A few years ago I was approached by a homeless-scented man with long, curly sideburns and a pilgrim's hat as I was walking down St. Marks. A Hasidic Jew.
"Kosher food?" he asked me.
"What?" Gross.
"You are a Jew?"
"No. I'm not," I said. I am, but only culturally. I had a bat-mitzvah but only because my parents made me. I never believed.
"Yes, Jew," the Hasid said, convinced. "Please," he begged, and wiggled his index finger towards himself and leaning in, indicating that he needed to tell me a secret. I leaned in to hear it. He opened his mouth to say "Kosher food," and then grabbed me by the back of the head and forced my mouth onto his. His starchy beard hairs mashed against my face and filled my nose with sebum and tooth rot, the scent of asceticism smelling unsurprisingly like a retirement home.
"Jesus, what are you doing?" I screamed.
"Where is kosher food?" he asked, as though he hadn't just violated my body and his religion. Hasidic men aren't even allowed to shake hands with a woman, but this one was attacking me in full view on the street. The only secret he had to tell me was that he was a pervert; the horrifying result of internal religious oppression. He came toward me again.
"Get away from me," I screamed as I ran into the street, "I am not a Jew!"
That's what happens when you turn your back on god, he sends his most devout to molest you.
