This was all so patently wrong, but I’ve always been lousy at saying no gracefully.

T

here’s an art to making conversation on a plane, and it goes like this: You find your seat, nod politely to the person sitting next to you, and immediately shut your eyes, open a sefer, or in some way indicate that you are firmly occupied. About half-an-hour before landing, it’s safe to look up, make eye contact, and start a conversation. That’s my rule, anyway. More than half-an-hour, you’re just stuck feeling awkward and silly — I mean, how much can two strangers say to each other?

That’s my plane policy, and up ‘til now it’s been a good one.  But as I boarded the El Al plane to New York one spring afternoon and gave my polite nod to the young man sitting next to me, I just knew I was in trouble.

First of all, the guy was wearing a bright yellow T-shirt with some Israeli tourist slogan on it and a big brown cowboy hat. Not the kind of guy, in my experience, who tends to keep to himself. Second, as soon as I turned in his direction, he stuck out a hand, grabbed my fist, and pumped it up and down for about 20 minutes.

“How ya doin’, buddy? What a stroke of luck! A real live Orthodox Jew sittin’ next to me! I always wanted to meet one. And now we have 12 whole hours together. Divine Providence, that’s what I call it, Divine Providence!”

It was going to be a long flight.

I pegged him for a Christian Evangelical, but he surprised me by saying he was Jewish. “Not as Jewish as you, buddy,” he added with a wink and a slap on the back. “Ain’t much Judaism in the part of Texas I come from.” He was returning from his first visit to the Holy Land, arranged with the encouragement of his local Reform clergyman. I also found out, in close succession, that he lived on a sprawling Texas ranch with his dad, that his mom had left the family when he was a kid, that his father thought him a good-for-nothing because he still lived at home, and that, in his opinion, the road to peace between Israel and the Arabs was straight and simple, and involved passing through his Texas ranch.

He was that kind of dude.

Now, don’t get me wrong. It’s not that I’m antisocial. But I’d been looking forward to a good, reenergizing sleep, and also some thinking time. The sleep I needed because it had been a long, hard zman and I was worn out. The thinking time I needed because it had been a long, hard zman, and I was wondering whether it was time for me to throw in the towel and admit that full-time learning was not for me.

My rosh yeshivah obviously didn’t think that was the case. He must have thought me the poster boy of the yeshivah, considering the job he was sending me on. It was only at his personal request that I was making this trip in the first place, and, much as I was convinced he chose the wrong man for the job, when the rosh yeshivah asks …

“So, whaddya say your name was — Yicky-el?”

“Yechiel,” I muttered.

“Ya travelin’ to the States for a visit or returnin’ home?”

“Neither,” I mumbled. And then, I don’t know what got into me — perhaps because he was telling me every detail of his own life or perhaps because my wife had told me over and over that I had to look a man in the eye and tell him why I’d come — I continued, “I’m going in to fundraise for my yeshivah.” I reddened.

He blinked at me for a moment, then slapped me on the back, hard, and declared with a loud laugh, “Listen, Yicky, buddy, you ain’t gonna have much success as a fundraiser if you can’t even get the words outta your mouth.”

Oh, how I hated him.

He had my number, that was clear. What was I, essentially an introvert, doing on a fundraising trip for a yeshivah that I had one foot out of anyway? I had pictured Malka and me flying back Rosh Chodesh Nisan so I could apply to accounting programs. Instead, Malka was alone in Israel, and I would be spending the next two weeks knocking on doors. The yeshivah administrator had handed me a list of families and communities to hit, and told me to do the yeshivah proud.

This was all so patently wrong, but I’ve always been lousy at saying no gracefully.

“So, what kind of institution is this place of yours?” asked my neighbor — Andy Levi, his name was — as he dug into his airline meal. (“Kosher food — ya gotta love it!” he exclaimed happily.)

I blinked at the question. “It’s a — well — a yeshivah. Where men learn Talmud.”

Andy shook his head. “Yicky, that ain’t the way you’re gonna raise the big bucks. Ya gotta tell me what makes your yeshivah different.”

I gulped. “Well,” I began, trying out my pitch for the first time on someone other than my reflection in the mirror. “Our yeshivah is for all boys, regardless of background in learning or hashka— um, world outlook. We believe that every Jew has a place in yeshivah, and we accommodate whatever special circumstances he may have, as long as he’s sincerely interested in learning and ready to work hard at it.”

I felt like the world’s biggest hypocrite, but Andy nodded approvingly.

“Now that’s more like it, buddy. A place open to anyone willing to put in the sweat and grunts.… Know something?” Andy sat up, quickly swallowing an enormous spoonful of chicken and rice. “That’s exactly the kind of place my old man would like. He supports good, old-fashioned hard work.” He waved his fork in my direction. “Here’s an idea, Yicky. Why don’t ya come on out to Texas with me, and try your pitch on my Dad? He might give ya something to make it worth your while.”

I didn’t know how else to react to such a wild suggestion, so I laughed.

“No, Yicky, I’m serious.” Andy looked hurt as he leaned forward even more persuasively. “If my Dad likes your yeshivah, he’s got a lot of business connections to introduce you to. And if he doesn’t, well — no harm done, right?”

“Just a waste of time and money,” I said, still smiling skeptically. “I wasn’t planning on flying out to Texas.”

“Tell ya what, buddy. The plane ticket’s on me. How’s that for a sweet deal?” He was grinning eagerly now.

The guy was nuts, totally nuts. “Why in the world would you do this for me?” I asked. “You don’t know me.”

“Ah, Yicky,” he said, drinking a full cup of water in one gulp, and giving a meaningful point of the finger skywards. “Before I left Israel, I went to pray at the Western Wall. This fellow comes over to me and says that he just received a prophecy from Heaven, and that he was told that the first person who asks me for money, I should give to him generously. So I said thank you for relaying the message and ran to catch my taxi, and now, here you are, asking for money.” He cleared his throat and looked at me. “Buddy, I got a prophecy to fulfill.”

As I said, I’ve always been lousy at knowing how to say no gracefully. I’m not sure which of us was more nuts, but when our plane landed at JFK, I followed Andy onto his connecting flight to Dallas.

***