Eddie Sarfaty - Mental: Funny In The Head

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Table of Contents

Advance praise for Eddie Sarfaty and Mental!

Eddie Sarfatys humor is never cruelor only as cruel as life itself. Whereas most humorists are so broad, so exaggerated that no chapter is as funny as a single page and no page as funny as a sentence, Sarfaty doesnt deal in one-liners or cheap laughs. All his laughs are expensivethey call on deep reserves of observation, humanity and kindness. This is a book you will read in one sitting all the way to the end with a smile on your face and tears in your eyes.

Edmund White, author of A Boys Own Story

In Mental: Funny in the Head, Sarfaty mixes the grotesque and the tender into a heartbreaking portrait of family, that most potent of touchstones. Sarfaty creates a world that echoes the poignant irony of David Sedaris and Augusten Burroughs but is, without question, entirely his own.

Patrick Moore, author of Tweaked

In this engaging and frequently hilarious collection, Eddie Sarfaty combines humor and poignancy as skillfully as he writes about being Jewish and gay. This book proves that in addition to being a talented stand-up comedian, Eddies also a wonderful writer.

Bob Smith, author of Openly Bob and Selfish and Perverse

Eddie Sarfaty is a gifted stand-up comic, but his book is not just a collection of humorous sketches and clever one-liners. These are fully realized true-life stories, fresh and well-observed, expertly crafted and naturally funny. Sarfaty uses comedy not to keep his people at arms length but to bring us closer to them. He is not afraid to move us and he is not afraid to be smart. And he writes beautifully, like an angel with a wise heart and a wonderfully foul mouth.

Christopher Bram, author of Gods & Monsters

Anyone who reads this book and doesnt fall in love with Eddie Sarfaty is an idiot.

Michael Thomas Ford, author of Last Summer

For Mom and Michael

Second-Guessing Grandma

I make my grandmother cry.

I come out to her and her fists close and her eyes fill up. She is silent for the longest moment and then, speaking through the tears, she astonishes me.

Its that gym where you go, thats where they all are!

Her assertion makes me laugh inside. How could she possibly know that? Shes never been to my gym. How could my frail little grandma, a sheltered girl from an Orthodox family, a woman who has barely left the house for the past thirty years, have any kind of insight on the subject?

The conversation continues with her becoming progressively more and more upset. Shes perched on the upholstered green rocker from JCPenney, a half-finished afghan in her lap, and Im sitting Indian-style on the wall-to-wall carpet facing her. Im peripherally aware of my mom and dad listening helplessly to the whole exchange as they pretend to wash dishes in the next room.

Though I came out to my parents after college, as a rule I managed to find a million nonsexual things to talk about when visiting thema relief since when I was with my friends, sex was the only thing we ever seemed to talk about. But this time Granny brings up the issue and continues pressing it until I have no choice but to come clean. She also confesses to having purposely avoided the subject of my sexuality until now, but has finally decided to take the leap:

Well, I thought that you were, and I made up my mind I was gonna ask you!

Well, how do you feel?

Its a shock!

She sheds more tears and my soothing accelerates to match her distress. I hand her a Kleenex and hold her hand. My mother, accustomed to taking charge in a crisis, takes advantage of my grandmothers poor hearing, tiptoes behind the rocker, shakes her head, and mouths to me, You shouldnt have told her, you shouldnt have told her. Its a big help.

With an evil stare I send her back to the sink and continue my comforting. Two seconds later the phone rings. I hear my mother pick it up and can tell from her voice its my brother Jack whos in grad school in Chicago. I turn my attention back to Granny as my mother calls from the kitchen,

Ed, Ed, pick up the phone!

Annoyed, I yell back, Not now, for Gods sake.

And then I hear my mother announcing, as if into a public address system, He cant come to the phone. Hes telling Grandma that hes gay!

And so Im outed to my brother and think, One less call to make.

I spend the next hour or so quietly seated on the floor and then leave my grandmother to catch my train back to New York and the apartment I share with three other twentysomethingsall gay and in various stages of self-loathing. The incidents constantly on my mind the entire week. Its still on her mind too, when I call home two days later:

Hi, Granny, how are you?

How do you think I am?

(Pin drops.)

What are you doing? Watching TV?

No, just thinking.

(Crickets.)

Well, what are you thinking about?

What do you think Im thinking about?

Similar stressful exchanges occur on days three, four, and five.

Being the youngest, the favorite, and the only one who still lives close enough to visit regularly, I feel a special devotion to my grandmother. Our relationship is one of the most wonderful things in my life. She lived with us while I was growing upmy maturation coinciding with her decline. At the age of ninety-five (although shell only admit to ninety-two), her mind is sharp but her body is brittle. As time passes I find myself more and more in the role of the adultkeeping her informed, preparing her meals, and helping her into bed. The possibility that the bond between us could be permanently damaged is crippling to me.

After almost two weeks of tense, awkward phone calls, I again go home for a visit. Theres no reference to my revelation and the day passes more easily than I expect. It isnt until late evening when it even comes up. Im tucking Granny ingently rotating her fragile legs onto the bed while I cradle her back and slowly lower her onto the mattress. As I smooth out the covers, she brings up the subject that weve managed to avoid the entire day.

So, you dont like a girl to get married?

My body tenses. No.

You prefer a boy?

I breathe deeply. Yes.

She pauses and then says resolutely, Well, then thatll be your life and youll be happy that way.

Yes.

My tension melts away but returns when she says, But its not like making love with a girl. What can you do?

I see where this is leading and try to head it off.

Well, Grandma, it isnt about sex. Its about who you love and who you care for.

She will not be deterred.

Yes, yes, I know that. But its not like with a girl. What can you do?

I dodge the question.

She presses.

I parry.

She asks again.

I change the subject.

She changes it back.

And finally after the fifth But what can you do? I blurt out, Well, I have two hands!

So what do you do, jerk each other off?

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