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He has a long white beard and wears a yamulka and he has no teeth and one foot is already deep in the grave. If you saw Pitzela's son you would say: 'Why don't this dying man go home and sit down instead of running around like this? "And why don't he?" "Why don't he? Such a question! He don't because Pitzela don't let him. Pitzela is his father and he has to mind his father.
It was Pitzela's son's son and he was a man almost 70 years old. And it was a scandal at the funeral. Why? Because Pitzela laughed and coming back from the grave he said: 'Look at me, my grandson dies and I go to his funeral and if he had a son I would go to his, too, and I would dance jigs both times." A dark afternoon with summer thunder in the sky.
He holds him by the arm and brings him into the hall and sits him down in a chair. And Pitzela's son sits so tired and almost dead he can't move. And then Pitzela jumps up and gets excited and says: 'Look at him. A fine son, for you! Look, he's almost dead. Tell me if you wouldn't think he was my father and I was his son? Instead of the other way around? I ask you."
Pitzela's son is a man 87 years old. Ask anybody on Maxwell street do they know Pitzela's son and they will tell you: 'Do we know Pitzela's son? Hm! It's a scandal." "The editor, Feodor, forbids me to write about scandals. So be careful." "This scandal is one you can write about. This Pitzela's son is such a poor old man that he can hardly walk.
"And what does Pitzela's son say, Feodor?" "Say? What can he say? He looks up and shakes his head some more. He can hardly see. And when the banquet talking begins he falls asleep and Pitzela has to hold him up from falling out of the chair. And when the food is done and the dessert comes Pitzela leans over and says to his son: 'Listen. I got a treat for you.
"Well, the point is that Pitzela and the way he treats his son is a scandal. You know why? Because he uses his son as an advertisement. Pitzela's son, mind you, is so weak and old that he can hardly walk and he carries a heavy cane and his hands shake like leaves. And Pitzela drags him around all over. To banquets. To political meetings. To the Yiddish theater. All over.
For fifteen years you been letting it grow and now it's altogether too long. How does it look for me to go around with a son who not only can't walk, but has a beard that makes him look like Father Abraham himself?" "And what does Pitzela's son say?" "What can he say? Nothing. The doctor comes and tells him: 'You got to stay in the house. You are going out too much.
How old are you? And Pitzela's son shakes his tired head and says: 'Eighty-seven years old, doctor. And the doctor gives strict orders. But Pitzela comes in and laughs. Imagine." "Yes, it's a good story, Feodor." "A good story! How do you know? I ain't come to the point yet. But never mind, if you like it so much you don't need any point." "The point, Feodor. Excuse me."
For according to your thinking the story is already finished. Whereas according to me the story is only just beginning." "But you said it was about Pitzela, Feodor. So I believed you." "I said nothing of the sort. I merely asked you if you knew Pitzela. The story is entirely about Pitzela's son." "Aha! This Pitzela has a son. That's interesting." "Of course it is.
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