The scene unfolds with the protagonist staring at a ragtag group of Palestinians by the side of the road hoarding rocks. It’s a mundane, almost laughable sight—rocks, piled in what seems like preparation for some undefined, imagined threat. And yet, in his own twisted, overanxious mind, the sight of these innocent boulders takes on apocalyptic significance. He reaches for his phone, his heart pounding with the ridiculous conviction that this—these rocks—might somehow unravel the entire fragile fabric of the region.
He dials the authorities, his moral outrage building with each ring. How to phrase it? “Hello, yes, I’d like to report some Palestinians… uh… gathering rocks by the road?” The words spill out and immediately sound as idiotic as they are. But he’s committed now, trapped in the moment. The person on the other end—probably some bored civil servant who’s heard far worse nonsense today—barely reacts. A long pause. “Rocks, you say?” 1 reply
0 recast
1 reaction
Now the protagonist is sweating. Rocks. Why did it have to be rocks? And suddenly, it hits him—this is what it’s come to. He can’t stop thinking about rocks. The grand, existential crisis of his people, and here he is, trying to narc on a bunch of Palestinians for playing with gravel. The absurdity of it washes over him, but he can’t back out now. He sputters something half-hearted, his voice trailing off in shame as the bureaucrat on the other end, already losing interest, asks, “Is that all?”
The scene drips with Roth’s signature mix of existential farce and biting satire. The entire geopolitical nightmare condensed into one utterly ridiculous moment where the protagonist’s neurotic need to do something—anything—collides with the sheer pointlessness of the situation. He can’t even follow through on reporting a pile of rocks. The futility, the impotence, the maddening triviality of it all—Roth at his finest. 0 reply
0 recast
1 reaction
