The Last Crusade

The Last Crusade

Spiritual Barometry in Downtown Manhattan

By Daniel Berman

The May rain pours down in droves as the two dark-suited men shuffle east past the stock exchange on Wall Street. It appears to freeze mid-fall against the bursts of camera flashes, and drops quietly thereafter.

Rabbi Mendel Scharfstein is twenty-two, and the innocence of youth glows fresh in his bespectacled eyes. He paces at 5’ foot 6” towards water street, nearly drenched in his oversized black suit and top-hat. His peyos wind down from the edges of his side- burns to his jaw-line, where the brown curls seem to burrow into the fluff of his patchy yet mature beard. At Mendel’s side, Yosef Grossman paces in similar apparel. He is the same age as his companion although not yet an ordained Rabbi. His accent rolls out with sharp eastern-European inflection – when he pauses smiling to speak, that is.

Yossi, as his friends and family call him, has every reason in the world to be joyous, he insists, although he too, is sopping wet. Standing as big as an ox in his trench- coat and top-hat, he could be mistaken for a Jewish wrestler if it weren’t for his kind nature.

Through his bright, maroon beard he booms, “There are miracles occurring every day.” He passes under the dry refuge offered by the entrance of 60 Wall street, where several financiers indulge in a smoke-break. “Although we can’t necessarily comprehend their inner workings,’ he muses, ‘we can bring ourselves closer to a spiritual understanding by continuing to better ourselves as human beings. Take the incident with the plane landing in the Hudson river, for example – not a single injury.” Yossi’s smile re-emerges even brighter. “ If you look deeper into it...these things just don’t happen.” He turns the corner after a brief farewell, disappearing past a menagerie of town-cars.

***

It is Friday, which holds great significance to Yossi and Mendel. Not only isFriday the Jewish Sabbath and day of rest(after sundown), it’s also the day both gentlemen set off on a winding hike through scores of wall street offices, offering their guiding support and sage wisdom. The purpose of their emissary work is to allow less pious Jews to engage in spiritual mitzvoth* to bring them closer to their neshama, or godly spirits, Mendel explains.

Chabad Lubavitch, to which Mendel’s family has dedicated its life, is the Hasidic movement following the teachings of the late “Rebbe”(grand Rabbi) Rabbi Menachem Schneerson. He is often touted as the Jewish messiah among the Lubavitch, although this theology is only practiced within the orthodox denomination. Mendelspeaks of the Rebbe very often, and very highly.

He pulls out what looks like a business card, but it is actually a miniature flyer which lists the Seven Noahide laws received by Moses from G-d in the Old Testament. “MOSHIACH[messiah] IS HERE,” reads the small card in bold, and in fine print beneath, an inscription reads “Just add in goodness and kindness.” The image of Rabbi Schneerson sits just below the text, revealing clasped hands and a beard that would make Hemingway jealous.

Through his beneficent actions and outreach, Mendel hopes to fulfill the messianic prophecy of the late Rebbe. The Lubavitch movement is named after the Jewish town of its inception in Russia, but it now runs as a global operation. “We are a world-wide organization with over a million members,” Mendel explains, ‘but each chabad house is run completely by its own community.” According to the group’s website chabad.org, today there are over 4000 full-time emissary families in more than 3,300 institutions world-wide. And though this is already a large number, Mendel hopes to run his own chabad in the future when he is a married man, he expresses to me with an ebullient smile.

***

Mendel enters the elevator of 45 Wall Street, stepping out just moments later onto the eleventh floor, whose assemblage of young brokers rings like a school during recess. Mendel leans over the reception desk, and shyly announces himself to the attractive blonde secretary. An older couple sitting nearby gawks momentarily until they make accidental eye contact, and later disappear into a room nearby.

Today Mendel will be visiting with Cyrus Eyn, a local real estate broker who often hosts Jewish holiday parties in his apartment. Although Mendel usually arrives with plastic shot glasses and a half-full bottle of vodka, he nurses his drinks slowly, apparently more interested in the prospect of conversing with new acquaintances. “There’s food and drink, and lot of fun,’ he expresses enthusiastically, rocking slightly in the black armchair, ‘but most important- there’s great company.”

Travel seems to be Mendel’s guilty pleasure. It is also vital to the success of his Chabad house and charity work. He recounts with a grin his recent trip to Rakishok, Lithuania, where he hosted a Passover service for a small community synagogue notorious for forgetting their prayers. Slightly blushing, he intimates, “I accidentally found myself a little drunk-we had to repeat several blessings over again, but we got it right…eventually.” He grins as a fuzzy red glow comes over bearded face.

Clutched in the crook of Mendel’s elbow is a waterproof plastic pouch, brimming with nearly one hundred copies of L’chaim weekly magazine, a small Orthodox publication he distributes. A picture of the Rebbe’s smiling face peers out from beneath its water-spackled surface.

Mendel often comes bearing gifts for his friends. Jewish staples such as dreidels, menorahs, and even matzoh are offered no cost, which owes to the charity of Lubavitch, as well as to their budget. These offerings, including prayer flyers and Jewish weekly newspapers, are an attempt to raise awareness for the Orthodox cause. Mendel’s outreach is crucial in supporting his chabad house in Crown Heights, which he shares with his parents and younger sister. This requires a lot of footwork, he concedes.

On the state of spirituality in downtown Manhattan, Mendel offers a positive outlook: “I can’t tell you how holy it is exactly- I don’t have a meter for that, but I have witnessed many great mitzvoth(blessings) and met some truly wonderful people here. Unfortunately, with everyone’s hectic schedule, I’m often unable to meet with friends on a weekly basis.” He seems slightly disappointed.

Most working people downtown, especially of the younger generation, just don’t have the time to sit for twenty minutes during the work- week, he believes. And to his chagrin, others simply want to practice religion on their own terms and time. This seems to be the most prevalent hindrance to Mendel’s success, he admits.

“There’s a lot of young people down here I’d love to meet,’ he explains in the waiting area. ‘Whether it’s simply for a prayer or some conversation, Lubavitch is about connecting Jews. We must stay together as a world-wide community, for spiritual strength and solidarity.”

Downtown resident Brett Shorenstein, a member of the Wall Street Synagogue at 47 Beekman street, is not personally familiar with Mendel, but has a different perspective on mixing religion and work. “I was once introduced to a Rabbi of Lubavitch through a mutual friend, and he still calls me every Friday, even though I thought I made it obvious I wasn’t in need of any ordainment,’ he explains sarcastically.

Mr. Shorenstein, who works on Wall Street in private equity, continues. “I personally believe that people should be free to practice religion where and how they want, but a lot of times you can make others uncomfortable at the workplace proselytzing, especially in sales-related businesses where one deals with clients.” Belonging to a congregation gives him a broader reach into the community through his socializations, he admits, although he does not pause for prayer at work.

***

Cyrus arrives in a gray three- piece suit, smiling warmly. He has known Mendel for four years and embraces him in brotherly fashion.

In the empty dining room, Mendel takes out a small black cube attached to leather straps, which he places at the forefront of Cyrus’ closely- shaved head. The ceremony, named Tefillin, involves wrapping the head and arm and reciting a special prayer, and is considered a high mitzvah(blessing) in Judaism.

“Hareni mekabel..” Cyrus begins reading the Hebrew text. His sharp blue eyes scan the words with familiarity. He continues reciting the ancient dialect for nearly a minute until he reaches the conclusion, and Mendel joins in. “We want Moshiach now,” they both echo.

“In these times, if there’s anything we need, it’s a spiritual bailout,” Cyrus half- jokes, standing up from a chair beside Mendel. The two shake hands warmly, and Cyrus returns back to his work, likely stepping out the door to meet with a prospective client.

Mendel cruises slowly toward the exit, depositing several publications on the top ledge of the reception desk. He smiles at the attractive receptionist timidly as he makes his way to the elevators.

As a youth, it wasn’t often Mendel would walk the streets of Manhattan. His time was too booked already from the nearly eight-hour school day. But now he is in the city at least once a week. And forget the days of low-tech Judaism – Mendel is equipped with a Blackberry telephone and matching google-mail account.

He stands in the corridor, waiting for the screeching elevator to arrive on the eleventh floor. A text message buzzes on his cellular phone, which he drops into his baggy pocket after a quick one-over. “Just as we all need to attain a closeness to G-d,’ he motions with his hands, ‘we must also embrace technology that nears us to one another” The elevator arrives with a startling ring, and Mendel shuffles in between a Fed-Ex delivery courier and an elderly gentleman. “Call me anytime’ he offers, placing his foot in front of the elevator door, as it moves to close and jerks back.

“But don’t bother during Shabbis*,’ he warns, ‘ or you’re going straight to voicemail.”

Sources:

www.Chabad.org

www.Lubavitch.org

Minas the Magician

Minas the Magician, by Daniel Berman

Entering Minas Shoe repair, I am immediately overcome by the effervescent aroma of shoe polish and wet leather; the smell of the trodden boots my grandfather insists on never throwing away wafts past my shoulder and out the door as it conclusively thuds onto Wall street. The walking room inside only amounts to four hundred square feet at most, but the shop’s walls are lined with paneled mirrors through which one can observe directly opposite a row of royal green shoe-shine thrones, discolored chemically by the styling gels of some very stiff-haired clientele.

The silver-haired gentleman hunches near the counter of his store, obstructing my view of the workspace behind, which bears great resemblance to the guts of a nautical vessel. Minas Polychronakos is a previous tenant of the late World Trade Center and now maintains two successful shoe repair shops on the streets of Beaver and Wall, whose interiors always house a variegated fare of flashy suits and fashionistas.

But Minas doesn’t want you to believe it’s all the Business crowd– a notion which is confirmed by praise-filled newspaper clippings taped to the store’s mirrors, haphazardly supplemented by bouquets of celebrity photos and amateur headshots. The shelving behind Minas proudly displays the unique range of footwear he resurrects, ranging from the out-of-place infant Air Jordan to the extravagant, sharp-heeled Jimmy Choo.

I briefly focus my attention on an elusively framed picture hanging nearby of the cobbler in Greece during his younger days, and I’m not surprised, given his work ethic, when he tells me the photograph is over thirty years old. For the time being, the enduring Minas claims his business is doing well despite the high cost of leasing a retail space in the financial district. “I know a few businessmen who have nearly lost their shoes in these times—‘ he jokes, ‘-but there are always new residents moving in near Wall Street, and I’d like to stay a part of the neighborhood as well.”

Minas and I shake hands warmly in farewell and I am momentarily convinced my arm will turn to gold, mythologizing that the beneficent man is a wizard in addition to a “go-to cobbler and therapist,” as claims Tina Y of Long Island in her yelp.com review. I, too, am a satisfied customer of three years, and have found he is able to resurrect even postmortem mukluks into majesty. Surely, there must be an element of magic involved.

If It Ain't Brokered, Don't Fix It

If It Ain’t Brokered, Don’t Fix It, by Daniel Berman

Khashi Eyn answers a phone call by the window of his 30 Wall Street office, standing eleven stories above throngs of tourists and money-men. A flower in the lapel of his pinstripe suit stands stiffly below his permanent five-o’clock shadow and slicked-back coif. “These real estate developers leveraged too much,’ he asserts into the microphone of his Blackberry. ‘They wanted quick cash in their pockets but weren’t looking at the future, and now they’re paying the price.”

Mr. Eyn is the President and CEO of Platinum Properties, a real estate brokerage firm he founded in 2005 to serve the financial district. His team of young agents has since garnered thousands of transactions, including the highly-publicized $35 million sale of several penthouse apartments in the Trump World Tower. Platinum has flourished in harmony with the growing downtown population, but now faces the difficult task of working in a dwindling market. Eyn, who maintains his optimism at twenty-five, is not flustered.

“I think that this economy will highlight the values FiDi offers,’ he begins. ‘With many people cutting housing costs, the Financial District offers a great compromise. Residents get to stay in Manhattan but don’t have to sacrifice their luxury lifestyles.’ Through the window of Eyn’s office one can stare down at the luxurious Tiffany’s as well as the gourmet Cipriani’s, whose clientele ceaselessly saunter past tuxedoed doormen who stand so stiffly with top-hats and umbrellas one might believe they were starched and ironed with their uniforms.

Catching the reflection from Tiffany’s intricate glass display, one might also observe the bleak silhouette of Mangia, a long-standing neighborhood restaurant/diner just across Wall Street, whose windows are now covered with brown construction paper.

On paper as well, 2008 reports from the Downtown Alliance for New York reveal that the Financial District has grown in population from its year-2000 census number of 32,286 to a current 56,354 residents. The .75 square mile area represented accounts for the southernmost tip of Manhattan – a neighborhood whose average household income was reported at $242,000 in 2008 (based on an estimate of 2 persons per household). Last year’s study projects 28,995 total households in the area by 2011(up from 28177), as well as a $3.3 billion disposable income from the residential population. The current economic slowdown, however, has certainly brought these numbers down to earth, Eyn concedes.

“I do believe that retail in the neighborhood is being hit hard,” he begrudgingly admits. “The new stores opening down here were hoping to lure in the affluent Wall Street community and will find that more difficult, but it’s mostly the well established neighborhood businesses that will be able to hold on,” he intimates.

Mitchell Wasser, who is Residential Leasing Director for The Crest at 63 Wall Street, works closely with Eyn and claims he has felt the tangible effects of the recession draw near. “Fortunate brokers might be catching more deals on the whole,’ he says, ‘but for most of us it’s definitely time to focus and tighten ship. Right now, we’re basically back at 2005 prices, and we’re offering up to three months free on a sixteen month lease,” he explains. Mr. Wasser deals with nearly every brokerage firm in the city and is concerned that the reduced volume of renters might further weaken the market before it shows signs of improvement.

If Eyn is as concerned as Wasser, his poker-face serves him well. As the employer of nearly forty independent contractors who earn their salaries through commission, he is far from panic-struck by the current economic climate. On keeping his staff motivated, he insists: “By offering serious incentives I’m able to keep everyone optimistic and working hard.’ He speaks shoes-up on his oil-washed Mahogany desk. ‘It is my honest belief that it is possible to make the same amount of money in this market, or more. You just have to work harder for it.” With a nod of certainty, he reaffirms: “This area will definitely continue maturing into a 24/7 residential community.”

Don't Mess With Texas

Don't Mess With Texas :Pt. 1

Our rented silver Buick chafed on through the sandy Texan roads and rang like a tin can from insects crunching into its grill, but it seemed they were coming at us, and it was too dark to blame them. By the time Austin was only a smudge in the rearview we could barely discern the signs as they’d blur by: “Don’t Mess With Texas,” but we felt invincible cutting through interstate 10, our moods slightly off-kilter from the excitement of our 7 hour energy shots and fifteen dollar paintball rifle.

Jesse snored loudly while I steered us through the derelict terrain,my chaufferistic impulses clocked into high gear. He appeared to be in a serene state from the smothering August heat, and the orb-shaped drool puddle on his left shoulder was my confirmation.

We were on a mission to California: a strategically jagged yet endearing attempt to leave behind our comfortable surroundings in NewYork and explore the America we had only envisioned abstractly. And now, we found ourselves in God-fearing Texas, a hefty 600+ mile obstacle to any road trip; fast food, gas stations, cattle, dry foliage, missing teeth, buy 1 firework, get 11 free! We were 120 miles northwest of Austin and deep in Fort Stockton, which we’d soon know as dry mouth central.

“I think it’s time” I heard Jesse yawn in his chesty tone, his head still cocked left – something like a freeze frame out of Michael Jackson’s Thriller.

“Should I get it?” he spoke, one eyebrow raised over his clear spectacles. He knew what my answer was going to be. We were alone for leagues around and felt dangerous that night.

“Sure,” I nodded happily, passing him a blue bic lighter so he could light the joint I’d rolled earlier that morning in Austin’s Red Roof Inn. We felt great, having spent the whole day absorbing sun and taking wrong turns down dusty country roads to photograph timid cows and goats. The car soon filled with smoke and our nerves settled slightly from the 5 hours of driving we’d already endured.

“240 more miles to New Mexico” Jesse read on his Blackberry. ’We should probably stop soon.” I flipped on the high-beams, teasing slivers of desert from obscurity.

“Fine by me, whenever” I conceded, although I remember wishing togun it all the way to California that night.

The joint had soon become the size of a newborns fingernail, so after trying to light it for a few seconds, Jesse rolled his window down slightly, making sure the clip didn’t blow back into the car and burn through yet another of our car’s seats. I wasn’t satisfied until I saw the white nub spark and bounce behind us on the road, at which point I promptly rolled the windows down with the icy night air sweeping through the cabin in a mangled stream.

The open road had sucked us in. And it had become a giant airport conveyor belt, our busted vehicle pulling its Pennsylvania – plate bumper 80 mph past staring desert hares who prostrated themselves like lawn ornaments at the edge of the darkness on their hinds and quickly mutated into cacti tree as we flew by. To be young and free, I marveled.

I tried pointing bunnies out to Jesse, but the silver-blue Chevy must have seen us coming for miles because it shot out from the service road with its siren already blaring. I slowed down hesitantly ahead of the traffic cop, a stifling cotton-ball of panic rising throughout my throat and mouth. I watched Jesse stiffen up like a dying centipede. I tried to laugh it off, with the success of someone trying to swim in a bathtub.

“It’s okay, man,’ I must have sputtered to him nervously. ‘ We smoked half an hour ago and used the air freshener, not to mention my driving is perfect – we’ll be fine” my sandpaper throat echoed.

But would we really be fine?, I thought. We were two musician twentysomethings with a modest stash to get us to California: nearly 10 perfect joints nestled in a heap of flavored tobacco, then sealed in a caviar tin I borrowed from my grandmother, and finally stuffed into a suitcase in our locked trunk.

We weren’t Cheech and Chong, by any means, but Jesse’s long hair and hipster attire certainly wouldn’t draw us the right kind of attention, I figured. We sat there silently, two Jewish neonates with guppy-guts and most cowardly allergies to adrenaline, our muted breath pausing until the figure in front of all the spinning lights had made its way to our window,

The cowboy-hat-bearing policeman approached us cautiously. I kept my arms on the steering wheel patiently until he came over, at which point I felt my stomach twist like a coiled rubberband.

“How are you, Officer. Do we have a flat tire?” I asked as innocently as a doe. Instead of responding right away, Officer Honesto, as his tag read, shone his flashlight in my face.

“Please step out of the vehicle,” he instructed me. I stepped out of the car, my legs as slippery as stilts above my flip flops, my hands sweating feverishly on the door handle.

Down the Hatch

The day I was diagnosed with acid reflux marked the start of a pivotal period in my life.No longer able to digest a cheeseburger in 20 minutes, I became consumed with sadness and a new sense of mortality. What would be the next of my organs to fail me?. Was my svelte physique already half out-the-door? Reflux really got me to thinking: what role has food played in my life if not the lead? I've found in my twenty three years that food is categorically cheaper and more effective than the fifty minute hour at your local therapist.

My father was raised with one priority in mind: food. Not it's consumption simply, but having enough. Growing up a Russian immigrant with holocaust survivors for parents marked his attitude permanently, and to this day he fears there not being enough for my family. Of course, it's not all about just food, really, and though my dad is in better physical shape than I am, I would consider his condition akin to an eating disorder. If the dinner table appears slightly bare to him, my father will refuse to indulge himself because he is afraid there won't be enough for everyone, and this usually leads to fights with mom. She's tired of hearing it from him.

"Natan, why can't you just relax and eat?' she'll say. 'If there isn't enough we will make more."

"I'm not asking for so much,' he'll respond. 'It's okay if we have leftovers, Is it so bad if there's some extra?"

When I was a younger version of myself, I didn't understand the importance of sharing - i took "extra" for granted. During a ritual Mcdonalds meal with my mother and sister, I snapped at mom for taking several of my french fries. I'm not sure if she was testing me, but I failed regardless. My punishment was to finish the Big Mac, eat my own fries, and then eat my mothers fries.

I've learned my lesson by now, and these days I prefer hunger to excess, and sharing to hoarding , understandably. And Friday night Shabbat dinners have always been symbolic of that sharing and family unity for me, as each weekend comes with the requisite meal from Babi Klara; my grandmother has just the right ingredients to fatten us all up. During the car ride to Forest hills, queens, my mother father and sister are all usually starving for some Jewish soul food cooked up by my Russian grandmother: potato kugel, potato latkes, chicken and gravy, chicken soup, and a smattering of other dishes wait for us wrapped in tin foil.

And when we are finally fed, it is like being tucked in snugly to sleep. My grandmother doesn't sit until each course has been served, but makes sure everyone is eating. "You aren't eating nothing," she will undoubtedly whine to me, even though my third serving of meat in tomato sauce has just vanished from the orange greasiness of my dinner plate. "Eat somethink," she'll plead. It's really useless to argue with a Jewish grandmother because she's not out to argue. She just wants you a little chubby. When I was in my athletic phase in high school I'd always disappoint her with my lack of body fat--"I don't know" she'd repeat in a tsk tsk fashion to herself, bobbing her head slightly.

These days it's more risky for me to fill up like I used to. Enough servings of potato kugel and apple juice and I'm holding my stomach with an uncomfortable smirk. My intestines churn as if I've just swallowed sone bricks and cement, and it feels a lot like love, at least the way I know it. And my father doesn't complain because there's more than enough food for us for sure, and I'll push my chair out softly and squeeze past him. He's eating turkey necks(gross) and never fails to laugh as I amble like the Michelin Man to the couch. He'll join me, but only after eating for another ten or fifteen minutes. My parents tease me for always falling asleep in moving vehicles, but I tell you it takes far less effort to conk out on my grandma's sofa after fried potato pastries and chicken noodle soup.