c. 1940: newark
philip roth wonders why
When i am bad i am locked out of the apart-
ment. i stand at the door hammering and ham-
mering until i swear i will turn over a new leaf.
But what is it i have done? i shine my shoes
every evening on a sheet of last night’s newspa-
per laid carefully over the linoleum; afterward
i never fail to turn securely the lid on the tin of
polish and to return all the equipment to where
it belongs. i roll the toothpaste tube from the
bottom, i brush my teeth in circles and never
up and down, i say “Thank you,” i say “You’re
welcome,” i say “i beg your pardon,” and “May
i.” When hannah is ill or out before supper
with her blue tin can collecting for the Jewish
national Fund, i voluntarily and out of my turn
set the table, remembering always knife and
spoon on the right, fork on the left, and napkin
to the left of the fork and folded into a triangle.
i would never eat milchiks off a flaishedigeh dish,
never, never, never. nonetheless, there is a year
or so in my life when not a month goes by that i
don’t do something so inexcusable that i am told
to pack a bag and leave. But what could it possi-
bly be? Mother, it’s me, the little boy who spends
whole nights before school begins beautifully
lettering in Old english script the names of his
subjects on his colored course dividers, who pa-
tiently fastens reinforcements to a term’s worth
of three-ringed paper, lined and unlined both.
i carry a comb and a clean hankie; never do
