Ring, ring. “Hello?”
“Hyman Goldberg?”
“This is.”
“Mr. Goldberg, this is Mossad.”
“Who?
“Mossad, the Israeli secret service.”
“Uh, huh, sure it is. And why would Mossad be calling me?”
“We’re going to save your life, Hyman.”
“This is a joke, right?”
“No, it’s not, so please listen.”
“I’ll play along with your joke, Mr. Mossad. How are you going to save my life?”
“You work in the World Trade Center, right?”
“I do. What of it?”
“Don’t go to work tomorrow. We’re going to remote-control two airplanes into both towers, after which we have explosives planted in every floor, which we are going to set off so both towers collapse, killing thousands of innocent Americans. Then we’re going to blame it on Arabs, so we can get the U.S. to invade Iraq and get rid of Saddam Hussein.”
“What a crackpot you are! Do you expect anyone but a loon to believe such nonsense?”
“It’s true! You have to listen to us, Hyman! We’re warning all the 2176 Jews who work in the World Trade Center not to go to work tomorrow! We have to stick together to make sure none of us get killed!”
“What about my wife, then? She works with me.”
“Is she Jewish?”
“No, she’s Christian.”
“Oops, sorry Hyman. You can’t warn her. She has to die.”
“Hey, wait a minute! This is my wife you’re talking about!”
“We’ll get you a new Jewish wife.”
“Ugh. A Betty Friedan lookalike? I’d rather go to work tomorrow.”
“No, more like Gloria Steinem, only she won’t talk.”
“Wow! Are you serious? I let my wife croak and I get a new one who looks like Gloria Steinem? A young Gloria, not the old shriveled-up wrinkled one?”
“A young one, Hyman.”
“You got a deal! My wife bites the dust tomorrow!”
“Thanks, Hyman.”
“No, thank you, Mr. Mossad!”
“Bye, Mr. Goldberg.”
Click.
“Who was that on the phone, dear?”
“Just an old friend. Say, I won’t be going to work tomorrow. You’ll still open the office for me?”
“Yes, dear.”
“Good! I’ll have dinner waiting for you when you get home.”
“Good night, dear.”
“Good night, Gloria.”
“Gloria?’
“Myrtle! I mean, good night, Myrtle!”