It was Thursday night, which meant Mrs. Greenblatt was holding court on her porch, one floral slipper propped on the rail, the other lost somewhere beneath a small mountain of empty takeout containers. In front of her, a bottle of Pinot Grigio sweated in the dusk beside an aluminum tray the size of an oil pan—her “famous” kugel, or maybe just an excuse to avoid doing dishes.
I had just trudged up from the co-op, a stack of fresh essays weighing down my messenger bag and, if I was honest, my soul. Another week, another digital silence. America’s collapse, as usual, had failed to trend.
“Elias!” she hollered, as if I were hard of hearing, or possibly criminal. “You got any opinions left, or did you use ‘em all up on that Substack of yours?”
I tried for a diplomatic smile—never easy after three hours of reading about demographic collapse and the death of meaning. “There’s always more, Mrs. Greenblatt. The well is bottomless.”
She snorted, waving me over. “Good! Bring ‘em here. And bring an appetite, too. Last time you came by, you picked at your food like it was a tax audit. Honestly, I don’t know what you’re writing, but you look hungry. Sit down. I promise not to call the FBI, even if you start talking about the end of Western civilization again.”
I dropped my bag, eyeing the kugel warily. “Is that the sweet one or the savory one?”
“Does it matter? You people with your big questions—sometimes a noodle is just a noodle. And sometimes you eat what your neighbor makes and say thank you. Now, sit. Let’s hear what’s ending this week—besides your social life.”
She poured me a glass, sloshing a little on the plastic tablecloth. “To prophets, prophets’ neighbors, and anyone smart enough to eat before the world ends. Mazel tov.”
Mrs. Greenblatt: The First Roast
Mrs. Greenblatt wasted no time. She handed me a fork, then eyed my stack of papers like it was evidence in a court case.
“So, Elias, what’s on the syllabus tonight—‘The Empire That Needs Our Silence’? ‘The Flood and the Silence’? Or was it the one about monkeys and aging empires? You know, I tried to read that ‘Pretentious Monkey’ essay, but all I got was a craving for bananas and a mild depression. You ever write about a country that isn’t dying?”
I grinned, tucking in to the kugel. “No payment yet. But I figure if the world’s ending, someone should at least keep a record.”
She rolled her eyes. “A record! Honey, the only record anyone’s keeping is how many steps they did on their Fitbit. And let me tell you—if America goes down, it’ll be because no one showed up for Zumba, not because we ran out of prophets. And what was that one—‘Chanting Toward Annihilation’? I thought you were writing about my last synagogue committee meeting.”
She pointed her fork at my chest. “Tell me the truth—do you ever write about anything that isn’t falling apart? My neighbor across the street said your Substack gave her insomnia. And that’s a woman who once fell asleep during a tornado. At least ‘The Lie We Refuse to End’ was good for my sciatica—I used it to prop up my footstool.”
I shrugged, feigning offense. “Not everyone appreciates a little reality check.”
“Reality? I watched three hours of cable news today. You know what reality is? Commercials for insurance and guys yelling about the price of eggs. Your reality needs more dessert.”
She slid the cake toward me. “Go on, take a piece. You prophets burn so many calories being serious, I worry you’ll fade away before the next election.”
I took a bite. “Okay, but I reserve the right to quote you when I write ‘The Sheet Cake We Refuse to End.’”
Mrs. Greenblatt cackled. “That’s the spirit! See? You’re already getting funnier. If you ever want to try optimism, I’ll show you where I keep the chocolate.”
She topped up my wine, then leaned in, lowering her voice just a little.
“Listen, Elias. I may joke, but I read every word. I argue with you in my head. Sometimes I even win. But I’d rather have you ranting about empire and loneliness at my table than pretending everything’s fine alone in your apartment. So tonight, let’s eat, let’s laugh, and tomorrow you can go back to saving the world. Tonight, you’re on kugel duty.”
I smiled, surrendering to the warmth. The end of America would have to wait until after dessert.
Second Course—The Meaning Machine
The kugel was disappearing faster than my optimism during a news cycle. Mrs. Greenblatt topped off my glass, eyeing the heap of essays now teetering at the table’s edge.
“So tell me, Elias,” she said, waving a fork for emphasis, “this latest epic—‘The Death of Meaning: A Case Study in Algorithmic Erasure.’ You realize it took me longer to read the title than it did to finish my entire lunch? And for what? To find out TikTok is rotting our brains? Honey, I figured that out after watching my niece’s wedding on Facebook Live.”
I tried not to look sheepish. “It’s a complicated subject.”
“Complicated? Honey, I grew up with rotary phones and three TV channels. Complicated is remembering my online banking password. I read about bots and fake accounts and the internet eating your soul, and all I could think was, maybe you need to go outside more. The only bot I worry about is the one that calls at dinnertime and tries to sell me a warranty for a car I don’t even have.”
I couldn’t help laughing. “It’s not just about bots. It’s about reality being manufactured—truth getting buried under algorithmic noise until nobody knows what’s real. It’s not paranoia if the bots are really out to get you.”
She nodded, mock-serious. “Let me tell you what’s real. This kugel is real. Heartburn is real. My neighbor’s dog barking at 2 a.m.—very real. You know what isn’t? Your essay on ‘Manufactured Dissent.’ I got halfway through and thought, ‘Is he talking about Congress, or just my book club?'”
I took a sip of wine. “But don’t you feel it, sometimes? Like everything’s being mimicked, or staged, or turned into a commercial? The spectacle, the digital fog—”
She cut me off with a wave. “Spectacle! The only spectacle I want is a good fireworks show and maybe a matinee with free popcorn. And don’t get me started on your monkey essay again. Sometimes I think you just like the sound of apocalypse in your own voice.”
For once, I didn’t have a comeback. I set my fork down, feeling the sting. “Sometimes I wonder if I really am just shouting into the void. Or maybe I’m just addicted to the sound of collapse.”
She shrugged. “Maybe. But sometimes, kid, the void writes back. Just don’t let it pick the wine. Eat something. You look too thin to be haunted.”
Third Course—Exile and Loneliness
We’d made a respectable dent in the kugel. The wine had mellowed my mood, but not my neighbor’s appetite for argument.
Mrs. Greenblatt wiped her mouth, set down her fork, and leaned in. “Now, Elias, let’s talk about that other essay—the one about loneliness and exile. ‘The Architecture of Loneliness.’ My cousin Janine read it and said it made her cry. I read it and thought, ‘This boy needs to come to bingo night.’ And you, with ‘The Bond and the Chain’—do you ever run out of metaphors for being alone?”
I smiled, but she wasn’t finished.
“You write like loneliness is some kind of disease. Let me tell you, in this country, loneliness is a competitive sport. My grandmother used to say, ‘If you’re bored or lonely, you’re not working hard enough or you’re too proud to say hello.’ Six decades on this street—loneliness doesn’t scare me. You want to cure it? Show up with cake, ask your neighbor how their cat is doing, don’t wait for the world to invent a feeling for you.”
I felt the old ache of exile rise up in me—the cost of refusing the spectacle, the years spent as an outsider in every country, every crowd.
“It’s not just about being alone,” I said. “It’s about never really belonging. Knowing you see things others don’t, and that maybe you’re not even supposed to be here. I write because if I don’t, I disappear.”
She reached over and gave my hand a squeeze—quick, practical, like a mother checking for a fever. “You belong right here, at this table. Not because you write big words, but because you show up. The trick is, most people feel like outsiders, but everyone’s waiting for someone else to say it first. Humility, Elias, is admitting you need people. Even prophets need neighbors, especially the loud ones with kugel.”
I looked down, blinking more than usual.
“Do you ever get tired of being so…certain?” I asked.
She laughed. “Never. Certainty is the poor woman’s Prozac. And besides, I’ve read your essays. Half the time you sound like you’re doubting everything, and the other half you sound like you want to start a new religion. Just eat.”
For a moment, the porch was quiet—just the hum of summer air and the distant clink of a neighbor’s wind chime.
“Finish your food,” she said gently. “The only exile that matters is the one you let yourself believe in.”
Fourth Course—Spectacle and Manufactured Dissent
As dusk deepened and the first streetlights flickered on, Mrs. Greenblatt was already rummaging for dessert. She found a plastic-wrapped sheet cake and started slicing with the confidence of a surgeon.
She pointed the knife at me, grinning. “So, Prophet, let’s talk about this spectacle business. ‘The Architecture of Manufactured Reality.’ Honey, I tried to read it, but I got distracted halfway through and started watching reruns of ‘Jeopardy!’ You ever think maybe the spectacle’s not the problem—it’s the only thing keeping us from rioting over the price of lettuce? And ‘Manufactured Dissent’—I’ve seen more real arguments over parking spots at the synagogue.”
I shrugged, a little defensive. “But don’t you see it? Everything is staged, everything is performance. Even resistance has been turned into content. My point is, we’re living in a theater—everyone knows it’s fake, but we clap anyway.”
She slid a generous slab of cake onto my plate. “I’ll clap for you if you eat more. Here’s the thing—people have always been faking it, Elias. You think my cousin Miriam’s brisket really won that blue ribbon? Half the world’s just trying to make it to payday without screaming. That’s not spectacle—it’s survival.”
I tried to protest. “But it’s more than that! People are encouraged to lose themselves in noise. Manufactured dissent, algorithmic outrage, a whole country hypnotized by the next outrage. It’s like the circus never leaves town.”
She cackled. “The circus is the town. Always has been. Listen, you want to resist? Don’t give them your rage for free. Laugh, feed somebody, plant a tomato, tell a dirty joke, help your neighbor move a couch. That’s real. That’s dissent they can’t sell.”
I chewed on the cake—moist, sweet, a little over-the-top, but undeniably satisfying.
“Maybe I’m taking it all too seriously,” I admitted. “Sometimes I wonder if I’ve become part of the spectacle myself—writing about collapse while the world keeps spinning, laughing, eating cake.”
She winked. “Now you’re getting it. Nothing humbles a prophet like frosting in the beard. The best resistance is knowing when to tune out the circus and tune in to dessert. Eat up. You’re starting to sound almost human.”
We sat for a while in companionable silence, the sound of distant televisions and kids playing tag drifting over the hedges. I found myself smiling.
“Thanks, Mrs. Greenblatt.”
She patted my arm. “Don’t mention it, kid. That’s what neighbors are for. Now—tell me, honestly, is ‘algorithmic erasure’ contagious? Because if it is, I’m switching to snail mail.”
Fifth Course—Relapse, Suffering, and the Prophetic Vow
The cake was mostly gone, and the night had settled over the porch like a heavy comforter. Mrs. Greenblatt’s tone, always brash and teasing, turned suddenly gentle.
She refilled my glass and leaned her elbows on the table. “Now, Elias, let’s get real. You know I read everything—even the ones about the darkness. ‘The Prophet and the Flesh,’ ‘Why Have You Forsaken Me, Father?’—the ones about relapses, and pain, and being stuck in the wilderness. The ones you don’t want anyone to see.”
I stiffened, but she waved a hand, cutting me off before I could defend myself.
“You ever hear of someone who never fell down? Me neither. Life’s slippery. Everybody spends some time in the ditch. What matters is if you climb out, or just decorate it and call it home. You—you keep crawling back to the light. That counts, even if you don’t think it does.”
I stared at the table, unsure what to say.
She reached over, her hand warm and steady on mine. “Look, you write about pain because you know it. You write about falling because you’re still here. Prophets, neighbors, saints, addicts—honey, we’re all just limping along. Humility isn’t pretending you’re cured. It’s knowing you’re not finished.”
A wry smile crept onto her lips. “You know why I like you, Elias? Because you don’t lie, not even about your own mess. That’s rare. That’s worth more than another essay about how America’s got one foot in the grave.”
I let myself breathe again. “Sometimes I think the vow to keep telling the truth is all that’s left. Sometimes I wonder if that’s just an excuse to never be happy.”
She squeezed my hand, then let go and started stacking plates. “Good. Keep the vow. Just remember—prophets need dinner too. You keep the record; I’ll keep the leftovers. Between us, we might even save a little piece of the world.”
She winked. “Now help me clean up. Next week I’m making brisket, and if you write a sad poem about it, I’ll make you do the dishes.”
We laughed, together this time, the porch echoing with something stronger than pain—something like mercy, disguised as dessert.
Sixth Course—Humility, Hope, and the Last Word
The porch was quiet now, the cicadas singing their late-summer chorus, streetlights painting halos on the cracked sidewalk. Mrs. Greenblatt cleared the last crumbs of cake, then sat back with a sigh of deep satisfaction and a glint in her eye.
She fixed me with a look—a mix of mother, rabbi, and drill sergeant. “All right, Prophet. One last thing before you wander off into the darkness to write another tear-stained manifesto.”
I grinned, bracing myself.
“Humility,” she said, “isn’t writing about how small you feel or how the world’s ending. It’s knowing you’re just one voice, in one place, on one ordinary night. It’s having the good sense to take your shoes off at the door, say thank you, and wash your own plate.”
She raised her glass. “Hope’s not a headline, Elias. It’s leftovers in the fridge. It’s sitting on the porch with someone who still argues with you even after dessert. It’s showing up—hungry, honest, stubborn, and a little ridiculous.”
I smiled, the heaviness in my chest easing.
She reached for her coat, then stopped. “You want to be a prophet? Fine. But be a neighbor, too. Nobody gets remembered for their footnotes. They get remembered for bringing pie. And for showing up. Even if the only thing you save is someone’s appetite.”
We stood, stretching in the soft night air. The world outside was still full of noise and hunger, fear and forgetting, but here—on this porch, for a moment—there was peace, and enough.
Mrs. Greenblatt handed me a Tupperware full of kugel. “For breakfast,” she said. “Or for your next existential crisis. Same difference.”
As I headed home, bag heavier with food than with essays, I heard her call after me, voice warm and irrepressible:
“Next week, you bring the jokes, I’ll bring the wisdom! And Elias—don’t wait for the world to end before you come back for dinner.”
Coda—The Record and the Return
I walked the slow block home, Tupperware of kugel warm in my hand, the night fragrant with mown grass and some neighbor’s bad cologne. Every porch light glowed, silent testaments to the thousand private survivals happening behind each door. The street was quiet, except for the soft hum of televisions and a stray laugh drifting through a window.
My apartment was as I’d left it: a mess of books, unfinished drafts, a blinking cursor on a document titled, in typical Elias fashion, “On Witness and Futility.” I set the food on the table and sat in the hush, hearing Mrs. Greenblatt’s voice echo in my mind:
“Nobody gets remembered for their footnotes. They get remembered for bringing pie.”
I looked at my stack of essays, the accumulated warnings, laments, and confessions. Maybe the record didn’t need to save the world. Maybe it was enough that it saved me—kept me coming back, kept me honest, kept me hungry for another night on the porch, another conversation, another plate.
Outside, a siren wailed, then faded. I opened the window, letting in the ordinary sounds of a city refusing to collapse, not tonight. Maybe, I thought, survival is less about the words we leave and more about the dinners we accept, the neighbors who refuse to let us disappear.
I spooned out a piece of kugel, letting the sweetness linger on my tongue. Maybe tomorrow I’d write another prophecy, or maybe I’d just write a thank you. For now, there was enough—enough food, enough witness, enough hope to last until morning.
And that, I realized, was the real record worth keeping.
—Elias WinterAuthor of Language Matters, a space for reflection on language, power, and decline.
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