Matt Rothschild - Dumbfounded: Big Money. Big Hair. Big Problems. Or Why Having It All Isnt for Sissies.

contents

one
Why I Dont Believe in Santa Claus

two
China Girl

three
All in the Ds

four
The Petty Thieves

five
In My Grandmothers Closet

six
Jude the Obscure

seven
Visiting Mother

eight
Call Me Pathological

nine
Greta Garbo Lives Next Door

ten
The Wandering Jew

eleven
Damn Static

twelve
Intrafamily Feud

thirteen
Its Nothing Personal

fourteen
Howards End

fifteen
Judaism for Dummies

sixteen
Driving Miss Sophie

seventeen
100 Percent, Grade-A Hebrews

eighteen
Can I Call You Daddy?

For my grandparents. Its just a book. Relax.

acknowledgments

So this is the part of the acknowledgments page where Id thank all of the cool fellowships I havent earned. Id thank the Guggenheim and the NEA and the Mr. and Mrs. Somebody-or-Other. I really cant be bitter about not having earned anything since I havent applied for anything. By the time this book arrives in paperback I will have applied and then Ill update this paragraph.

This is the part where Id thank all of the editors of the various magazineslarge and small, Im no snobwho have supported my career by giving me jobs and publishing my work. Well, there is none, so I cant thank them. Im optimistic, though. So if youre at a major magazine and you read this, please know that Im available for hire. Ill be very thankful and acknowledge you if you do.

Which leaves everyone else. Lets see if I cant ostracize myself further from my friends

Chronologically, I need to thank the Gordons first. They showed me what a family is supposed to look like and invited me into their lives, even giving me a couple of jobs here and there.

In terms of this book and of my writing in general, Id like to thank Rebecca first. It was she who took the original draft of this book and a red pen and started asking the questions that led me to keep writing after Id been so discouraged. And then she stuck by me through this whole process. Honestly, shes read this book like forty-five thousand times and still laughs and returns my phone calls.

I am also deeply indebted to my Friday-night writing groupFran, Bettie, Doug, Kevin, LaRita, Ashley, Kathleen, and Valeriewhose support and interest have proven invaluable and inspiring.

Then to my wonderful agent, Daniel Lazar at Writers House, who, although hed never admit it, never saw this day happening in a million years when we met at JQY in 2002. It was Dan who busted my ass in the beginning and whose tireless spirit and enthusiasm made the process bearable until

Until February 21, 2007, when the wonderful Heather ran into Allisons office and told her to put down whatever rubbish she had been reading and handed her my chapters. And finally to Allison, who, on February 28, 2007, picked me out of a lineup and said, Yes, hell do. She took a chance on me and rewarded my efforts with substantially more than the bag of Doritos I said Id sell my work for. The rest, as they say, is history that will hopefully be studied by scholars for hundreds of years at Yale.

authors note

Ill tell you the truth, but only this once and only because its you. I dont always make the best first impressions, and I dont want to start our friendship off on the wrong foot. Youve read these authors notes before, but mine is different. Its special. Im not going to feed you that same old baloney about how memory is imperfect and were all ships passing in the night and perception is reality. No. The truth is that while everything in this book happened, it didnt always happen the way I say it did. You see, Ive changed things. I had to do it. Sometimes I changed names or descriptions of people and places. Big deal. Butsometimes I altered chronology, created composite characters or places, made people look foolish when they werent so foolish, made people look good when they were fools, compressed events, andI know youll love this onesaid things happened in one place when they really happened somewhere else. Okay, so maybe that is a big deal. But I want you to know I had my reasons. There was the obvious reason (to protect peoples privacy) but other times I changed things becauseGod help meI thought it was the right thing to do. You should know that about me before going on. I always do the right thing in the end, and thats why I had to tell you all this before you read on. I can tell you this, though: Nothing Ive changed really affects the truth of the story itself. So if it were me, and I were you, I would keep reading. Some of this stuff is damn funny and some of its tragic. Just dont take the window dressing too literally.

one

Why I Dont Believe in Santa Claus

My grandfather was a grand storyteller, but you could not count on him for accuracy. As far as he was concerned, it was the point of the story that matteredthat is, when he remembered the point he was trying to make. And when my grandmother, who hated cigars and had limited patience for my grandfathers storytelling, was out of the house, hed light up a good Cuban, settle into his favorite leather chair, and launch into a tale so contrived it would make the Brothers Grimm blush.

When I was a little boy in Paris he would begin.

I thought it was Vienna.

Dont interrupt, Matthew. Now. When I was a little boy in Vienna

My grandfather came to the United States sometime before World War II. He arrived from either France or Austria, wherever he felt like telling me at a given time. This was a man who knew five languages, and if he didnt like what you had to say in English, he began speaking another language. Then he would shake his head, wide-eyed and innocent, pretending he couldnt understand you. Rarely seen without a smile, my grandfather was always quick to tell a storyit was just the truth that gave him trouble.

Personally, I didnt care that his stories werent always true. When he told a story, it was him and me, alone. My grandmother wasnt invited. She would just make fun of us, anyway. Now that I was seven years oldalmost eight, reallythis was the only time it didnt feel awkward to climb into his lap and play with his arm hair. I liked to make mountains by pulling on the hairs as I listened to him reinvent his childhood. My grandfather was a retired diplomat, and he often said, World leaders could forget their differences, Im sure, if theyd just listen to a few good stories. Presumably, the underlying moral of his tales would make them see the error of their ways while showing them how much they had in common. I didnt know what a diplomat was, but if they got to tell stories and have their pictures taken with famous people, the way my grandfather did, this is what I wanted to do as well. They also got expensive gifts from people, and I loved presents.

I devoured his stories voraciously. I thought that if I learned to tell stories the way my grandfather did, I might be as successful as he was. But despite all his success, I knew there was one leader his stories failed to work on: my grandmother.

Listen here, snail eater, shed say, materializing out of nowhere, shiny silver hair falling down to her chin, and pointing a well-manicured finger at my grandfather. Maybe theyre hot on having cigar butts litter the floors of Paris, but I dont want that shit in my house. Take it to the curb.

My grandfather would mumble about how it was really his house and everyone else was just a guestafter almost fifty years of marriage, my grandfather was still trying to assert his dominance over his castle, but he never did get it quite right. So, indignantly, he finished his storycigar defiantly litfrom a bench in Central Park, across the street from our nineteen-room apartment. Your house indeed, my grandmother would say, slamming the door behind us. My grandfather paid the rent, but we all knew who wore the pants in my family.