I'm a New England Yankee with Celtic roots. True to my roots, I'm stoic, stubborn, and healthy, except for a lingering case of chronic confusion. That may have something to do with being sold to a hysterical Jewish crime family living in Brooklyn. That was a slight exaggeration. Dad wasn't hysterical. He considered every failed scheme a learning experience and blithely moved on to his next debacle. Mom was a tad more high-strung. She studied the Cabbala, the ancient book of Jewish mysticism, and her happiness came by saving immediate family members from eternal damnation. I was five days old when Dad brought me home and plopped me into her arms. Mom was thrilled with her new gift. She'd always wanted one, but God never answered her prayers. Now He did, and she wasn't going to disappoint Him. She was going to make me the best damned Yeshiva boy in the whole wide world. I was going to make everyone proud. I did until I was four.
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