I had chosen not to listen to the lashon hara I’d heard about Effy and his lack of manners. I also tried to judge him favorably when he moved into the neighborhood and I’d seen him in shul acting with less tact and social graces than one might expect from a frum guy. But it was sure hard to view him in the nicest light when he approached me during davening one night and asked “If you’re a psychiatrist can you drug my wife for me?”
Not having ever been formally introduced to him and seeking to avoid a bizarre discussion in public I encouraged Effy to speak with me about this issue outside after Maariv had finished.
Effy was a wheeler-dealer and was always texting on at least two iPhones in addition to the one he had plugged into his ears. His business was some sort of import-export thing and he didn’t have time for niceties. Effy didn’t seem like a bad guy but he was known for this kind of cut-to-the-chase style that I’d suddenly been blindsided by.
“Nu?” he asked. “So can you drug her for me?”
