Since You Left Me

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In most situations, an amply endowed woman with an accent who wants me for something—anything, really—is a good sign, but not tonight. Not in the high school gymnasium on the night we’re having parent-professor conferences. And not when the woman shouting is the new office lady trying to tell me it’s time for my conference.

That is not a good thing. Not at all.

“Sanskrit Aaron Zuckerman,” she shouts.

That’s my name, in all its confusing glory. She says the Sanskrit part like it’s Hebrew, which is not a terrible guess given that we’re at Brentwood Jewish Academy. B-Jew for short. That’s what the students call it. The faculty does not appreciate the term.

But my name, Sanskrit, is not Hebrew. It’s an ancient Indian language.

“Sanskroo…,” she says, garbling it.

When someone is looking in my direction and choking on a word, they’re almost always trying to say my name. Or they have a piece of corned beef stuck in their throat. It’s me or a choking incident.

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