Besides, there’s some payback in the offing for some long-ago slight: “The sweetness of the revenge I am about to be subjected to,” Avishai thinks. Avishai, the narrator, has known Dov since childhood and summer camp, and he’s amazed at the amount of hurt the comedian has stowed away, the better to make jokes out of, perhaps, but enough to keep an army of psychiatrists busy. To that end, he’s invited an old friend, Avishai Lazar, a former judge, to attend. He’s on the stage, it seems, to work out some personal issues and not a little bit of existential angst. He throws out a few insults, a few jibes, and asks them, “Why are you dumbasses laughing? That joke was about you!” But he’s no Don Rickles, not Dovelah. “Looks like my agent fucked me again,” he says, and the audience laughs appreciatively. Dov Greenstein is on stage in Caesarea-Hello, is this microphone working?-or somewhere, at any rate, any of a hundred dusty Israeli towns, marking time before the spotlights in a tiny bar.
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