Free The November Criminals by Sam Munson

And maybe I failed in my desire to protect her honor, and I often did stupid things to her myself. Witness the above little conversation. But by and large we stuck to our agreement, which was founded on those principles of honor. We had no emotional involvement. Either of us could leave at any time. Sex is natural and necessary to people our age. And in case you think that Digger or I dictated the terms unilaterally , or that it was some kind of tyrant/sycophant relationship: we came up with them together, right after the first time we fucked, which was about two years ago, this soft-aired night in June. We leaned out of her bedroom window smoking cigarettes and arranging the terms. And we’ve stuck to them ever since. I still don’t know why Noel bothered her so much, though. Especially in light of our agreement, and in light of the fact that she smokes just as much weed as I do, and it has to come from somewhere, and better it come from someone you know, right? Someone you even have an investment in? We saved the night, though. We got over my explosion of nonsense. Digger, responsibly, took the lead. She’s going to be a great woman someday. I mean a senator or whatever. She can always just read you, which is terrifying, but comes in handy for getting out of awkward situations. She knew I would just sit there, not saying anything, forever, if she took no action. So she said, with a sidelong, shy look, “I got one for you. A good one. What’s brown and hides in the attic?”
    This was the beginning of a joke about the Holocaust. Once you set aside your moral reservations about telling such jokes, another problem confronts you: what is the purpose of the Holocaust joke? It’s obscure, yeah. Ninety-seven percent of people will offer you a platitude, something on the order of, It’s a way of managing the tragedy . Oh, is it? There’s no way to manage tragedy, any more than you can manage the law of gravity. It can’t be redeemed or transfigured; it persists and persists without rest. Think of a phone book, of the text in a phone book, but it’s a list of names, and it goes on and on without end, without even the prospect of an end. And some claim it’s an expression of Jewish self-hatred. That’s at least what the psychological counselor who Ms. Arango forced me to see after my initial run-in with Alex said, in his office thick with the soul-murdering smell of paper and ink. That’s nonsense, too. Holocaust jokes are one of my central forms of expression. And only non-Jews consider me a Jew. Though that, once, could get you sent to the camps!
    No, the purpose of the Holocaust joke is identical to the purpose of the joke as a larger proposition: the infliction of cruelty on the reason-inundated mind. It’s just more naked in the case of jokes about the Holocaust. As in everything else, the fuckers responsible for our conventions of thought have mistaken a difference in degree for a difference in kind. That’s why I tell them. That’s the cause of my telling them. A sampling of my greatest hits: Why was the little Jewish boy sitting on the roof next to the chimney? He was waiting for his parents! What’s funnier than ten dead babies in one trash can? Six million Jews dead in the Holocaust! There’s no business like Shoah business! Where was the highest concentration of Jews during the Holocaust? In the atmosphere! Ketchup is just the Auschwitz of tomatoes! “My grandfather died in the Holocaust …” “Really? I’m sorry to hear that.” “Yeah, he fell off his guard tower!” What’s the difference between a ton of coal and a thousand Jews? Jews burn longer! Have you heard about the new German microwave? It’s got ten seats inside! And, of course, What’s the difference between a Jew and a loaf of bread? The joke that started it all.
    So Digger told me the joke she’d dug up. “What’s brown and hides in the attic?”
    “I don’t know! What is brown and hides in the attic?” This is the correct