Don’t panic, I’m on security duty

FHeighho, heigh ho, it’s off to shul we go… Although we don’t go often, today all three of us are going for different reasons: The Husband because he is marking an important yahrzeit, The Teen because even he knows that there’s a time for rebelling and a yahrzeit is not one of them, and me — because I have security duty.

Like the 68 bus, you wait ages for a security shift, then suddenly get two in quick succession. I’m sure it was only on Yom Kippur that I was strutting my stuff in a bullet-proof vest and high-vis jerkin ensemble.

I sign in and take a bullet-proof vest. Most are Large or Extra-Large and, while no one could describe me as “svelte” unless they were seriously drunk or registered blind, the vests are definitely way too big. Another woman has wisely grabbed the only Medium while I was signing in, so I am stuck with Large. I put it on over my coat so appear even more chunky than usual. It’s extremely heavy, so I literally feel the weight of such an important responsibility pressing down on my shoulders.

We are briefed by Robert, our co-ordinator, who instructs us: “For the next two hours, forget work. Forget that you’re a doctor, a lawyer, or an accountant…” Easily done in my case. For a moment, I wonder if I might actually have a proper profession and somewhere there’s a hospital short of a medic, with my colleagues complaining: “Do you think Zelda’s forgotten she’s a doctor again…?”

His main piece of advice is to keep our backs to a wall so that no one can sneak behind us. That seems quite basic, even to me. He talks about the importance of taking it seriously. With Pittsburgh fresh in our minds, everyone nods gravely — except for one woman who keeps sighing.

“I have done security many times before,” she says. Robert ploughs on with the briefing. Finally, she cracks,

“Can I just give you some feedback?” Feedback, as we know, has become the go-to euphemism for saying something nasty but pretending that you mean it as constructive criticism.

“Sure,” he says.

“I’m finding you incredibly irritating,” she says, constructively.

It is quite astonishingly rude and shocking, given that Robert’s main crime seems to be explaining things slightly slowly. I’m wondering if this is the dark side of Jewish openness and frankness. It’s hard to imagine a non-Jewish educated person being so rude to a stranger who is trying to be helpful.

Inevitably, I wade in.“Personally, I find it really useful to be reminded about what to do each time, even though I’ve done it before. Especially about the radio,” I add pointedly as, with 15 minutes to the off, a stream of shul-goers walk past our huddle, unchecked.

We are assigned to our posts. I notice he puts Ms Feedback at the furthest away point (and who can blame him?). It starts to rain.

The Husband and the Teen come rushing by me to the service and I produce, out of the pocket of my bullet-proof vest, a bag containing two cinnamon rugelach (something one is unlikely to find in a bullet-proof vest worn by a non-Jew, let’s face it). The Teen gets very crabby when he doesn’t eat and he’s come straight from a mandatory after-school activity (not a Jewish school obviously) so will be starving. The Husband looks at me in my many layers and offers some feedback: “Have you put on weight,” he asks, constructively.

Every time a monstrous fourwheel drive comes hurtling down the street towards me, headlights blinding, my heart quickens. I try to look as if I might have an automatic rifle concealed about my person, as recommended by D. Trump Esq, rather than a few rugelach crumbs, but also shift to stand slightly behind a lamp-post just in case.

Many people say thank you as they scurry past, especially at the end of the service when by now it’s raining heavily. Everyone seems to regard doing security duty in the rain as some extraordinary feat of endurance like scaling Mount Kilimanjaro in fluffy slippers. Our rabbi tells me that I’ve done a double mitzvah because of the rain, and when I respond, “But it’s just water…” He replies: “Exactly. It’s water…” He’s very deep, our rabbi.

The radio crackles alive. It’s Ms Feedback: “This is Tango Five. Can’t we come in yet?”

“Control to All. Please hold positions for another few minutes while the community is still exiting. Thank you. OVER.”

“We do have things to go to, you know.”

“Receiving you, Tango Five. You’ll be released shortly. OVER and OUT.”

I’m tempted to introduce this style of communication with the family when they’re being annoying — which is often.

Teen: You’re so mean! Everyone else’s parents let them have their phone in their bedroom at night. Me: Receiving you, Offspring One. Request denied. OVER.

Husband: I must tell you all about the most incredibly boring meeting I had today. Me: This channel must be kept clear for emergency communications only. Please maintain radio silence. OVER.

I think it could catch on. OVER ... and OUT.

Zelda Leon is half-Jewish by birth then did half a conversion course as an adult (half-measures in all things….) to affirm her Jewish status before a rabbinical board. She is a member of a Reform synagogue. Zelda Leon is a pseudonym.