Moshe Aryeh Friedman and the Magic Bedsheet - part 3

As could be expected, Moshe Aryeh Friedman took little interest in his studies, and he was not a stellar student, to put it mildly. One of his rebbeim, who was also his neighbor, would often say "I wish we were back in the old days in Budapesht where I could give Moishele such a potch he'd remember me forever!"

On the other hand, the little pipsqueak of a boy was a true busybody, the male equivalent of a yente, or perhaps more accurately, of the yente's more malicious counterpart, the yachne. He would listen in to every conversation, whether in school or at Creedmoor. While he had little interest in what went on in school, he would not hesitate to turn in his fellow schoolboys when he overheard usually exaggerated tales of their boyish pranks. But when it came to Creedmoor, somehow he became a precocious child who understood conversations about treatment of psychiatric illness.

This, too, held little interest for him once he found out that he could not successfully set up much of a black market in psychotropic drugs without getting on the bad side of an Indian and Pakistani medical mafia that already controlled same in the rapidly declining mental facility. So, he injected himself into the offices of the social workers, who were charged with the all important task of obtaining benefits for their addled charges. In the offices of the directors, assistant directors, and associate directors to the assistant directors of the Affirmative Action riddled and woefully undercompetently overstaffed Department of Psychiatric Social Work, puny little Moishele learned about welfare, Section 8, SSI, Social Security Disability Payments, Veteran's Benefits and who knows what else.

In the meantime, while little Moishe Aryeh was forced to spend his afternoons in treatment in Creedmoor, his older sister, a kind and sweet young lady of 14, spent her free time helping truly developmentally disabled little girls in her community, which is known both for its chessed and for providing services to its least advantaged members. Malkele (name changed to protect the innocent) was already 2 heads taller than her ridiculous little brother, but that did not stop her from getting on her hands and knees and playing with unfortunate children as young as three years old. Malkele also had a large collection of stuffed animals, often given to her as presents by grateful parents, as well as a doll collection.

And Moshe Aryeh Friedman had a pair of scissors, a hammer, and a wrench, all purloined from the utility closet at Creedmoor, which was off limits to patients (he was also banned from access to the Friedman family cache of sharp objects, for obvious reasons).

One Sunday afternoon, while gentle, sweet Malkele accompanied a group of disabled children to a local park as was her usual routine on Sundays, her rancid, putrid, miserable rodent of a brother picked the lock to her room with his "gechapt" scissors, and began his ghastly work.

Sure enough, Malkele or her charges had named every doll and labeled each one with "her" very own name. So, Moshe Aryeh Friedman began his career as a scam artist by recording every one of the doll's names - typical Williamsburgh names like Esther, Blima, Yidis, Fyge, Byle, Gnendel, Ryzel - on a sheet of the only paper that he was allowed access to at home - namely asher yotzor papier. Then, he decided that the stuffed animals were male, so he named them in typical community fashion - Yoily, Gimpel, Getzel, Groinem, Shepsel, Yidel - and recorded their names as well. Of course they all shared his surname of Friedman as per this chronicle of woe.

And now, the mayhem began. Scissors amputated at least three limbs per doll and decapitated the stuffed animals. The hammer, rather large for Moshe Aryeh's undersized hands, wreaked havoc on the dolls' heads.

Presto! Moshe Aryeh Friedman now had a collection of injured and disabled dependents to claim for welfare and SSI, as well as a handful of deceased ones to claim for survivors' benefits. When asked to explain his actions to a visibly distraught Malkele and the unfortunate children to whom she so dearly served as a surrogate sister, the budding menivel explained: "Now your farshtinkene getschkes and shmatte vilde chayes are as retarded as the kids you take care of!"

Malkele could take no more; she was totally incapable of understanding her brother's utter lack of humanity. For five minutes, she cried inconsolably while she figured out what she could do. Her equally kindhearted older sister joined her in her tears; she was just as equally incapable of handling the situation and was amazed that her little brother, demented as he was known to be, could say and do such things. Not capable of doing what needed to be done, namely throwing the hammer at Moshe Aryeh and putting him out of his misery, both Friedman girls were beyond words. Finally, Malkele called the kollel where her father learned every Sunday and asked him to rush home.

When Rabbi Friedman saw the mess his son had made, he knew that Moshe Aryeh had to become a full time resident of Creedmoor as soon as possible despite his tender age. There was no sense punishing him for he was clearly beyond what any normal family could handle. But by the time he arrived, little Moishele was gone. His sisters were blinded by their tears and shock and saw nothing. For that matter, his father was not too interested in locating his depraved son, and as it turned out, he had no need to do so.

The wealthy aunt of a little girl whom Malkele took to the park every Sunday gratefully and generously replaced all of the toys which her brother had massacred. Fortunately, she was judged on her own great merits and was never associated with her brother's ways, so that beshaah toive umitzlachis she married a fine young man and today leads an exemplary life, and such is also the case with her older sister and all of the other Friedman siblings.

Moishele could have cared less about his father or his sisters. He was actually on his way back to Creedmoor, where one of the more corrupt associates to the assistants to the director of the associate directorship of the Department of Psychotic Anti-Social Work was ready and waiting to help him fill out forms for benefits for the no fewer than fifteen injured, disabled and deceased dependents of Moshe Aryeh and the late Malka Friedman. Yes, that is right. He actually claimed his very much alive sister was his deceased wife so that he could explain how he had fifteen dependents, ten hopelessly disabled and five conveniently deceased. A forged article about a tragic car accident was included in the application, and all was duly accepted by the overworked bureaucrats in Washington DC, Albany and City Hall.

And when the checks came in to "Rabbi Moshe Aryeh Friedman" at a PO Box not far from Creedmoor, Jose Hernandez, an illegal immigrant from Guatemala who occasionally pushed a mop across the corridors of power at Creedmoor, cashed them with an equally undocumented money transfer agency for one cent on the dollar. The rest of the loot was divided 80:20 between Moshe Aryeh Friedman and Mrs. Goosehonketta Jones-Whankingham, a native of some misbegotten island in the Caribbean whose title was "Assistant to the Associate of the Directorship of Benefits Management" at Creedmoor Psychiatric Hospital.

No longer did Rabbi and Mrs Friedman back in Williamsburgh have to worry about their son. He was for all practical purposes a voluntary resident of Creedmoor (he simply moved into a padded suite in E-ward, an abandoned building not far from the beloved D-ward of the Admou"r meCreedmoor who was in Alcatraz more and more these days so that he did not even care to claim a tzentel of Moshe Aryeh's ill-gotten gains). What is more, Dr Michael Weinberg, the last competent professional at Creedmoor, had retired to move to Israel, so no one was there to account for decrepit little Moishele.