\u201cHowie,\u201d Marsha said, sipping green tea at the kitchen dinette table of their little bungalow in the village of Grubsky, \u201cif you keep fiddling with that old thing, you\u2019ll be late for your appointment.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cLate? It\u2019s just Hyman. Hyman\u2019s Hair, he makes no appointments, Marsha. Just walk-ins. One Hyman, two pairs of scissors, just three dollars, because I mended his barber pole for free. This you know.\u201d<\/p>\n
Howie Fine, robust, woolly, disheveled, spoke slowly, while peering at the inner workings of a strange gadget through reading glasses as thick as lighthouse Fresnel lenses. He sat at the kitchen table, his nose just inches from exposed live electrical wires, because he\u2019d neglected to unplug the mysterious contraption before opening it. Howie trusted electricity more than anything else. Certainly, more than people. Electricity, after all, was predictable.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhy can\u2019t you go to a real salon? They do men\u2019s cuts and pedicures at the salon next door to Hyman\u2019s. You know, CeCe\u2019s, where I go for nails.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cBecause I don\u2019t go to Sissy\u2019s, Marsha. I go to Hyman\u2019s. That\u2019s what I do. I am a man. I like a man to cut my hair.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAlright, Samson, but Hyman gives you a Forrest Gump haircut every time. And it\u2019s CeCe\u2019s, not Sissy\u2019s. Lots of men go to salons nowadays. Ruben used to go, before the motorcycle accid-\u201d<\/p>\n
There was an awkward pause in the conversation.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou\u2019re such a dinosaur. A hairy dinosaur. You can employ a little self-care and still be manly, Howie. Times have changed, you know, since the mastodons got haircuts.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI haven\u2019t changed.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cMastodon. Why not get a nice \u2019do? A men\u2019s pedicure? You\u2019ve got rough, hairy man feet. No offense. I just want you to look nice for the funeral.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019ll wear shoes,\u201d Howie said.<\/p>\n
\u201cAnd your hair?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019ll wear a yarmulka.\u201d<\/p>\n
Marsha became teary.<\/p>\n
\u201cAlright, alright, I\u2019ll go to Hyman\u2019s as soon as I fix this.\u201d<\/p>\n
Marsha slowly traced her fingers\u2014one at a time\u2014along the rim of the white porcelain teacup. A cup from a set her grandparents brought to America when they fled pogroms in Ukraine. It was the only keepsake she had from them. Once, many years ago, she dropped one of the cups in the kitchen sink when Howie startled her with a kiss from behind as she was washing dishes. That was when they were still trying to have a baby. There were many surprise kisses, for such had been the happy couple in their early years. The cup fell in the sink and broke into several pieces. Howie later repaired it with a special porcelain glaze so that it looked new. Friends could not even tell where the breaks had been. It was magic.
\nHowie could repair anything. Before founding Five Fine Brothers repair shop, Howie, an only child, earned dual degrees in electrical and mechanical engineering, all with honors. When Wally, their neighbor Mr. Wimple\u2019s son, broke his automated wiffle ball pitching machine, no one could mend it but Howie. When his dear friend, the great virtuoso Daniela Rubinstein\u2019s prized violin developed a hairline crack, it was only Howie he entrusted for the repair, for Howie Fine was known throughout Grubsky to be a repair and maintenance genius. Whenever his friend Ruben\u2019s Honda motorcycle wouldn\u2019t start\u2014generally every time they went for a ride together\u2014Howie repaired that, too. Then they\u2019d ride, just two Jews on Hondas\u2014or Guns and Moses, as Ruben named the gang of two\u2014for bagels or pastrami sandwiches at Zayde\u2019s Deli, before riding to visit their mothers, who shared a two-bedroom apartment at Hemlock Ponds retirement home. Yeah, we\u2019re bad, real bad, Ruben would say, as they swaggered into the lobby of the nursing home carrying a bag filled with sesame bagels, chive cream cheese, and lox for their moms.<\/p>\n
When they first met and courted and fell in love, Howie adored everything about Marsha. How her hair smelled like cinnamon babka. How her eyes twinkled like raisins in a freshly baked loaf of challah. And how Marsha\u2019s delicate, slender fingers, the nails often painted purple, flitted about like butterflies on the wing as she told stories. As Howie sat in the kitchen now, decades later, tinkering with an old blender, he glanced at Marsha\u2019s fingers as she wrapped them around her teacup. Her once pretty hands had grown thick over the years, with wiry hairs sprouting up from the knurled knuckles like the tufts of crabgrass in Mr. Wimple\u2019s front lawn.<\/p>\n
\u201cHowie, are you daydreaming again?\u201d Marsha said, lifting a hand to tap him on the shoulder. \u201cYou need to go get that haircut.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYes, but I promised Bobbie I\u2019d fix this. I dunno, she\u2019s got this screwy idea. She wants to know her baby\u2019s gender. But this thing has some kind of wiring and parts I\u2019ve never seen.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat are you talking about?\u201d Marsha said. \u201cWhat gender? You said that\u2019s an old blender.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m not sure what it is, Marsha.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHowie, you\u2019re talking crazy.\u201d<\/p>\n
Howie held up several cathodes, diodes, and other electrical bits to the front of his glasses.<\/p>\n
\u201cI have to get this working,\u201d Howie said. \u201cI think with Ruben passing, and the baby coming, you know, Bobbie, she\u2019s very emotional. A traveling salesman told her this thing can tell the gender. I know it\u2019s crazy.\u201d<\/p>\n
Howie thought about Bobbie. How much can one young woman take? She shouldn\u2019t have to deal with her dad passing while she\u2019s getting ready for her first baby. Sometimes it\u2019s too much, just too much. Like when Marsha lost the baby years ago. Really, God, if you\u2019re up there, I just don\u2019t know what\u2019s wrong with you, sometimes. Can\u2019t you give a Jew a break?<\/p>\n
\u201cIt\u2019s just a blender, Howie. You must tell her the truth, not nonsense.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI know, I know. But still, what if\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat if what?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat if it\u2019s more, more than a blender?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cMaybe you need to cut down on the cannabis, Howie. I think your mind is going.\u201d<\/p>\n
Howie looked through the kitchen window, into the garden outside, at his pride and joy. His cannabis plants, in full sun, tall, leafy, strong. He watered the plants with religious precision every day, shooed away little bugs from their leaves, and sometimes put light jazz on the wireless speaker for them.
\nWith a hot soldering iron Howie was now melting solder to meld together some electrical bits to some electrical bobs. He glanced for just a flash at Marsha\u2019s hands; the fingers wrapped around the teacup. Marsha used to be sensitive, delicate, so beautiful. Now her hands look like a man\u2019s.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou can\u2019t sugar coat things, Howie,\u201d Marsha said.<\/p>\n
\u201cSome traveling salesman, he told her this story. She\u2019s vulnerable, Marsha, vulnerable, we need to play along.\u201d<\/p>\n
Just then sparks flew out from the end of the soldering gun, little jolts of electricity arced like tiny lightning bolts, and puffs of smoke spread out across the air above the kitchen table. The inside of the blender began turning slowly, then faster and faster. It whirred now like a ceiling fan in a smoky bar, while emitting a rapid thrumming sound.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat now?\u201d Marsha said loudly.<\/p>\n
The lights throughout the house blinked rapidly several times then went out. Howie got up from the table, walked to the outlet on the wall, unplugged the contraption. He waved his arms back and forth to clear the smoke.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019ll have to make some adjustments,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n
\u201cNo kidding, Einstein.\u201d<\/p>\n
A month earlier, a stranger came to Grubsky. He drove a white van which had a bed and small kitchenette. A black poodle rode shotgun. The stranger parked on Main Street, stepped out, and walked up to the nearest house. He was thin, in a nondescript black suit and black hat. He placed a large valise full of small home appliances on the stoop, then knocked on the door. Young Bobbie Bernstein, the Grubsky synagogue treasurer who also worked in marketing, daughter of Howie\u2019s friend, Ruben, stuck her head past the screen door for a moment, listened to the man\u2019s speech, then said no, no thank you, there\u2019s nothing I need to buy today. No, I have a toaster already. No, sorry, don\u2019t need a coffee maker either. Really, can\u2019t you take no for an answer? I don\u2019t need a flibbidy-jibbit or a doohickey, not another doohickey. My partner, Rayne, he gets me a new doohickey every year for Hanukkah. The man nodded, reached down into the travel case by his feet, and rose with a strange looking kitchen gadget.<\/p>\n
\u201cUm, is that some old blender? I have a blender,\u201d Bobbie said.<\/p>\n
\u201cBut surely, you would have use for this,\u201d said the stranger, standing close to her and holding out the blender with two hands while staring into Bobbie\u2019s eyes. Bobbie looked at him. There was something odd yet familiar.<\/p>\n
\u201cDo I know you?\u201d Bobbie said.<\/p>\n
\u201cMany ask. I have that look. But few have been from whence I have come.\u201d<\/p>\n
The most prominent feature of the stranger\u2019s thin, pale face were large, round eyes, black and lifeless. They appeared to mesmerize Bobbie, who kept her gaze fixed upon them as she cocked her head to one side, then the other.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou are thinking about baby names,\u201d said the salesman.<\/p>\n
\u201cYes, but how\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAh,\u201d said the stranger. \u201cSo sweet, yesssss,\u201d he hissed softly, and his words drifted like feathery puffs upon Bobbie\u2019s ears. His tiny tongue slithered in and out as he spoke, never removing his gaze from Bobbie\u2019s.<\/p>\n
\u201cThis will tell if the baby is a boy or girl,\u201d he said, handing the blender to Bobbie. \u201cJust a snip from the hair of either parent, placed inside, flip of the switch, then the counter in front will tell. One if a girl, two if a boy.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cSounds a little like Paul Revere,\u201d Bobbie said, with a slight chuckle, while still staring into the dead black eyes.<\/p>\n
\u201cPaul Revere, he is a neighbor?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou know, the midnight ride,\u201d Bobbie said, with a wave of a hand, \u201cone if by land, two if by sea. Paul Revere. Didn\u2019t you go to school? Where did you say you are from again?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cA place few here have been.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAh, someplace exotic,\u201d said Bobbie.<\/p>\n
\u201cCanada,\u201d the man said.<\/p>\n
When Rayne got home from work, Bobbie hurriedly showed him the device.<\/p>\n
\u201cI can\u2019t see how this will work,\u201d Rayne said. \u201cAnd besides, we\u2019ve been discussing a gender-neutral name, remember? We don\u2019t want to impose societal gender stereotypes on the baby, babe. I mean, we just saw the Barbie movie. This salesman guy, Bobbie, he\u2019s probably from some cult or something.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNo, no,\u201d Bobbie said, \u201che said he was from Canada.\u201d<\/p>\n
When Rayne plugged in the device, to investigate further, electrical sparks flew, smoke filled the kitchen, and the lights flickered and then went out. In the basement, Rayne switched all the breakers back and forth, but the lights did not return. He said to Bobbie, waiting for him upstairs, \u201cyou\u2019ve been duped, babe. We\u2019ll have to call your dad\u2019s friend, Howie, to fix the electrical.\u201d<\/p>\n
Howie had replaced the blown main breaker for Bobbie and Rayne, then brought the blender back to his house, where the device then blew his breakers, too, after first filling the kitchen with smoke. When the smoke cleared, Howie replaced the damaged breakers in the basement, for he always kept every imaginable repair part on hand. Then he returned to the kitchen table. He told Marsha, still sipping green tea, that he had an ingenious idea.<\/p>\n
\u201cI shall reverse the polarity!\u201d Howie said, sounding as if he had just struck gold or invented potato latkes.<\/p>\n
He handed a red wire sticking out from the blender to Marsha, while he held a black wire.<\/p>\n
\u201cHere, hold this for a moment, while I make the adjustment. Just don\u2019t touch the\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n
It was too late.<\/p>\n
The skies outside the window darkened. \u00a0The winds howled and swirled in great gusts all about the bungalow. A thick bolt of lightning cleaved in two the ancient oak tree by the side of the cannabis garden. Howie and Marsha shook violently from head to toe. They were unable to speak. Looking through the kitchen window while shaking, Howie beheld a strange, otherworldly vision. Although it made no sense to him, recounting the story for years to the butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker\u2014anyone who would listen\u2014he would say that it had looked like a black poodle, which, when it laughed, revealed a little forked tongue.<\/p>\n
Howie wasn\u2019t sure how long he and Marsha shook. It may have been a minute, or even just a moment, although Howie later told anyone who would listen that it felt like two thousand years. Then the newly installed main house breaker in the basement circuit panel blew, the flow of current to the strange blender was halted, and Howie and Marsha were released from the misery of their electrical bondage. The wires slipped onto the table from their immobile hands. The skies cleared, the howling winds ceased, and in the room, now again lit by sunlight shining in through slats of the open blinds, Howie looked at Marsha and said, \u201cwell, how about that haircut?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHowie, you need to fix the electricity first. I don\u2019t know how to, Einstein.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019ll do it as soon as I\u2019m back. Want to look nice for the funeral later.\u201d<\/p>\n
Howie rose from the kitchen table, padded to the door, opened it. He looked back at Marsha, whose just electrified hair looked akin to the happy bride in Bride of Frankenstein. He then said words he had never in his life uttered before.<\/p>\n
\u201cTa-ta,\u201d Howie said.<\/p>\n
Howie was still too weak for his motorcycle, so he drove his truck to downtown Grubsky. He parked on Main Street, just across from Hyman\u2019s. As he walked up to the front of the barbershop, he saw a sign taped to the door.<\/p>\n
\u201cClosed Until I\u2019m Open.\u201d<\/p>\n
Can you believe Hyman? As Howie stood wondering when Hyman might return, he happened to glance through the next-door window into CeCe\u2019s Salon. He remembered that Marsha said CeCe\u2019s gives men\u2019s haircuts now. But when he looked through CeCe\u2019s window, he saw something strange. A man sitting in a chair, while a pretty woman was doing something to his feet. Howie gave a little chuckle, said humph, then tried to walk back toward his car. But his feet wouldn\u2019t turn. What the hell? He lifted his right leg. That\u2019s OK. Then he tried to turn the foot. It wouldn\u2019t budge. A stroke? Maybe some weird effect from the electric shock? He tried with the left foot, but it was no better. He stepped forward with his right foot. That worked OK, too. Then forward with his left. Then his right again. A few steps more and he was at the front door of CeCe\u2019s. A woman opened the door and waved him in.<\/p>\n
\u201cI just need a haircut,\u201d Howie said to the woman. \u201cGot to go to a funeral tonight.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cSure, we can do that.\u201d<\/p>\n
The woman smiled and led him by the arm to a cushy, soft, blue leather chair. Howie plopped down heavily. The thick, cool cushions felt good against his aching back. He placed both arms on the puffy armrests. Those felt wonderful, light as air. Then the woman brought over another woman\u2014Howie noticed the place was full of them\u2014who said her name was Genevi\u00e8ve and asked what kind of style he favored.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat kind of style I favor? I dunno. Usually, Hyman has a bowl and scissors. I think it\u2019s a metal bowl.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cBut your hair is so luxurious,\u201d said the woman, as she ran slender, cool fingers through Howie\u2019s hair. She held a clump of hair on top of Howie\u2019s head in her hands and said to the woman working on the man\u2019s feet, \u201cColette, what do you think, a quiff would be sexy, no?\u201d<\/p>\n
Howie had no idea what language Genevi\u00e8ve was speaking.<\/p>\n
\u201cThat could work,\u201d said Colette, \u201cor maybe a French Crop.\u201d<\/p>\n
The only French things Howie knew were French fries and French drains, and neither seemed fitting now.<\/p>\n
\u201cWait,\u201d Howie said, \u201cI don\u2019t want you putting anything French on me.\u201d<\/p>\n
But it was too late.<\/p>\n
Genevi\u00e8ve escorted Howie over to Delphine. He sat in the hair washing chair, bent his head backwards into the sink, and gave a little giggle as the warm fizzy water tickled his scalp. Delphine then drizzled something she called Le Fluide Discipline onto Howie\u2019s head.<\/p>\n
\u201cYour hair is wonderful, Howie,\u201d Delphine said, \u201cbut if I may speak candidly, it\u2019s unruly.\u201d<\/p>\n
She rubbed and massaged and kneaded and said, \u201cthis will enable fluid movement, smoothness, and anti-frizz.\u201d<\/p>\n
With his eyes kept shut, Howie felt the soft, supple, yet commanding fingertips performing a French ballet across his scalp. The elegant, graceful movements melting away years of stress. This is so relaxing. So wonderful. Such fluidity. Such elegance. Is this why women come to the salon? Why have I spent years letting Hyman throw a bowl on my head? I\u2019ve known about French drains for a long time, but this, this is heaven!<\/p>\n
After Delphine washed Howie\u2019s hair, she escorted him back to Genevi\u00e8ve, who proceeded with the French Crop as he sat in the chair facing the wall mirror. She snipped and clipped and cropped and cut, all the while moving and messing and mussing the hair on top of his head. \u00a0She pirouetted, arabesqued, and petit-jete-dance-boutiqued around Howie like the Giselle of Grubsky. After a while, she put down the scissors and comb and spray bottle, then blow-dried Howie\u2019s hair. Finally, she picked up a mirror with a handle, held it to the back of Howie\u2019s head, and said, \u201cvoil\u00e0!\u201d<\/p>\n
Howie looked in the mirrors in front and back.<\/p>\n
\u201cThat\u2019s me? Really?\u201d<\/p>\n
Howie felt a strange new happiness. And a lightness\u2014a giddiness\u2014he had never known. What a transformation! What will Marsha say? She\u2019s never seen me like this. I\u2019ve never seen me like this. I feel like a schoolboy again. Then Howie glanced at the man whose feet were being worked on when he first arrived. Now the man was in another chair near Howie, having a manicure. Howie looked at the man\u2019s feet. They appeared to be clean, smooth, the nails rounded and a little shiny. What if Marsha sees me now and says I still have man feet?<\/p>\n
\u201cWell,\u201d said Genevi\u00e8ve, \u201cshall I escort you to the checkout counter?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThat man over there,\u201d Howie said, \u201che was having something done to his feet when I got here.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYes,\u201d said Genevi\u00e8ve, \u201ca men\u2019s pedicure.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cA men\u2019s pedicure,\u201d Howie said. \u201cFor men?\u201d<\/p>\n
Before you could say Bonaparte\u2019s your uncle, Howie was being escorted to Colette\u2019s chair. After Howie removed his boots and socks and rolled up his jeans, Colette picked up each foot, one at a time, placing it in a hot bubbling footbath. Howie\u2019s eyes rolled into the back of his head.<\/p>\n
\u201cOh, my,\u201d he murmured.<\/p>\n
After the scrubbing and the sponging, the rubbing and the rinsing, the purifying and the polishing, Howie\u2019s man feet were gone, defeated as soundly as Napol\u00e9on Bonaparte at The Battle of Waterloo.<\/p>\n
Howie had never felt this way before. Never had he been pampered, at least not since he was in Pampers.<\/p>\n
Then, something terrible happened.<\/p>\n
The parts that came after all this magnificent pampering made him wonder just how women suffer so. For after all the sweetness of the shampoos and foot rubs, came the torture. The plucking of eyebrows, the waxing of his back, the vigorous facial massage in which the masseuse pushed and pulled his face into unnatural positions unintended by God. Then Howie had a glimpse of what so many women do, while men happily clomp about the house with their ugly man feet, scraggly hair, and dingy nails. How crass I have been. How unkind! Poor Marsha, suffering with this pulling and tweezing and waxing and ripping all those years, while I let myself go. But now, now look at me. He stood from the chair, looked into the wall mirror across from him, and marveled. Now I am nice to look at. Now Marsha will find me pleasing. He gazed at the beautiful new mirror man, with his sexy French Crop, smooth feet, and shiny nails. I\u2019m rather sexy, aren\u2019t I? Rather nice to look at if I may say. Pretty me!<\/p>\n
After leaving generous tips and waving goodbye, goodbye dear friends to all those at CeCe\u2019s, Howie jumped in his truck excitedly to dash home to Marsha. She would see him looking shinier and smoother and sexier and sweeter than ever in their life together. Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps there is a God, after all. A benevolent, loving Being. A God who would give a Jew a break now and then, so late in life.<\/p>\n
Or perhaps it was the strange machine, the mysterious blender. Somehow, the reversing of the polarity, could it have changed\u2014everything? Whatever it may have been, Howie would go home, rekindle his romance with Marsha, start a new chapter of life together. And he would never again be crass or inattentive. Marsha will put on her flower dress, put her hair up in bows, and they would go to Ruben\u2019s funeral tonight. It will be a sad time, the motorcycle accident such a shock, but still, tonight he will tell Marsha how lovely she is, always was, and what a fool he had been. But not anymore! Then tomorrow their new life together will begin.<\/p>\n
Howie pushed his foot further down on the gas pedal, racing now with great speed along the little lanes and byways of Grubsky. He flew by Officer Leefman\u2019s parked patrol car, where the speed trap always was, but the officer paid no heed, perhaps mesmerized by the pretty Adonis at the wheel.<\/p>\n
At home, Howie burst through the front door. He called out for Marsha but heard no response. He walked to the kitchen, heard heavy footsteps thumping up the stairs. The thick wooden door to the basement swung open. Marsha stood at the threshold. She was wearing a dirty pair of Howie\u2019s work overalls. Her long face was smudged with soot. She held a clunky metal toolbox in her left hand, the arm of which was longer than her right.<\/p>\n
\u201cSo, Einstein\u2019s home at last,\u201d she said, not looking up at Howie. \u201cI had to fix the electrical circuits. No lights. Now all is good. If you want a job done right \u2026\u201d<\/p>\n
Howie looked at Marsha. Her shoulders were hunched. On her chin was a wispy beard. He could see by the yellow glow of the incandescent ceiling light a budding moustache sprouting across Marsha\u2019s upper lip. Howie realized what he must do. The strange machine. The reversing of the polarity. He must undo it, put things right. Then all would return to normal. He would rectify this grave error at once. He looked at the kitchen table. A fat cigar, still lit and half-smoked, rested on a glass ashtray next to Marsha\u2019s coffee mug. But the blender was not there.<\/p>\n
\u201cMarsha, where is the machine I was working on?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHah! That stupid thing. No good. I fixed the circuit panel, but that blender was a menace. I threw it in the trash. Got picked up earlier while you were at Hyman\u2019s. Good riddance!\u201d<\/p>\n
Marsha sat at the table, took a swig of cold black coffee, then a long, slow puff of the cigar. Finally, she glanced for a moment at Howie, then looked away.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou call that a haircut?\u201d<\/p>\n
At the funeral, the rabbi spoke of love and loss, of renewal and a river, of heartache and hope. Dozens of mourners, clad in dark clothes, gathered around the gravesite. Rain began to pour from gray skies. Howie looked up at the heavens and wept like a baby. Marsha patted him on his back, rolled her eyes. He\u2019s just so emotional these days.<\/p>\n
When they got home, Howie threw himself onto their bed, buried his face in his pillow, while Marsha went to the kitchen to fix the leaky pipe under the sink.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
Sometimes it\u2019s too much, just too much. Really, God, if you\u2019re up there, I just don\u2019t know what\u2019s wrong with you, sometimes. Can\u2019t you give a Jew a break?<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":182,"featured_media":23786,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[6],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-22892","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-fiction","writer-jeffrey-m-feingold"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/22892","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/182"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=22892"}],"version-history":[{"count":6,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/22892\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":23788,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/22892\/revisions\/23788"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/23786"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=22892"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=22892"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=22892"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}