During that window in time, when the Ivy League embraced Jews, Richard Goldstein grew up in New Haven, the son of prominent Yale professors.
He became a rising scholar himself, and he was invited to give an important lecture in front of the whole Yale faculty, the final test before being granted tenure alongside his parents.
On the biggest night of his life, he nervously placed his notes on the podium, and they all fell on the floor around him. And as he bent down to pick up his notes, he passed gas, explosively, and he was mortified to hear the fart amplified by the PA system at wall shaking level.
The audience gasped, and then suppressed its chuckles. Completely unnerved, Goldstein stammered through about half of his speech.
He gave up and ran off the stage, headed straight to his car, and roared off the Yale campus, never to return.
Many years later, his parents pass away, and he returns to tie up the estate. He’s sitting at a sidewalk cafe, reminiscing, when a young waiter brings his coffee.
“First time in New Haven?”
“Actually, I grew up here, but I moved away.”
“Do you visit often?”
“Not in years. Something happened, and I’ve been too embarrassed to return.”
“Well, sir, I may not have your life experience, but one thing I’ve learned is what seems embarrassing to me, most people don’t even notice, let alone remember. I bet that’s true for your incident too.”
“I suppose that’s possible, but I doubt it.”
“Was it a long time ago?”
“It’s been decades.”
“Before or after the Goldstein fart?”
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