“You.”
Buell flinched from the hard jabs.
“You’s done got on my bad side today, ya freak.”
His lips trembled. He begged, “Mama, please.”
And she said, “I’m sorry, Robert. Mr. Wooten has just come out from behind the shower curtain. He forgot to tell me that the sheriff wanted to talk to me.”
Def. more tomorrow—
M
1 Wheeler is the Record Holder for longest beard on a living person (female).
2 Maria Gomez Valentim is the oldest living person in the world.
3 Seven.
4 “A bad penny always turns up.”
5 Faggot.
6 “Cunt eater.”
7 “Go shit in the ocean.”
DISPATCH: Waycross, Georgia
SUBJECT: Remmy Rothstein, “the Cajun Jew”
DATE: August 15, 2012
ATTEMPTED RECORD: Longest Tongue in the World (man)
WEATHER: 104 degrees with 98% humidity
ADJUDICATOR: Mindy Patel (badge #683290)
Dear Robert:
Greetings from jail! Please don’t panic—it’s just a misunderstanding about the car. Apparently, Jimmyz’ filed a bench warrant over the truck. No big deal—really! There is absolutely no stigma here about being in jail (haha, the locals say if they’re not in church, jail is where you can find them) and I’ve had many kind visitors. Until they found him in the storage closet, Mr. Wooten even kept me company. My God, that man has a lovely singing voice. I have to tell you, Robert, living in New York, you forget what a community is all about. But as to the jail thing—it’s fine. Really. Of all the Adjudicators you have to worry about, I am not one of them!
So let me continue telling you the story of what happened the other day. Two days ago! I can’t believe it’s been that long since I’ve had a shower. Honestly, now that I’ve had air-conditioning and water on a consistent basis, I’m thinking much more clearly. It just goes to show you how hardy these Swampers really are.
As I was saying, the old woman was taunting Buell. There was a level of hatred coming off her like none I had ever experienced in my life. She truly and unremorsefully seemed to despise him. I half expected her to take one of the axes off the wall and do something about it.
She said, “Today gone be the day, you don’t watchit.”
Then she put her hand on that cherrywood box. Now, macabre thoughts aside, it was a beautiful box, and probably very old (though not that1 old). The carving was incredibly ornate, and certainly you could not fit the ashes of a grown man inside the thing.
She said, “You wanna see ’em, boychik?”
Obviously, something awful was inside, because Buell had backed away the moment the old woman took the box off the mantel. I felt a little trepidation myself as she stuck her thumbnail into the catch and started to open it.
But then there was a clatter outside, feet shuffling across boards. I looked out the front door and there stood on the front porch the ugliest man I have ever seen. I know that the internal debate over whether to certify ugliness has been going on in the Assessors’ Office for years, but one look at this man would tell you there is not an uglier creature walking the face of the earth.
So ugly was this man that even now I cannot find the words to describe him. Was he unclean? Remarkably so. Was he hideous? Without a doubt. Was he hairy? Yes—but only to a point.
His face was remarkably clean-shaven, not even showing a trace of a beard. In fact, the hairline was almost completely receded, though his dirty, kinky braid ran from the back of his head to his waist. Shirtless, he presented a bare chest. His back, on the other hand, showed a carpet of hair that glistened with sweat. Tendrils poked up from the waist of his pants, a trail of fur touching the center of his belly button and shooting out like rays from the sun. His legs were hairy. His arms were hairy. His ears were hairy. My fingers itched to grab my ruler, my camera, my notebook. Justin Shaw,2 Anthony Victor,3 Toshie Kawakami4—for the love of God, Douglas Williams!5—why was this man bothering with his tongue? He was magnificently hirsute, a textbook study in localized hypertrichosis!
But his face. My God, his face. Everyone knows that symmetry equates with beauty—a certain distance between the eyes, a straight, perfectly aligned nose, a pair of sculptured lips: these are the gifts that God gives beautiful people.
God gave this man nothing.
His nose was squarely out of joint, zigging and zagging down his shovel of a face. His eyes were too far apart on his head, giving him the look of a perplexed minnow. And his mouth. It was as if the awfulness had drained down, settling into his lips, giving them the twisted, wet look of two broken hot dogs resting atop the dirty bun of his cleft chin.
The old woman beamed at him as if he were a god. “Dis my Remmy,” she said, chest puffed out, hands proudly tucked into her hips.
Remmy seemed embarrassed by his mother’s obvious affection. “Afternoon, cher,” he told me, extending a long-fingered hand my way.
Har, I thought. Buell said not to say anything about his har.
I forced myself to shake Remmy’s hand, to ignore the soft feel of hair on his palms, the feral odor coming off his hairy body. Robert, have I ever told you about the time my father took us camping? We left soon after setting up the tent because there was a bear in the area. We never saw the creature, but we could smell him—rotted meat, sweat, and dirty feet all rolled into a motley scent that made his presence known for miles.
That bear had nothing on Remmy Rothstein.
And with them both, I should’ve seen it coming.
1 The Box of Hadrittah, unearthed in 1848, is believed to be the oldest wooden box in the world.
2 Longest arm hair measured.
3 Longest ear hair measured.
4 Longest eyebrow hair measured.
5 Longest nipple hair (male) measured.
DISPATCH: Atlanta Penitentiary, Georgia
SUBJECT: Remmy Rothstein, “the Cajun Jew”
DATE: August 16, 2012
ATTEMPTED RECORD: Longest Tongue in the World (man)
WEATHER: 106 degrees with 100% humidity
ADJUDICATOR: Mindy Patel (badge #683290)
Dear Robert:
Sorry for the abrupt ending to yesterday’s email. There was a bit of a riot. I say a bit because it was only four of us, but you’d better believe that shiv came in handy. Lord, those country girls are strong!
Back to Remmy.
For all his unnatural odor, there was something sweet about Remmy Rothstein. Was it his eyes, which were dark and piercing, like staring into the muzzle of a Glock 19? Being honest, the touch of his hand sent a cha-chunk into my heart, and I swear it was like a shotgun being pumped. (Sorry for all the gun metaphors; this is how you talk in prison. Did I mention we’re in prison now? The jail burned down.) Robert, I just have to tell you, if you didn’t look at Remmy’s face, or feel the prickly hair jutting out from his eyebrows, you’d swear to God he was George Clooney.
And the mouth on him! No, I’m not talking about the silky, soft hair on his tongue (though we’ll get to that later). He was the sweetest talker I’ve ever met in my life. He said I was beautiful. He said I was dainty. He said those moles on my ass look like the face of God. God, Robert! Not balloon animals (though I understand given our Adjudication that day why balloon animals were on your mind).
Was it all true? Am I beautiful? Am I dainty? Who knows? Let’s just say Remmy Rothstein made good use of his 57,7821 times.
But I was not there to fall in love. I was there to Adjudicate a World Record, so I set about telling Mr. Rothstein the procedures for verifying his claim. He told me he understood the process, and we agreed that we would proceed. The proper paperwork was signed (attached) and both Buell and his mother acted as witness.
While he went down to the water to shave his tongue, I used an alcohol wipe to clean the two metal rulers, as well as the measuring tape. I put these all out on a cloth napkin, as instructed in th
e Manual of Adjudicator Conduct (rev.), then tested the batteries in my camera and video recorder.
Mind you, we had to do all this outside in the daylight, but that was fine. I was beginning to enjoy the outdoors by now, and such was the sweat on my skin that the mosquitoes could no longer find purchase. Lemons/lemonade!
Rebekkah joined me outside the cabin, the box in her hand. (Did I mention the old woman’s name is Rebekkah? Thankfully, she’s my cellmate. All those years on the three-legged stool have given her thighs of steel. Combine that with the beard and there is no end to what the ladies will do for her. I haven’t had to wash my own laundry since I got here!)
Rebekkah stood by quietly, her eyes nervously going from me to Buell and back again. He leaned against the shack as he strapped back on his badminton racket, giving her equally beady looks. I kept hearing her earlier warning that he had gotten on her bad side today, but worrying about these two wasn’t in my job description, so I let it go.
Big mistake.
By the time I had tested everything and taken out a fresh pen to write in my notebook, Remmy was back. The sun was peering behind him, and I could see the wifty loops of hair off his shoulders. He rubbed his hands together as he approached. Up close, I recognized the features from the photos he sent in to the Assessors’ Office. The round, red lips. The gouge of the philtrum between his nose and mouth.
Buell hobbled over, unsteady on the peat. Rebekkah stood beside me.
I said, “All right, Mr. Rothstein. Show me your tongue.”
Fuck me. Another riot. More later.
(attachment: Rothstein-Remmy.zip)
1 The average person tells 57,782 lies in his or her lifetime.
DISPATCH: Atlanta Penitentiary, Georgia
SUBJECT: Remmy Rothstein, “the Cajun Jew”
DATE: August 18, 2012
ATTEMPTED RECORD: Longest Tongue in the World (man)
WEATHER: HOT
ADJUDICATOR: Mindy Patel (inmate #4290-6632)
Dear Robert:
I can’t say I was happy to see Rebekkah taken out of my cell. She’s become quite a confidante over the last few days. Thankfully, it was after Shabbat. Did I tell you she’s been teaching me the Kiddush? Anyway, it’s only a week in solitary. I’m sure it’ll go by fast.
As you now know from the attachment in my previous email, Mr. Rothstein’s tongue was nowhere near the 3.9″ needed to meet the standard for World’s Longest Tongue. In fact, even the width was barely more than the 2.1″ average. I couldn’t fucking believe it. Three days in that hellhole of a swamp! Four nights of being shocked out of my sleep by some pervy freak leaning over my bed. Days of nonstop sweating. Untold numbers of peanuts shoved up my tailpipe and the fucker had lied the entire time.
I’m sorry for my language, Robert, but prison makes you hard.
And, I have to say, I let Remmy’s lies get to me. I know Potential World Record Holders lie all the time. I know they fake photos and try to get one over on us. I know it’s the Adjudicator’s job to just simply say, “Thank you for trying,” as they head out of town, but I screamed the biggest “WHAT THE FUCK?” ever heard in that swamp. We’re talking Silbo Gomero1 loud. I’m surprised you didn’t hear it all the way up in New York (though I’m sure you were busy watching Diane Sawyer interview Kaitlyn about the Most Dogs in Fancy Dress2 record. Really, Ms. Sawyer? You came out of retirement for a bunch of tuxedoed schnauzers?).
But—Remmy. Poor Remmy of the average tongue. He was crestfallen, though surely he knew when he Photoshopped those pictures that there was no way his tongue was long enough. Did he think we’d just give it to him? Did he think that a record as important as the Longest Tongue in the World was something we would just rubber-stamp through the Assessors’ Office? There are standards and practices. There are ethics. What was I supposed to do—give him the second-longest tongue? There’s a girl in California3 who might have a word or two to say about that!
I remember my first day of Adjudicator Academy, when we were told that our integrity was on the line every day, that people depended on us to report the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. We’re certifying World Records! We’re telling one individual that he or she, above anyone else, is the best, the brightest, the gnarliest, the most pierced, the fattest, the oldest, the fartiest, the most reckless—of any other human being in the world. Our motto isn’t just on our badges; it’s written on our hearts. This is what the Adjudicator takes on the road with him or her every single day: “For every record you give someone, there’s another person who loses a record.” Could I take away what might be Ms. Tapper’s biggest claim to fame for the sake of a downtrodden Cajun Jew living in a South Georgia swamp?
Could I do that? COULD I?!?!
No, really—I’m asking, because he keeps calling me every day.
1 Under ideal conditions, this whistled language is intelligible up to five miles away.
2 426 dogs assembled in Dunedin, Florida.
3 Chanel Tapper holds the record for the longest tongue in the world (female).
DISPATCH: Atlanta Penitentiary, Georgia
SUBJECT: Remmy Rothstein, “the Cajun Jew”
DATE: August 19, 2012
ATTEMPTED RECORD: Longest Tongue in the World (man) DENIED
WEATHER: Look at the date. Look at the location. WTF do you think?
ADJUDICATOR: Mindy Patel (inmate #4290-6632)
Dear Robert:
Sorry. Lights out really does mean lights out here, and my lawyer says after the stabbing (long story) I need to be on my best behavior.
Re: our last—
I know what you’re thinking. It’s not the tongue, stupid. It’s the integrity of the organization. It’s honoring the Adjudicators before me, the ones after me. It’s about the truth.
I believe this. I really do. Which is why I had to be honest with Remmy standing there in that swamp.
“It’s not long enough.”
That’s all I said. It was like watching the air leave a balloon. His shoulders slumped. His head dropped. Even the hair on his arms lost some of its bouffantness. I have seen many a grown man cry, but never have I seen one so broken. My heart felt as if it was crumbling in my chest. I could practically feel his desolation, his loneliness. What did this man have other than his awful mother and freakish older brother? Sure, he was her pride and joy, but that’s like being Hitler’s favorite dog. At the end of the day, what does it really mean? What lasting impression has Remmy Rothstein left on the world other than the strands of hair he leaves in his wake?
I looked at Buell. I could tell he was thinking what I was thinking. He shook his head, but I couldn’t heed his warning. Tentatively, I asked, “Mr. Rothstein, is there another record you might be interested in?”
Remmy was too devastated to understand the question. His voice cracked as he said, “No, cher. I got nothin’.”
Was there ever a bigger elephant in the room?
I looked at Buell again, thinking surely he would call attention to the fact that Remmy’s back looked like a wall in Elvis’s music room. Then I looked at Rebekkah, but she only sneered at me in the threatening way she’d sneered at Buell.
And I know what you’re thinking—a good Adjudicator finds a Record no matter what—but you tell me this, Robert Putrovnik: how do you say to a guy, “No, your tongue isn’t long enough, but Jesus Christ, let me smack a ruler against that nipple hair”? I was really at a loss standing there on that peat mound. There’s nothing in the Adjudicator’s Manual of Conduct on the Road (rev. or otherwise) that tells you how to politely suggest that there might be another record to be had.
Because no one seemed to be even close to suggesting that 93% of Remmy Rothstein’s body is covered with hair.
So I said what I could, which was, “I’m so sorry, Mr. Rothstein. Perhaps another time.”
Rebekkah hissed at me. I’m not going to lie—she’s kind of scary when she wants to be, and those thighs could strangle a python (trust me; if there was more
time I’d tell you that story).
Buell was the only one who didn’t seem bothered by this. As I said, he’d been silent at first, but maybe it took some time for him to process exactly what had happened. Remmy had lost. He’d lost big. And something told me that Buell saw Remmy’s loss as his own gain.
A huge grin spread across Buell’s face as this realization dawned. He spat on the ground and said, clear as a bell, “Shyster.”
Now, I told you Rebekkah was old, but that doesn’t mean she wasn’t fast.
She said, “That’s it,” and grabbed an ax off the woodpile.
She bolted after Buell so quickly I could barely process what was happening. Buell saw it coming before I did. He took off, pegging his way across the peat, dropping into the shallow water like a lemming, then popping back up on another mound of peat. Rebekkah kept up fairly easily, dodging the sticks and mounds of dirt he threw back at her. I stood there speechless as I watched her catch up with him. She grabbed him by the back of the shirt and rolled him into the water like a hungry gator.
They both disappeared under the churning water. The last I saw of Buell was his stump sticking up in the air. It really was a stool leg. Some duct tape was still attached to the end. It waved like a flag in the wind.
DISPATCH: Atlanta Penitentiary, Georgia
SUBJECT: Remmy Rothstein, “the Machine”
DATE: August 20, 2012
Three Twisted Stories: Go Deep, Necessary Women, Remmy Rothstein Toes the Line Page 11