In the beginning was the Word. And that word… was Failure.
That’s how I’d describe my latest endeavor — a fresh start that already went up in smoke like poorly dried cedar.
After that memorable encounter with the peculiar Jesh, I faked a mild illness and asked to be temporarily relieved of duty. A few days later, I returned to my tax work — made the rounds, visited a few debtors — but the old spark just wasn’t there. No drive. No bite. Just me and my lingering humiliation.
No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t shake the memory of that carpenter’s son. Deep down, I was still burning with shame over my ridiculous retreat. It gnawed at me. I had to prove — at least to myself — that I was better than that smug little upstart. Not just in rank, but in skill. In business acumen.
His hapless father clearly hadn’t taught him how to run a shop. That whole family was drowning in mismanagement. And so I, in a bold show of independence and bruised pride, decided I would open a woodworking business of my own.
I didn’t need anyone’s help. I could do it all myself. Well — almost all myself.
Having parted ways with my previous employers (with more drama than I’d have liked), I didn’t have much in the way of savings. So I went to my old friend Raban, hat in hand. Word had already reached him — that I’d fled my post as tax collector before even warming the seat. That I was a washout.
I used to be attached to the House of Publican Zechariah, working the strip from the southern gate to the edge of the marketplace. And it was far from there, very far, that I planned to set up my new — and inevitably successful! — little enterprise.
I said all this to Raban while he watched me with deep suspicion. I explained that there’d be no trouble with Zechariah, that I was going solo now — ready to take on the world with honest private labor. Soon I’d have a booming workshop, strong financial muscles, a full crew, and orders pouring in like manna from winged sandals.
I did manage to convince him — barely. But he parted with his money like it was his own skin. Said this would be the last time he helped me out in such a “grand” fashion. And that this time, he expected returns.
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I assured him, with wide eyes and a hand on my heart (and a lie in my throat), that I’d never ask him for help again and would, of course, repay him the moment I turned a profit. Which, realistically, would happen sometime between the next Passover and the fall of the Temple.
Little did I know how soon I’d be paying out…
The whole thing collapsed. No matter how much I held it together with prayer and cheap nails. First of all, I was a terrible carpenter. The money Raban lent me only covered the shop and tools.
Hiring extra hands? That came out of my pocket. And I could only afford one worker — and not the easiest fellow to deal with, either.
His name was Avdei. And he could only work at night. Because he couldn’t stand sunlight.
I used to joke (badly) that he was the illegitimate son of a shedim (demon) and a tavern wench, but he never took offense. Said the sun burned his skin raw, left him red and in agony.
- But you’ll be working indoors, under a roof! — I cried out when he first told
- That may be, — he replied calmly, — but one must first reach the And the streets are no friend to my condition.
It might’ve worked. Really, it might have — If only the nights in Capernaum weren’t so short. You couldn’t get much done before the roosters crowed, and by daybreak, it was my turn to wrestle with the logs — and as I’ve already confessed, I was no craftsman. I always preferred working with my head — charming, negotiating, scheming. All of which, incidentally, had failed spectacularly on Jesh.
So the business began to spiral. Few orders, slow fulfillment. And then came the thunderclap — delivered straight from the frothing mouth of one very irate Raban:
- Is. My. Money?! You worm. WORM!
I gave him my best apologetic grin and responded in my smoothest, most oily tone:
- My friend, forgive the I told you I’d pay you back as soon as possible — and alas, that time… is still somewhere in the future.
- Two years, you miserable sack! How long do you expect me to wait? Or were you planning to keep feeding me promises? Because I’m not hungry, friend. And if I ever get hungry — I’ll eat a dozen losers like you for breakfast!
I prayed that was a metaphor.
And… yeah. When I said it hadn’t been that long, I guess I may have lost track. Turns out, it had been two years. Funny how time flies when you’re drowning in unpaid invoices, broken tools, and existential dread. Maybe I was a little optimistic when I said I could handle everything on my own.
- Come on, Raban, no need to lose your temper! Just give me a little more time — a couple more months — and I swear, I’ll start paying you in installments—
- Enough! — He barked, cutting off both my pleas and the last breath of a reasonable He switched to a language I knew well: ultimatums.
- Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re selling this sorry excuse for a business. Immediately. Find a buyer, pull one out of the air, I don’t care I won’t even bother with the interest — since you clearly don’t have a shekel to your pathetic name. But I want my principal back. All of it.
- But, listen…
- No — He lifted his chin, all five feet of fury standing on tiptoe for effect. — Either you sell everything and pay up, or I take this matter to people who don’t ask twice. You know who my friends are. They can take more from you than just a workshop.