When I was at the University of Missouri for an ill-fated attempt at finishing college, I bought a Honda 50 motorcycle. It was key-started, cute, red, reliable, and could go up to forty-five miles an hour downhill with a tailwind.

When I left the University of Missouri, I brought my Honda 50 home. My brother Mikey bought it, and my father fell in love with it. My father was about fifty-six years old at the time, and had gotten into a pattern of being available for sunset services at Beth El Temple whenever he got the call for an extra man.

In the Jewish religion, prayer services can’t be held unless there are at least ten men present. All ten make up a “minyan”, and that Honda 50 motorcycle made Samuel Reuben the envy of all the old guys who, along with my father, made up the minyan.

By in large, these were rich old guys who lived on Chicago’s North Shore…old guys with butlers…old guys who lived in Frank Lloyd Wright houses or in mansions overlooking Lake Michigan… little old Jewish millionaires standing outside the small sanctuary of the Beth El Temple, gazing wistfully at Sam Reuben, who was not rich, who wore cuffed brown pants long after cuffs went out of style and an odd-looking knit and suede jacket that had never been in style.