“It’s not my decision, Reb Sholom, it’s yours. I’m just sharing my perspective. If you want to go at it, you’re on your own”
Shuey Portman had never been an eavesdropper. There had never been any reason to listen in. At Three Star Snacks, he would have paid not to hear the conversations floating out from the back office — thinking to do Costa Rica but Aliza really wants to see St. Barts, the Yankees’ starting pitcher is garbage. His bosses’ bantering had filled his ears most of the day, except when they took brief breaks to peer over his shoulder and review his sales reports so they could berate him for giving L’sova a discount on the pretzel packs.
Here, in Modena, his office wasn’t even near the rosh yeshivah’s, and he certainly had no interest in hearing Rabbi Wasser’s conversations with bochurim, which were either talking in learning, or personal.
But now he was frozen in place, listening to strains of Avi Korman’s speech.
Rabbi Wasser’s office was a small room off what had been the hotel dining room and was now a beis medrash.The old bar was still there, and Shuey leaned on the dark wood, studying his phone so that if any of the bochurim noticed him, it would look like he was busy.
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