragtime riff, Izzy huddled with Balthazar, ‎Melchior and ‎Caspar. “Listen, guys, I know you’ve been on the road a long time, looking for this mythical Christchild. Believe me, I know what you’re going through. These are hard times. The world is in sin and error pining. The Romans are running the show and the king is a sadistic puppet who’s likely any minute to pop his gourd and serve up the local prophet’s head on a platter for his slutty stepdaughter’s bachelorette luncheon. And then he might grab you guys and turn you into dessert! Meanwhile, you’ve got free-lance messiahs coming out of the woodwork. How you ever gonna tell the flimflammers from the real Son of God?”

“We’re sure we’ll know him when we see him,” said Caspar. “The Christchild will reveal himself. He will be young and innocent, but his voice will be wondrous, his message irresistible and his faith pure.”

“For your sake, pal, I hope so. But you might just be barking up the wrong forest,” said Izzy. “What you boys have to do is think younger! Think Moses-in-the-bulrushes. Madonna-and-Child. Babe-in-a-manger. Think Jesus Christ!”

“Think who?” asked Balthazar.

With that, Izzy pushed aside several sheep. The Three Kings beheld a destitute newborn swaddled in rags lying in a smelly stable while lounge musicians in shepherd drag sawed away at the birth of the blues.

“Voila, gents: the perfect Christchild. This little bundle of joy hasn’t been ruined yet by rabbis and Pharisees. He hasn’t even been circumsized! His story is a blank slate. Lucky for all of us, though, it won’t be blank for long, because I happen to know a young scribe who can write it all up — my cousin Irv’s nephew Luke. That boy can spin a yarn that’ll boggle your mind, tickle your fancy, break your heart and turn that crummy stable into the Good Lord’s tabernacle. By the time he’s done, my boy Luke will have angels bending near the earth, heaven and nature singing, hallelujahs falling like snow, giant blinding stars rolling across the night sky like Apollo’s chariot.”

The Magi, who were dead on their feet and ready to end their quest, wavered. Izzy sealed the deal by offering to give up the Presidential Suite at the crowded inn.

“So,” said Izzy, “you’ve got your newborn King. Did somebody mention that you brought gifts.”

The Magi showed Izzy their stash of gold, frankincense and myrrh.

“Give Joe there the frankincense and myrrh,” said Izzy. “But I’d better hold the gold. The last thing the Savior needs, image-wise, is for word to get out that he’s hip-deep in the old do-re-mi, you dig? The kid’s gotta be a man of the people. Wear sandals. Catch fish. Work with his hands. Abe Lincoln and all that, y’know?”

“Abe who?” said Balthazar.

Izzy shouted, over the music. “Hey, Joe! What do you do for a living?”

“I’m a carpenter.”

“Oh God, is that perfect or what?” said Izzy to the Magi. “Come on. Let me introduce you boys to Joe, Mary and the Everloving Savior of the World. I tell ya, fellas. This is going to be huge!”