My interview with Moshiach part II

The story thus far: Bitter gives a ride to a hitchhiker, who turns out to be Moshiach. Bitter asks him what we could do to help him come faster.

Moshiach sat for a few minutes, picking at his goatee, deep in thought.

"You know," he said, "you probably think that I know a lot about the answer to that question. I used to think about it all the time, and over the years, I've had a lot of great ideas, reasons for the Jews staying in exile, accomplishments that God wanted to see before the great redemption." He smiled, perhaps remembering some of the great deeds, and continued animatedly.

"But time after time, just when I thought I'd be asked to come, at the apex of a great era, the conclusion of some great suffering, I'd have my bags packed, and be ready to go,m and you know what would happen?"

"What?" I wondered, hanging on to his every word.

"Nothing." he said. "N-o-thing! So I don't know. The point is, I don't think about it much anymore. When the time comes, the time comes." He slumped back in the seat, spent.
I was deflated. Suddenly he perked up.

"Hey!" he said. "Maybe you have some ideas!"
"M-m-me?" I stammered.

"Yeah, you!" he enthused. "You know," he continued reflectively, "I don't get out much. Yeah I can be misboidaid as long as I want, and I keep up with the news, just to know which rulers I might have to hondle with. But I kema'at never just hang around poshitteh yidden.

"Tell me," he continued, "do you go to shul? You have a big chevra?"

"I-I guess.."

"So you tell me!" He was gaining steam here, his Chai necklace bouncing as he gesticulated. For the first time I noticed a hint of an Israeli accent. "What is it? What can they do to help me come? To merit the ge'ulah?"

I hadn't thought about it, and I was a little uncomfortable being put on the spot by Moshiach himself.

"I'm sorry!" he said, as though reading my thoughts, "Maybe I shouldn't have put so much pressure on you! It's okay if you don't know! Hey, I've been thinking about it for years and I don't know! It's okay, Tzaddik'l!" He pulled a hip flask out of his frock and unscrewed the cap.
"Well..." I said, "I guess now that you mention it...."

He tried to hide it, but his eyes lit up. He took a swig from the bottle.

"Nu?"

"I don't know...Some people say that the music at weddings is too loud." The words felt stupider as they left my mouth.

"Soooo..." he prompted.

"I don't know. I guess they say that it's a bizayon for the older generation-" I noticed him fiddling with his ring "- that it's disrespectful to the older generation, and it's not sensitive, and could cause hearing loss..." He looked skeptical, but thought about it for a minute.

"Honor your parents, show respect to your elders, watch verily your health...I guess it's important. But what if the chosson likes loud music? Or the kalla? There would be a reason to play it loud." He paused. "Maybe it's wrong, but It's certainly a nuanced question.

"Who complains about this?" he asked.

"I don't know, I guess... In the paper... I've seen...here and there, about it."

"Jewish papers?"

"Yeah, I guess. They have pages of letters from readers, and I've seen some readers complain about the music."

"Maybe." he said dubiously. He gazed at the tzitzis twisted between his fingers, and ran his finger along the blue thread. He looked up.

"Anything else?"

Exclusive interview with Moshiach!

I saw him standing on the corner, near where the Brooklyn bus unloads. He was wearing a long jacket and beaver hat, fiddling with his bushy beard, and he appeared deep in thought. In stark contrast to the other travellers milling about, he didn't seem to be in a rush to get somewhere.
People met and greeted, collected their luggage and headed off, but he just stood there.
I had to pass him to get to my car, and as I did, I asked the man, "Can I give you a ride somewhere?"
"Where are you going?" he asked. His diction was perfectly american, which caught me by surprise, I guess.
"What?" I asked, though I had heard him.
"Voo fuert ah Yeed?" He asked again, in a thick yerushalmi yiddish.
I told him the neighborhood.
"Is there a Beis Medrash there? A place where there will be people learning now?"
There was, I assured him after checking my watch. I assumed he was a meshulach, and was looking for a place where the picking would be good. But as he climbed into the car, I noticed that his attache case looked to be very shiny, yet supple leather, and his suit was tailored of fine natural fabric.
The ride was not a short one, so I made some small talk while I watched in the mirror as he settled himself.
"Where are you from?" I asked.
"Rome." He answered. "Actually, my residence is not there, per se, however, of late I've been there much of the time. My present sojourn began there, so in that sense it would be an accurate answer, regardless.
"Rome?" I asked. "What is it that you do in Rome?"
"Well," he replied, adjusting the bobby pins in his yarmulka, "mostly, I just wait. The work I'm supposed to do is liberate the Jewish people and rebuild the Temple, but I'm waiting for final word from my Upstairs."
"You mean.. You're telling me..You are moshiach?!"
"Most people call me that," he said. "Although Eliyahu says that G-d refers to me as Menachem. And on Tisha B'av, they call me the birthday boy."
I was stunned speechless. Imagine that! Being in a car together with the redeemer of the Jews! It was an incredible honor, but I was too nervous to say anything! We sat in silence for what seemed like days.
Finally, I decided that this was too good an opportunity to pass up. I looked in the rearview mirror, trying to get a good look at the one who would be the greatest king Israel had ever known. He was opening an Artscroll Tehillim.
"M-M-MOshiach Tzidkeinu..." I quavered, "What will help us to bring you bimheira biyameinu amain?"
He closed the tehillim and sat thoughtfully for a few minutes.