Takers and Givers: Kipas and Strippers
“Takers sometimes eat better; givers always sleep better.” -Danny Thomas (1912-1991)
First thing my medical school roommate Mark ever said to me was to quote his grandma Nettie: “There are two kinds of people in the world, takers and givers.”
He, and my third roommate Bobby, were givers. When I visited his family in Bensonhurst, I was consistently told: “Your money’s not good here!” Bobby’s family on West End Avenue treated me precisely the same way.
Paying my way through medical school, I could never afford to eat in the cafeteria. Mark and Bobby could. Nonetheless, they ate with me in our room. Mark gave us Nettie’s Mandel-bread, which we loved. Bobby gave us his mom Molly’s veal-burgers, which I, always starving, devoured. I gave them my mother’s fish cakes, which they… returned.
(I informed Mom of the giving, which delighted her, not the returning.)
Mark generously invited Bobby (my Yeshiva Soloveichik classmate) and me to our very first bachelor party.
Uncle Vinny’s basement is chock-full of boisterous guys and strong alcohol. Bobby and I uncomfortably retreat to a bench-seat in the back.
Raincoat-clad cantilevered ecdysiast enters; money appears; raincoat disappears.
Neither Bobby nor I have ever before seen a stripper. In fact, I’ve never seen a (non-patient) woman naked.
She however, is amused by two blushing, shrinking violets. (Our NYU medical school championship basketball team, which all three of us played on, was called the “Violets.”)
My “Ike” Kipa particularly intrigues her. She’s a “Taker”, grabbing it off my head, “modestly” covering her large nipple with it while “performing”, to everyone’s delight (except mine.) Thank God, no photography is allowed.
Mark’s police surgeon brother Gary, friends with Willis Reed and every other New York City VIP, to enliven the “Simcha“, has two cop-friends raid the party (ostensible noise complaint.)
Vinny, not in on the joke, but reputedly in the mafia, takes offense, aggressively demanding search warrants. Cops take offense at his belligerence. Voices, then hands are raised. Things escalate quickly.
Vinny marches bellicosely to the back, orders Bobby and me: “Get up!”
We rise. He lifts the bench-seat. I see a shotgun inside. “Get down!”
Cowering on the floor, I worry less about dying in the crossfire, more about the inevitable front-page tabloid photos of a dead stripper with my “Ike” Kipa (which my parents and friends will all recognize) prominently, permanently adorning her nipple.
Mercifully, Gary finally reveals the joke. (Ha ha.)
Bobby and I leave soon thereafter (wondering if every bachelor party is like this.)
Over a half century later, I am blessed to remain close friends with Bobby, Mark and Gary. I still call them every Rosh Hashanah and Pesach to ask them to convey my love to their parents.
Two generations later, we still joyfully attend each other’s children’s weddings (but not the bachelor parties.)
A lifetime later, I have come to realize the most valuable thing we can ever give each other is not veal-burgers, (certainly not) fish cakes, or even Mandel-bread, but our friendship.
Friendships that endure a lifetime are the most precious fortune that we can ever acquire in that lifetime.
