Cadillac Bar Mitzvah Fraud

Greg Prince
4 min readJul 27, 2019

Putting on an act can pay off.

I was terrified. My sister and I sat in the front seat of my great-grandfather’s Cadillac. She was 10-years-old and I was 13. Today marked the day of my passage to manhood. The parking lot at Temple Isreal gave us a minute of privacy before services began.

My GG asked me to move his car into the handicapped parking spot while he used his walker to find his seat in the temple. Renee smiled and looked at me as I maneuvered into the parking spot.

“What’s wrong Greg?”

“I don’t want to be here. I don’t want this. It’s not for me. This Bar Mitzvah is for everyone else.”

I was dripping with shame.

Had I studied enough? Why didn’t I feel like I was doing anything worth value? I didn’t learn to read directly from the Torah so was I less worthy for the Bar Mitzvah honor?

Why did our Rabbi quit last week? We had an interim Rabbi I didn’t know or like when we met. I had to run the service without the Rabbi’s help. What if everybody thought the way I did things was terrible?

“You’ve worked so hard. Riding your bike to Mr. Zigler’s house for Haftorah lessons. Coming to temple all these years with GG. You deserve to show everyone what you know and have your party.”

“It’s not about me. I want to kill myself,” I said. Renee’s eyes watered and she drew back as I pulled out the 38 caliber pistol, I stole from GG, from under the front seat. I held the gun on my lap pointed at the Cadillac steering wheel.

Renee pleaded with me. “Greg we all love you. Please don’t kill yourself. I love you. We are here for you today.”

“I don’t know what to do. It’s all too much.”

“Please put the gun down,” Renee sobbed. I couldn’t bear to see her crying and did as she asked. Carefully, I replaced the gun under the seat.

“Please don’t cry, Renee. Go wash your face inside so no one will think anything is wrong. I won’t do it.” Renee wiped…

Greg Prince

Bringing real feelings along with messages of inspiration and imagination to life. Awakening is the symptom of my infectious condition. Poetry is my condition.