If you could believe it, all the anti-semitic slurs that he heard throughout his life were actually more painful then the quick tearing of hair from the side of Aviram’s head. Even living amongst his tribe, he was never sheltered from hateful stares in the subway or an occasional stiff shoulder on an empty sidewalk. Low lite back alleys and industrial acreage are scary, but the most dangerous time of day in the city is 2:30 in the afternoon. The school bell rings like the start of the Bellmont Stakes and hordes of city kids with more free time on their hands than any Park Avenue housewife, bombarde the streets. No backyard to play in or video game console to keep them occupied, they neither have the resource for fun or enlightenment to know right from wrong.
So when Aviram had to make a delivery on the West side, he unfortunately took a wrong turn in the large grid of Manhattan’s network of “Do Not Walk” signs. All it takes is a snide remark from a parent or relative to start the most viscous whisper campaign of them all. So when Aviram tried to cross the street, the altercation was already unavoidable. Resentment boils up like Goya Beans and Rice on a hotpot. With odds like five on one, even the most observant Jew won’t find salvation from any higher authority.
They either got bored or maybe it was the UPS delivery guy that threatened police intervention, but Aviram lived to tell his story. So the cycle will go on, and one tribe will rest in their beds and the other will be right across the street, resting in theirs.