A wanderer and a vagabond, that’s what he was. A person with no place, no family, no one waiting for him to come home
On the second night of Rosh Hashanah, Lulu brought Bugi to the Ben Shem family. Their hosts were of the nearly extinct breed of machnisei orchim who invited anyone in need without checking their references or the last time they’d showered. Around the table, in addition to the family, sat a motley assortment of about ten guests.
“I don’t know if I like eating at real families,” Bugi whispered between the dates and the pomegranate.
“Why? It’s so nice, it makes me feel right at home,” Lulu whispered back. He crushed a few pomegranate seeds between his teeth, and then admitted, “You’re right. At the soup kitchen we’re all charity cases, all equal, but here… suddenly it hits you what a Yom Tov table is really supposed to look like.”
“Yeah. Suddenly I see what I don’t have… and never will,” Bugi said sadly. The last few days had been such a letdown. How could he have been so stupid as to think the landlady of that sweet little apartment on Rechov HaNeviim wouldn’t recognize him? Poor Yanky… he’d tried so hard to help him with the haircut and everything, and in the end it all flopped miserably.
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