Schlomie Schloschivovitz was new to Judaism.  He had converted to the religion only six months prior,  so when Yom Kippur, the holiest of the Jewish holidays came up on the calendar, he was excited to put into practice all that he had learned in his Jew classes.

He woke up Yom Kippur morning and walked to his wardrobe, where his new pinstripe suit hung on a hanger, ready to go.  He hadn’t slept well the night before because of outside noises, but it was the perfect opportunity to pick out his new outfit!  He slipped into his clothes and headed to the kitchen to prepare some breakfast, but it wasn’t until two eggs had been cracked that he remembered: Jews don’t eat on Yom Kippur.  His growling stomach was none too happy, but his new Jew mind knew better.  He scrambled the eggs, put them in a ziplock bag and threw them in the fridge.  A snack for tomorrow!

Schlomie got into his car and headed towards his new synagogue, Temple of the Jew, which was located in the hills.  Morning services started at 8:30am sharp, and he was running late on account of the earlier egg mishap.  When he got to the temple, he was relieved to see that he wasn’t the only Jew running late.  There were eight other Lexus’ waiting in line to park as well.  He took his place in the queue and 15 minutes later his car was parked.  He looked at his watch.  It was 8:28am.  Perfect timing! He looked up into the sky at God and smiled.  “I’m Jewish!” he thought to himself.

The services were extraordinary.  The Shemah, the Veahavta, the Torah reading, the sounding of the shofar!  The cantor was in top form, and the rabbi gave a sermon that brought the house down.  But something didn’t feel quite right.  “Oh yeah,” he thought to himself.  “I’m just hungry!”

When he arrived back home, Schlomie’s stomach was making sounds he’d never heard before.  “Is there a tugboat in there?!” he pondered.  In any case, it was a reminder to reflect, which is what this day of atonement was all about.  He thought about his personal struggles.  How he still hadn’t received the big promotion at work.  How he wished he’d kept in better contact with his family.  How two nights earlier he poisoned the feral cats that lived by the dumpster outside his window and kept him up at night with their incessant meowing.  He vowed that in the coming year he would make more of an effort at work, to call his parents more often, and to use a higher grade cyanide when poisoning cats so that they didn’t live in loud, painful agony for several days and nights thereafter. “Ah, the life of a Jew.” he said to himself.  “I could get used to this.”

And get used to it he did, not only becoming one of the most active members at Temple of the Jew, but by dedicating his life to the education of tolerance and humanity for all, both at home and abroad.

Except for cats.  Schlomie hated cats.

Alan awoke on Saturday afternoon in a sullen haze. He hadn’t slept well. This wasn’t an isolated incident by any means. For weeks on end he had been having horrible nightmares almost nightly. Unexplainably frightening nightmares. The kind of nightmares that make you wake up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, with soiled sheets. Not even his therapist could offer solace to make light of these intense unconscious slips into the depths of his own personal hell. But still, Alan trekked on, because he had to. It was his way. The only way.

He dragged his weary legs to the kitchen and poured himself a cup of coffee. Then he shuffled to the front door, opened it, and perched himself on the porch, bathrobe over boxers over underwear: the three layered Thicke approach to lower extremity protection. It was mighty bright out for an early Saturday afternoon in the Winter, and Alan let out a small chuckle.

“Life isn’t so bad…” he thought to himself as he sunk into his favorite porch papasan, thinking back to the days before the nightmares, days much like this, spent on the porch, or in the living room, or the game room, or the TV room, reclining, reading an article in one of his favorite journals, or just watching a game. But it was only a matter of minutes before the memory of hellish nighttime journeys pervaded his thoughts again. He sat silent and looked out onto the street, slowly sipping his unssweetened brew.

After a few minutes of contemplation, Thicke arose to make his way back inside. But as he reached for the knob, he was startled by a deafening car honk coming from his driveway. He put down his coffee cup on the Bamboo Table Runner which sat on the imported Balinese Pedestal he had purchased at Pier One in an unhealthy spending spree three days earlier and walked slowly to the side of the porch to get a view of the car. To his surprise he saw a brand new silver BMW Z3, still running, top down. Not an avid car aficianado himself, Alan found himself impressed by the shiney new glow and sleek design of the car in front of him nonetheless.

But who was driving?

He couldn’t make out a face; only dark sunglasses and wispy auburn brown hair. Alan walked up to the driver side door.

“Can I help you?” he asked the mysterious stranger.

“Well, let me see here…”, the man contemplated, seemingly confused that Thicke failed to recognize him immediately. “You can help me. You see, I’m looking for a friend.”

“Well, I appreciate the offer,” said Alan, “but I have friends.” Then he lowered his head and looked off into space and paused. “Although being a star of my calibre, it’s sometimes difficult to tell who’s a friend and who’s a hanger-oner these days…”

“Trust me. I know,” the stranger added, also looking down now. Then, expressionless, he opened up his car door and stood up, eyeing Thicke closely the entire time. He closed the door behind him and rested his back on the car. Both men stood there, staring at each other in silence. Finally, the stranger reached up and removed the dark sunglasses from his face, revealing two big brown sunken eyes. Alan immediately recognized the man, and gave him a look that said how did I not figure this out earlier. It was Dan Schneider, television’s beloved Dennis Blunden from the former hit ABC series “Head of the Class”.

“I was wondering when you would return,” said Thicke, tears welling in his eyes.

“Me too.” replied Dan. The two men embraced in a hug that lasted for what felt like a thousand years to Alan. Memories of Dan flooded his mind. So many years sharing the same studios, so many heartfelt talks over cappucinos in Studio City cafes about fame, fortune, and how to deal with it. The ups, the downs. The Awards Shows! The late night walks on Ventura Blvd., the Head of the Class vs. Growing Pains charity football games…where had they gone?

“They’ve gone straight to hell!” exclaimed Alan, in response to his own rambling mind.

“They sure have, boss, they sure have.” said Dan, patting Alan on the back. “Now what do you say we get some frappucinos. There’s a new Starbucks in North Hollywood.”

“I’d like nothing more,” muttered Thicke, under his breath, shivering.