Are the Goyim Humans?

Why are there so many Indians here? She was looking at her Analyst, Aniruth. 5’3”, bald, and at least 250 lbs. None of this ugliness came to Ingrid’s mind at this moment; rather, it was the pigmented acne scars on his cheeks. Bulbous black rocks in a treacherous brown sea. She thought her company was vain, but looking at him, she figured it was only vain for women.

It wasn’t her choice to hire him; he didn’t even technically report to her. She needed to make Manager to get direct reports, and she was still a Consultant. It was her boss, Dave, who made the hire. Dave had “consulted” her throughout the hiring process, but really made his own decisions along the way. He, for a reason Ingrid still didn’t understand, fell in love with Aniruth, or Aniruth’s resume at least. In the interviews, he was just some awkward kid with a funny accent.

He probably was the most qualified candidate. Ingrid admitted, but she was still surprised that Dave took Indian credentials seriously. Moreso, she was surprised that Dave would choose to see that every day.

It wasn’t his fault. Had Aniruth just been another Indian assigned to work with her, she would’ve had little issue with it. It was whose shoes he was coming to fill. Ingrid thought of her mournful black eyes, how her old-fashioned floral blouses made her endearingly out of touch. When she was gone, Ingrid could at least ache in her absence. Now that Aniruth’s fat ass filled her seat, opening up his Chicken Vindaloo where she had opened Shopska Salad, she felt not only that her world was lost, but that it had been cheaply plastered over.

She remembered the times she embarrassed Dave at meetings for mispronouncing Sofia’s last name. “It’s Dimitrova, Dave. Just think of your favorite hockey player, you can say his name.”

She would never do that for Aniruth’s last name, no matter how much Dave butchered it. “Kubblesalmon”, “Kuppsy”, and “ Younger Sheldon” were a few variations. Ingrid knew it was Kuppusamy, but sometimes would even say it wrong just to spite Aniruth. She wasn’t sure he noticed, though, as he always remained as eager as ever to make slides for her. It’s a shame he can do his job. Ingrid thought of Sofia’s mediocre work and how she would often correct it herself, rather than make Sofia feel inadequate. It’s all bullshit anyway. Why does it matter?

Ingrid pretended not to care, but she really did hope to get stellar performance reviews, and secretly envied her colleagues who were making manager, sometimes director, while she floundered under Dave. She resented him now, even more than usual. If she were in his position, she would’ve done everything in her power to keep Sofia, even after she put in her 2 weeks. She had ever the endearing reason; she said she missed her family in Bulgaria. Had Ingrid been Dave, she would’ve offered a more generous PTO plan or approved bogus life-event claims. Instead, she had to watch the one joy in her work life depart without anything she could do about it.

Ingrid mourned Sofia’s departure every day after she left, but today it hit especially hard. She didn’t even want to talk or think about Aniruth today, but he imposed himself on her regardless, asking for a critique on the deck he was making for their presentation on how to increase revenue (jack up prices) and decrease expenditures (fire people) for some Telecommunications company (She had made an effort to avoid defense contractors and energy conglomerates, as if that mattered). She didn’t want to think, so she said it was fine (which she was sure it was), but then he went on and on about how he had used a Python script to automate the flow of data from the source to the Excel file. She didn’t give him the courtesy of pretending to care this time, and she regretted pretending to care about his last gimmick.

She looked at Clara’s contact number periodically during the day, but nothing would come. She’s holding out on me, I know it. As the day went on, Ingrid’s guilt for abandoning Clara turned to anger. You’re a grown woman, who cares if you’re left outside? Ingrid had never been a godly or even spiritual woman, but began to contemplate whether desecrating her bed, which was at this point more Clara’s bed than hers, with Malik’s grimy nut had caused some sort of rift between them. Ingrid contemplated reaching out to Clara first, but shrank at the idea of apologizing to her. She nearly killed a man. I left her at a store. She’s not the victim here. Yes, that man was Malik, but everyone has some value, even the wretched like him or the hysterical like Clara.

***

Ingrid hoped to spend the afternoon in a prolonged everything bath. She had even sorted out her facemask and serums in the morning. But instead, she got a text from her cousin about some distant relative’s death. Thankfully, she missed the funeral, but there was still a goyisch “Remembrance of Life” event that she was invited to. She didn’t want to go, but she also didn’t want the “You know what people are saying about you?” earful from her father. She figured the event would only last a few hours, whereas her father’s pestering would last a lifetime, so she chose the event.

They, of course, cheaped out on the venue. The attendees had a net worth of nearly a billion, but they were all crammed in the “ballroom” of Leonard’s Deli, in a strip mall between a Chuck E Cheese and a Chipotle. At least Leonard had brought out the polyester table sheets, the only sign of formality here, apart from the attendees’ outfits. Ingrid was underdressed, but not so underdressed that “Sorry, I just got out of work” wouldn’t work as an excuse. She didn’t care much anyhow; it was really just a matter of staying there long enough that people wouldn’t “say things”.

Ingrid did what she was supposed to do: she cordially shook hands with everyone she vaguely knew and some she pretended to know, then settled in with the designated young professionals group. Then came the two usual questions, “What do you do?” and “Where do you live?”. Ingrid resented the shallowness of these questions, but secretly did care, and with an only half-reluctant smile described her prestigious career and apartment. Once she said her piece, she zoned out with the static of fake conversations about “how convenient” (how high-status) their neighborhoods were.

She would’ve ridden through the rest of the night without listening, but as the Convenience Store Champagne flowed, the discourse became more excited, and a few who would’ve otherwise been quiet made their entrances. It was Cousin Noah who got her attention —some finance guy in New York. A mediocre person who settled into exactly the life his upbringing would’ve suggested. That is, except for one thing, he had taken a shiksa for his girlfriend. This was merely a curiosity in his Reform family, but he seemed to think he was a trailblazer for doing it. Ingrid hadn’t thought of why he had come up from New York for the death of a distant relative, and now figured he was bringing her everywhere to playact a triumphant Romeo.

His girlfriend wasn’t attractive, but Ingrid could see why a man would think she was. She had big boobs and a learned or natural (it didn’t really make a difference) incompetence around men. She mostly hid behind Noah for the whole night, which of course flattered him, but on a few drinks, she became the dominant presence at the table. Ingrid had guessed she was a New York Social Climber, and that Noah’s Jewishness was part of the reason for her relationship with him. In that city, every goy thinks there’s a Jew within them. Ingrid really only had to wait for the “I’m spiritually Jewish”. When it came, Ingrid decided to humor her, knowing she was tipsy enough not to crumble under the scrutiny of a real chosen (or at least chosen enough).

“So what about you is Jewish, Emily?” Ingrid half-seriously asked. She anticipated Emily saying ‘I’m really neurotic’. Goys love that descriptor, as if Jews are the only people who get anxious or obnoxious. Emily, like all goys, disappointed. Even with such meager expectations. She murmured for a good 5 seconds. Ingrid thought of telling her, “Come on, just describe Larry David from Curb”. Then she finally landed on what everyone knew she was going to say.

“I’m really neurotic.”

Ingrid let her off the hook with “Same” and then went back to looking at her phone. She scrolled through her text messages, again being disappointed by Clara’s absence. Maybe she really didn’t care about me, she thought. She then decided to read some of her other messages. Her nephew’s thank you note, which his mom made him right for her recommendation letter for college, her friend thanking her for lending her hairdryer to her, and the most recent was a paragraph from Reeves she hadn’t bothered to read. She was sure it was some masturbatory interpretation of “The 18th Brumaire of Louis Bonaparte” or something of the sort. But either way, it couldn’t be worse than this “Celebration of Life”.

My Dear Friend Ingrid.

She marked that as odd. Reeves usually just started his texts mid-rant

You know I have always held you in the highest esteem. It is to you I come for counsel more than anyone else. It has come to my attention that you have abandoned one of your dear friends-

Ingrid knew after that. And smiled so smugly that even the deepest recesses of Goebbels' subconscious couldn’t come up with an image so anti-semitic as her face. Only Ingrid knew of Clara’s tendency to project images on people. Whereas everyone else (correctly) saw Reeves as a washed-up and somewhat sleazy academic. Clara had made a noble, almost puritan patriarch, with writing style and all. As frustrated as she was with Clara, she still found it adorable. Still, she knew to cut the bullshit, just screenshotted the message and sent it to Clara with the caption.

“Did you give Reeves’s phone back to him yet?”

Some uncle, about mid-40s, perhaps interpreting her happiness as a response to Emily’s increasing incoherence as she kept drinking, said:

“You want to hear a joke?”

Ingrid was in a good enough mood to humor him

“Goyim are people too.”

Ingrid let out a chuckle and then joined the uncle in a raucous fit of laughter.