The Next Best Thing

I used to concoct excuses to return to college a few days before the semester started because I loved having the campus to myself and feeling like I owned the place. This morning I drove through the empty streets of Stockbridge—the same streets I’ve cursed on summer days, when crowds and traffic can slow things down so bad it’s better to stay home rather than allot an extra hour just to get through town—and I wondered maybe things had gone too far. My wish had been granted and I wasn’t happy about it. This was how Burgess Meredith felt when he broke his glasses on The Twilight Zone.

Maybe it was a mistake to leave that city populated with so many non-Christian immigrants, where there is not only easy access to my favorite tradition of Chinese food and a movie but also the need to fend off the countless Gentiles who have become hip to the joys of Jewish Christmas.

So a special holiday greeting goes out to the Elm St. market, which I avoid other days of the year because just inhaling the margarine on the grill brings on dark visions of clutching my chest and getting rushed to the emergency room. They were there for me on this most important of days, the fortnightly occasion when the Times publishes an Acrostic by Emily Cox & Henry Rathvon. Crosswords can be done on the computer as a last resort, but these gems require the magazine itself. And today’s looks like it’ll be a killer.