I WOKE UP at about midday. My head was still heavy from the drinking and some vaguely remembered sexual activity of the previous night (with whom I was also unclear about; my memory seemed to have dissolved in the vodka). My left eye was watering. I tried to open it, but the eyelashes were stuck together and I had to mop the pus out. I rinsed my eye with lukewarm water, but to no effect. The world still appeared blurry. Now this was a problem. While I earned my living as a journalist, I was also working towards a solo exhibition of my photography. I would call it Views of Tel Aviv, but really my focus was on women. Beautiful women. The streets of Tel Aviv were lousy with them and, for spontaneous effect and to avoid trouble, I photographed them without their noticing, taking long-distance shots using a special lens that cost me a fortune.
The phone rang. ‘What’s up, Jonathan?!’ It was Surasky the Creep. We worked together in a small yet well-regarded magazine, Non-Stop City. We had started there around the same time, six years before, but he was the editor’s pet and his position was way more senior than mine. In fact, the positions of all Non-Stop City employees, including the cleaning lady, were more senior than mine. I had still been a freelancer until three months ago, when Igal Sobol, the editor, had finally granted me a very part-time position. ‘So that you’ll stop nagging me,’ was exactly how he had expressed himself when he had appointed me assistant to the magazine’s food and wine writer. My job was to write the weekly column that reported on industry-based gossip. I even started receiving invitations to restaurant openings and media releases addressed in my name. I would arrive at the office and the receptionist would say: ‘Jonathan, I’ve got some mail for you.’ Mail for you… What wonderful words!
Read the full story by Lee Kofman at Griffith Review.