by Simon Rich
“Great,” I said, clapping sarcastically. “That’s one. Nineteen to go.”
“You’re such an asshole,” she said.
I bowed my head. “If an asshole is one who unmasketh the truth, then verily I am an asshole.”
“I can’t believe I ever felt sorry for you,” she said. “I thought you were a sad, pathetic loser. But you’re worse than that. You’re arrogant, you’re cruel…You know what you are? You’re the opposite of Jesus. You’re the exact fucking opposite of Jesus.”
She stared at me with rage, her nostrils flaring, her jaw clenched tight. It was painful to feel her hatred, but I didn’t look away. I knew I was running out of time to see her face.
“Goodbye,” she said. She started to walk down the mountain.
“Don’t forget your fancy crates!” I shouted. “You wouldn’t want to forget about your fancy, rich-girl crates!”
She didn’t respond. It occurred to me, as she descended out of earshot, that it had not been a great last thing to say to her.
I stood on a rock and watched her until she disappeared below the tree line. I thought about the warmth of her embrace and how I would never experience anything like it again, and I started to feel a sensation in my chest that took me by surprise, because I didn’t think it was possible, at this point in my life, to feel a new kind of pain.
I followed Fabiola’s footprints down the mountain, but halfway down, I realized I’d gone off track. The steps had gone from small and dainty to large and oafish. I was nearing a stream when I heard a familiar groan.
It was Mordecai. He was lying by the water’s edge, weeping into his hands. When I called his name, he roughly wiped his face and forced a neutral expression.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“Of course,” he said. “I’m great.” He looked past me. “Where’s the girl?”
“Gone forever.”
He burst into tears, curled his limbs into a ball, and writhed around naked in the dirt. It occurred to me that I was not the only person suffering.
“I can’t take it anymore!” he cried. “I need to unburden myself!” He took a few deep breaths and looked into my eyes. “This may shock you,” he said, “but I kind of had a thing for Fabiola.”
“Whoa!” I said, faking surprise the best I could. “Really? You mean that girl we just walked up the mountain with?”
He sobbed into his palms. “Yes!” he said, his voice muffled by his fingers. “The whole journey up, I was trying to impress her, and I just ended up making a fool out of myself!”
He turned away from me and wept. I could see his ribs pulsing through the thin skin of his back. He looked like a wounded animal. I sat down beside him and patted his cold, damp flesh.
“You’re being too hard on yourself,” I said. “You didn’t do anything that embarrassing.”
“What about when I drank your piss and ran into the woods?”
I flicked my wrist. “That was fine.”
He looked up at me, his eyes as wide as a child’s. “Really? It wasn’t weird?”
“It was cool,” I said. “It was badass.”
He scrunched up his face, like someone preparing to receive a mighty blow. “Did she say anything about me?”
I knew, of course, that lying was a sin. But I decided to make an exception.
“She said you ruled,” I said.
His eyes lit up. “Really?” he said. “Like, she used those exact words?”
“Yep,” I said. “She told me, ‘If he wasn’t a monk, I’d be into him.’”
He collapsed onto the ground and let out a high-pitched laugh. “Yes!” he shouted. “Yes!”
A flock of birds in a nearby tree flew frantically into the sky. Their fear made sense: animals in our part of the desert were unused to cries of human joy.
“What else did she say about me?” he asked as I pulled him up to his feet.
“Let’s head back to camp,” I said. “I’ll tell you all about it.”
The five urns of “forgotten” grain were waiting for us at the bottom of the mountain, neatly stacked inside a wooden wheelbarrow. When Mordecai saw them, he shot me a pleading look. “Can I eat a few bites before you pee in it?”
“Don’t worry,” I told him. “I decided I’m going to stop doing that.”
He embraced me.
By the time we got the grain back to camp, our fellow monks had grown too weak to move. Dominic was lying in the sand, staring up at the sky, too tired to shield his eyeballs from the sun. I grabbed a handful of oats and slowly fed them to him, making sure the flakes didn’t get caught in his beard.
“Thank you,” he said with relief. “You have saved me.”
I smiled proudly.
“Okay,” he said, rising slowly to his feet. “Now let’s cut off those hands.”
He grabbed a blade and lifted it high over his head.
“On three?” he suggested.
“Wait,” I said. “This isn’t a good time.”
“Why not?”
I gestured at the other hungry monks. “I gotta feed them too.”
I still intend to cut off both my hands. But right now, the truth is that I am unable to spare them. This week I’m using both to build tents for the elders. And next week, for Christmas, I’m going to surprise my fellow monks by sewing them some comfortable new clothes that cover up their entire penises, as opposed to just the holes. I have grain urns to mold and wells to dig. It seems like whenever I’m finishing a project, another one occurs to me. And sometimes, when I’m working, I think that maybe this is why God gave us hands. Maybe it wasn’t to pleasure ourselves or to maim ourselves. Maybe our hands aren’t for ourselves at all.
New Client
Albie Katz, founder and CEO of Bright Stars Talent, was great at signing actors. Unfortunately, he was less great at providing them with actual careers. The “brightest star” he’d ever managed was a dancing chimpanzee named Mr. Mo, and he hadn’t worked much since the formation of PETA. The humans Albie signed hadn’t fared much better. One hardworking man eked out a living as an ass double. The best the rest could hope for was to play a murdered corpse on CSI. Albie knew he was a hack. And he would have quit years ago if it hadn’t been for his wife, Rose.
Albie had proposed to her when they were still in high school, vowing to take care of her until the day she died. It was one of the few promises he’d kept, and he was determined not to break it. He couldn’t afford full-time nursing care, but he still earned enough from his roster of corpses and asses to keep her well fed and content. She couldn’t drink wine anymore, since it interfered with all her medicines, but he’d found a nonalcoholic brand at the Rite Aid, and every day he served her glass after glass on a silver-plated tray. She didn’t talk much, but when he stooped down to kiss her, she closed her eyes and beamed, just like she had on their first date.
Albie had just tucked her in for her afternoon nap when he heard someone knocking on the door. It started as an eager tap but quickly intensified into a menacing thump. He didn’t bother peeking through the peephole. He was eighty-one years old with stage-four emphysema. Who else could it be?
Death was taller than he expected, about eight foot six if you included his pointy hood.
“ARE YOU ALBIE KATZ?” he intoned in an unsettling baritone.
“Probably no use denying it,” Albie said. “Come on in.”
Death followed him into the bungalow, stooping to get under the doorframe.
“Can I get you a drink?” Albie asked.
“NO,” Death said.
“You sure?” Albie grabbed a bottle of Rose’s Rite Aid wine. “This is a great vintage—a grand cru from France. Happy to open it.”
Death held up an hourglass. “SILENCE, MORTAL! YOUR TIME HAS COME!”
“Got it,” Albie said. “Let me just say goodbye to Rose.”
He stepped into the bedroom and looked down at his snoring wife. He was about to kiss her forehead when an idea occurred to him. It was a long sh
ot, sure, but what did he have to lose? He reached into the closet and found his best blazer, the good-luck sharkskin he always wore to meetings. Then he cracked his neck and strolled back into the living room.
“Huh,” he mumbled.
Death glared at Albie, his red eyes burning like a pair of embers.
“WHAT?”
“Oh, nothing,” Albie said, flicking his wrist. “You probably wouldn’t be interested.”
“WHAT IS IT, MORTAL?” growled the reaper. “TELL ME.”
“Well, I’m a talent scout,” Albie said. “I represent actors—features and TV mostly.”
He took out a business card and offered it up to Death. The reaper turned it over in his giant, bony hand.
“Anyway,” Albie continued, “I guess I was just curious if you’d ever considered performing.”
“HA-HA,” Death said sarcastically.
“I’m serious,” Albie said. “There’s something about you. You’ve got a certain quality. A presence.”
“THAT’S RIDICULOUS,” Death said. “I’M NOT AN ACTOR.”
“You’ve never even thought about it?”
“NO.”
“Really?” Albie said. “I find that hard to believe. You’re telling me you’ve never once performed in your entire life?”
Death was silent for a moment. His eyes were still burning but with slightly less intensity than before.
“I MEAN, I DID A LITTLE THEATER BACK IN HIGH SCHOOL,” he said. “BUT THAT WAS A REALLY LONG TIME AGO.”
“What kind of theater?”
“IT DOESN’T MATTER,” Death said. “IT WAS A LONG TIME AGO. IT WAS STUPID.”
“Come on,” Albie begged. “I’m curious.”
Death shrugged his knobby shoulders. “I GUESS THE ONE THING I DID THAT DIDN’T TOTALLY SUCK WAS THIS PRODUCTION OF MACBETH.”
Albie raised his bushy eyebrows. “Whoa, you did Shakespeare? What part did you play?”
Death toed the carpet. “WELL, ACTUALLY,” he said, “IF YOU MUST KNOW, I PLAYED THE PART OF MACBETH.”
Albie whacked Death in the robe. “Seriously? The lead?”
Death waved his bony hands in the air. “IT’S NO BIG DEAL,” he said. “IT’S MOSTLY JUST BECAUSE NO ONE ELSE WANTED TO DO IT.”
Albie smirked. “No one?”
“WELL, I BEAT OUT A COUPLE OF GUYS,” Death allowed. “BUT THEY WEREN’T VERY GOOD.” His voice lowered. “I MEAN, ONE GUY WAS PRETTY GOOD, AND HE’D DONE A LOT OF PLAYS BEFORE, AND IT WAS MY FIRST TIME AUDITIONING, AND I GOT IT OVER HIM. SO, YOU KNOW, THAT WAS COOL.” He shrugged again. “BUT LIKE I SAID, IT WAS A LONG TIME AGO.”
“Sounds like you were pretty good.”
“I MEAN, I WAS ALL RIGHT,” Death said. “LIKE, AFTER THAT PLAY PEOPLE WERE DEFINITELY LIKE, ‘YOU SHOULD PURSUE THAT.’ LIKE, IF YOU LOOK AT MY YEARBOOK, IT’S ALL ‘SEE YOU ON BROADWAY!’—STUFF LIKE THAT. BUT WHAT DID THEY KNOW? IT WAS A LONG TIME AGO. IT WAS STUPID.”
“Listen,” Albie said. “There’s this script making the rounds right now, this Scorsese thing. He’s looking for an actor who’s over eight feet tall, with a baritone voice, eyes that burn, not too experienced. I know you’ve got a full-time job, but I’m sure he’d be grateful if you would at least go and meet with him.”
A smile flashed across Death’s face, which he quickly suppressed. “I MEAN, I GUESS IT MIGHT BE INTERESTING TO MEET WITH HIM,” he said. “JUST SO I COULD HAVE, LIKE, A FUNNY STORY. YOU KNOW, AS A GOOF.”
Albie nodded.
“I’M NOT EVEN SURE I’D EVEN WANT TO DO IT,” Death stressed. “LIKE, EVEN IF HE WANTED TO CAST ME IN A MOVIE, IT’S NOT LIKE IT’S MY BIG DREAM TO BECOME SOME ACTOR.”
“Of course not,” Albie said.
“I MEAN, I DON’T MEAN ANY OFFENSE TO ACTORS,” Death clarified. “IT JUST SEEMS LIKE A KIND OF SILLY LIFE!”
“It’s completely silly,” Albie confirmed. “Always being hounded by the press. People asking for autographs, trying to be your buddy.”
“YEAH!” Death said. “YEAH. STILL, IT MIGHT BE FUN JUST TO MEET WITH SCORSESE. AS A GOOF, YOU KNOW? JUST AS A FUN, STUPID GOOF.”
“Right!” Albie said. “As a goof!” He gestured at the empty hourglass. “Of course, these meetings do take a little bit of time to set up.”
Death hesitated. “I GUESS I DON’T HAVE TO TAKE YOU RIGHT THIS SECOND.”
Albie grinned and whipped out a standard Bright Stars contract.
Death’s hands twitched anxiously as he flipped through the official-looking pages.
“SHOULD I CHANGE MY NAME?” he asked. “IS ‘DEATH’ TOO JEWISH?”
“We can discuss later.”
Death nodded and signed on the dotted line.
“OKAY!” he said. “SO WHAT NOW? IS IT, LIKE, A THING WHERE YOU CALL ME WHEN THERE’S SOMETHING?”
“Yes, I call you.”
“COOL!” Death said. “COOL.”
He started to leave but stopped in the entryway.
“ONE OTHER THING I MIGHT AS WELL TELL YOU ABOUT IS THAT I ALSO KIND OF PLAY A LITTLE MUSIC. LIKE, MOSTLY GUITAR BUT ALSO PIANO AND BASS.”
“Good to know,” Albie said.
“AND I TOOK TWO YEARS OF TAP,” Death said quickly. “OKAY! I’LL LET YOU GET TO WORK. YOU’LL CALL ME, RIGHT? THAT’S HOW IT WORKS?”
“I’ll call you,” Albie confirmed.
“OKAY!” Death said. “OKAY.”
He floated out the door and vanished in a haze of wispy smoke.
Albie heard a rustling sound in the bedroom. He grabbed the Rite Aid wine, went inside, and kissed Rose softly on the cheek.
“Who were you talking to, sweetie?” she asked.
“I just landed a new client.”
“Ooh, Albie,” she said, beaming. “You’re the best in the biz!”
He poured out two glasses, and they clinked them together.
“I’m not bad,” he said.
The Great Jester
It is embarrassing to admit it, but the truth is, I’ve developed what the French might call une reputation. My barbs have bruised the breasts of many nobles. And some have grown to dread my jingly approach. But thus is a jester’s lot! It is not my job to hold my tongue. Nay, it is my duty to ruffle royal feathers and summon Lady Wit upon this court!
Take last May Day, for instance. The king had thrown an elaborate feast for his good friend Lord Béarnaise. Béarnaise, as you know, is a powerful nobleman. But when he walked past me, I could not restrain my devilish impulses.
“Lord Béarnaise!” I said, waving my bell-clad arms to summon the attention of the court. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance! But I pray you refrain from being saucy!”
(The joke, in case you missed it, is that béarnaise is a type of sauce in addition to being Lord Béarnaise’s name.)
Needless to say, Béarnaise was rather shocked by my impudence. He tried to walk away. But Lady Wit had seized me, and I could not help but speak her wicked words!
“I do believe that I have met your brother!” I said in my loudest tone. “Lord Hollandaise!”
(The joke there, in case you missed it, is that hollandaise is another type of sauce, in the manner of béarnaise.)
By this point the ladies were looking down at their laps, clearly overcome with merriment. As for the king, he was so amused that he closed his eyes and sighed.
“Okay, Havershire,” he said, massaging the bridge of his nose. “Good one. You can stop now. Please. Stop.”
One question I am often asked is: “How did you become the royal jester?” or “How is it possible that you’re the royal jester?” I’m delighted that fans are interested in my artistic rise, and I have no qualms detailing it.
I was born in 1630 to the fifteenth Earl of Havershire. My father was not an entertainer but rather a skilled knight who fought beside the king when they were young. Some might presume that I owe my place in court to nepotism. And it’s true that my father was close with the king and won him many territories and also saved his life on four oc
casions. But the jesting business is a meritocracy. In the coliseum of humor, only the wittiest men win the wit fights that happen in the wit-fighting area of the coliseum!
(What I mean by that, in case you missed it, is that you need to be really witty, and good at words, to be a jester, and it is not just who your father was, and so forth.)
I was by all accounts a precocious child. By the age of ten I was dancing original jigs at every meal. It was around this time that my father, undoubtedly seeing my potential, decided to send me to a year-round boarding school.
I struggled somewhat with my studies. But when it came to the subject of Wit, I was a grade A pupil. I spent each night practicing my barbs, shouting out rhymes and puns to my dorm mates. My routines were so beloved that my peers decided to elect me head boy. The prize was my own private room, on the far side of the school, away from the group.
Sadly, my parents never learned of this achievement. The influenza took them in 1647, and when I returned from my studies, it was to an empty house, the servants gone, the horses starved, the fields dry and ashen. The family fortune was exhausted, and I had no choice but to try to make a living.
Luckily by this point I was confident I had found my calling. I was already a jester in my soul. All I lacked was the official title.
The king was silent as I made my plea. England had not appointed a jester for ages. The last official clown was Old Man Chauncey, who had died in 1360. But his cottage was still standing, on the far side of the estate. And clearly I was his natural successor.
“So you would stay in that cottage?” the king asked at the end of my two-hour pitch. “At the far side of the estate?”
“Yes,” I said.
“You mean the cottage on the other side of the moat, right? Past the hedge maze?”
“Yes.”
“And you would stay over there full-time.”
“Yes.”
“So, just to confirm, you would be over there from now on. From now on, you would stay over there. Beyond the hedge maze. Away from my family.”