Does Jewish law say it’s OK to lie to the high-roller who wants to manage your rock ‘n’ roll band?
He asked if I was a ‘stallion or a gelding’ — the real question was if I was a mensch or a mouse
The author, Peter Himmelman, on the set of his ‘Waning Moon’ music video, 1987. Photo by John Kisch Archive/Getty Images
This is the third in a series of essays by Peter Himmelman exploring the intersection of Judaism, creativity, and rock ‘n’ roll.
The year is 1986.
Last night, as I left for our gig at the Ritz, Migdalia — a stunning Puerto Rican hooker — was back on my stoop, proffering her nasty wares and services. Coming home later that night with an onion bagel and a half-gallon of milk, I see her again, this time with beard stubble pushing up through her makeup. She shoots me a forlorn look and continues pissing, upright, in the tiny foyer of my Hell’s Kitchen apartment.
“Hey,” I say. “Wouldn’t it be better for everyone to pee outside the entryway?”
Once inside, moonlight is glinting off what appear to be diamonds — dozens of them. On closer inspection, I see they’re just bits of glass. Some asshole shot out my back window again.
In the morning, out on 47th Street, a car honks and I head downstairs. It’s a gold stretch limousine. My roadie — and soon-to-be manager — Wess is sitting in back in torn Levi’s, his pasty knees poking through the holes. Today we’re heading to Caesars Atlantic City to meet Jimmy Valenti. Jimmy got my new record from his nephew Bobby, a DJ at a club in Bergen County, and now he wants to help. They say he’s got connections.
The limo driver starts the car and turns around in his seat. “You guys need anyting, jus’ ask. We got shrimp cocktails and plenty o’ booze in the fridge.”
“Thanks,” I say.
“Jimmy’s crazy excited to see the bot’ a youse. He wants ya to know you’ll be flyin’ back to the city in his private chopper.”
We arrive at Caesars and two bellmen with little white towels draped over their forearms greet us at the door. Each towel is embroidered with my last name in gold. I quickly notice Himelman has been misspelled — one m where there should be two. Wess and I trade what-the-hell looks as we ride the elevator to the penthouse.
“Enjoy your stay,” one of the bellmen says, leading us into a room big enough for a grade-school soccer game.
In the center of the penthouse is a kidney-shaped swimming pool overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. Draped over a chaise longue are a swimsuit and two enormous towels, both embroidered with my last name — again, spelled incorrectly.
The ornate double doors swing open. In walks Jimmy Valenti, a large, gregarious man with dyed black hair and a Buddhist mala bead bracelet around his left wrist.
“Sit down, boys. Relax,” he says. “I’ll have Scotty send up lunch. You like chops?”
He leads us to chairs near the pool. “Pete, ya know the difference between a stallion and a gelding?”
Before I can answer — and of course I have no idea — Jimmy says, “A gelding is a horse with its balls clipped off.”
He pauses, letting the thought hang there.
“Without capital, that’s exactly what you are — a ball-less perdente. Good news is, I’m here to give you some. What do you need? 500K? A million?”
“Actually,” I say, “I hadn’t really given it much thought.”
The doors open again and two long tables are wheeled in. On the first is a platter of lobster tails on ice alongside a trough of French-fried onion rings. On the other, a crystal bowl of jumbo prawns, three massive Caesar salads, and a tray with enough porterhouse steaks to feed a dozen men.
Jimmy spears a slab of meat with the tip of his steak knife and waves it in my face. “Mangiare!”
“Jimmy,” I struggle to say through bites of the tenderest steak I’ve ever eaten, “I already got a guy helpin’ us out. He’s kind of our manager. Kind of.”
“Oh yeah?” Jimmy says. “What’s he puttin’ in, cash-wise?”
“Well, considering his time and everything, probably around $1,500.”
With a mouthful of bloody meat, Jimmy laughs. In fact, he laughs so hard and for so long I think he’s going to choke to death. He finally catches his breath.
“I see you in a rock video with some big-titted broad, walkin’ hand-in-hand near that giant globe they got down at Epcot Center. Romantic as hell. You ever been there? We shoot a real classy video for your song, “Only You Can Walk Away” for around 100, 150 grand. Then we pull some strings and get MTV to play the shit out of it.”
He leans in. “Whaddya say, Pete? You a stallion or a gelding?”
Jimmy pulls out three cigars. “Cubans,” he says, and from under the table produces a gold bucket of matchbooks, each bearing a close-but-no-cigar version (Samson Laraunce) of my band’s name, Sussman Lawrence, embossed in gold letters.
He cuts the tip of a cigar with the steak knife and asks, “Pete, I gotta know. You a horse with balls or no balls? Which is it?”
He looks out at the dark waves.
As I struggle to come up with the right answer, I can’t help imagining some unfortunate future in which I’m forced, at the barrel of a gun, to sing at Jimmy’s cousin’s wedding, his uncle’s birthday, his nephew’s christening, and his great-aunt’s wake.
Clearly, I am the gelding.
“It sounds amazing,” I say. “I’ll just need a day or two to think it over.”
Jimmy reaches for the phone. “Scotty, can we fly these boys back to the city in the bird, or is the weather too rough?”
A couple days later, back in Hell’s Kitchen, I compose this simpering, utterly gelding-esque letter:
Dear Mr. Valenti,
Thank you for your graciousness and generosity. This past month I’ve been offered a position as a broker with Merrill Lynch, and today, regrettably, I’ve decided to join the firm.
Should I ever decide to pursue a career in music again, please know you’ll be the first person I call.
Today, decades later, I search for a justification for my lie. Since nothing else seems to apply, I turn to Halacha, Jewish law, and settle on this: pikuach nefesh — the saving of a life — overrides nearly every commandment. Given the circumstances, a credible argument can be made that my life would have been at risk if I failed to perform or show up when asked; therefore, lying was permitted.
That said, I should also mention that the man did not have the best personal hygiene. I’m not certain that alone rises to the level of pikuach nefesh, but it didn’t help.
As for the “bird,” Jimmy was right. The weather was too rough. Scotty had the limo we came down in “all refreshed ‘n’ replenished.” The same driver took us all the way back to Hell’s Kitchen. Migdalia was there, sitting on the front stoop. I stopped into a bodega and picked up a tuna sandwich for the both of us.
