Judgement Day: Late Night edition

Wednesday, September 12^th, 2007

I spent Rosh Hashanah with family in Manhattan. We were staying and praying in that great mecca of modern orthodoxy, the Upper West Side. As I drove up Amsterdam to our high holiday accommodations I notice for the first time the Reconstructionist West End Synagogue. I can’t count the number of times I’ve been up Amsterdam Avenue and didn’t pay attention to the little synagogue in the converted New York Public Library building. I figure that in my current heretical state, my awareness for alternate forms of Judaism must be heightened. I make a mental note to maybe check it out over Yom Tov.

As sundown looms I keep thinking about the Reconstructionist synagogue. I figure it is close to shul, and I could probably sneak out of davening at some point and see what the Reconstructionists are like. Within minutes of candle lighting I check the West End Synagogue’s website. I find their services schedule and commit it to memory. I decide I’m going to check it out.

Due to the combination of the baby and my usual disinterest in davening I’m running late for shul. As I walk the streets of Manhattan I decide that I might as well go straight to the Reconstructionist synagogue. “Why not?” I reason. “No one is really going to miss me at Mincha and Ma’ariv.” I briskly walk over to West End Synagogue. As I approach the building I notice three police officers guarding the door. Just a fact-of-Jewish-life in the post-9/11 world. One of the officers pops his bubble gum.

With an air of knowing where I am going, and what I am doing I walk to the front door. The two officers leaning against the door frame move out of my way. I pull the handle. The door doesn’t budge. I try again. One of the policemen says “There’s no one here.” “Oh. Have services ended?” I ask. “No one’s been here all night.” He replies. Then he points to a sign taped to the inside of the door.

Rosh Hashanah services will be held at the Fourth Universalist Society; 160 Central Park West, at 76th Street

“Thanks.” I say. “Doh.” I think. I’m stubborn and don’t give up easily. I start walking to Central Park West and 76^th. As I make my way through the early autumn chill I think to myself “If god does exist, this would be a pretty good sign. Not only is the Reconstructionist synagogue closed, but it’s being guarded as well!” I quicken my pace.

I finally get to 76^th and then walk down to Central Park West. At the corner is the huge church of the Fourth Universalist Society. This thing is a classic. It has a huge tower, stained glass, the works! In the past, I would never have even considered thinking about what goes on inside this cathedral, let alone try to get inside myself. I turn the corner and walk right up the steps to the door. This time I am stopped before I even reach the handle.

“If you’re looking for the Rosh Hashanah dinner, they’re around the side.” I turn around to face a 50-something year old man wearing a blazer with an American flag pin in the lapel. “Security” I think to myself. “Hi” I say aloud, suddenly conscious that I must look pretty Orthodox in my black-suit/white-shirt/tie get up “I was looking for services?” “Oh, they’ve finished services a while ago” says the door security man. “Thanks.” I mutter. Strike two.

Dejected, I walk down Central Park West. “There is no way this is a coincidence” I think to myself. “Not only is the main synagogue closed (and guarded no less!), but the church is also locked before I can get there? This can’t be random chance. If there is a god this would be just too perfect. It’s like I'm in one of those chasidishe stories.” I pass a horse-drawn carriage bringing tourists to Central Park.

I cross 72^nd heading South. “If god wanted to stop me from going to Reconstructionist services on Rosh Hashanah this would be how he would do it. Ach! It’s so flawless. But he doesn’t exist… right? He can't exist!”

As I am doubting my doubts I notice a man walking toward me. He is freakishly tall. He is wearing an expensive gray suit with an equally classy purple shirt and no tie. Slung over his shoulder is a backpack. Then, I notice his hair. In one crystallizing moment the purpose of my journey is clear. Every twist and turn my little quest took enabled me to be at this exact location at this exact moment in time. The events of this night were no accident. The man before me is Conan O’Brien.

The talk show host is slouching a little, as if to avoid making any unnecessary eye contact. I don’t want to bother him, but at the same time, he’s Conan-fucking-O’Brien. As we come within about 10 feet of each other he briefly looks up at me, then looks back down at the sidewalk. I must not look like an ax murderer. Just before I pass this living legend I simultaneously raise my hand in a half wave and say “Love the show.” I don’t break stride. Behind me I hear the surprised reply in the all-too-familiar nasal voice. “Oh, hey, thanks!” I can’t help but get the chills. The universe does indeed have a plan…

True Story.