Witz

by Joshua Cohen

  Rummy cup of coffee in hand, dopey sack of a hat on his head, those wraparound mirrored sunglasses greasing down the slope of his nose, Mel stands offduty, riveted to the proceedings on the screens displayed as peaceful, orderly looting goes on around him: smashed plate glass, panes from windows and doors, splinters and scrap; hulking goyim of every color and class loading all sorts of kitsch into their idling cars, gaping trucks, highpiled grocerycarts, trashcans not aflame. A vast ziggurat department store specializing in just about every need of a number of minorities lately in the majority, those who hadn’t made the lottery to light out for Siburbia just yet (which designations would apply to Mel, too, whose Santa suit was as oppressive as his poverty and skin), Laz-R-Us is ten bags of stale popcorn away from being declared entirely out of stock, shelves laid bare, then the shelves taken themselves. Though slim pickings after the rush of last weeks, enough merchandise’s gone to worry the CEO of any insuring firm into investing a tenth or so of his own salary into stock in an overseas manufacturer of indigestion pills. The leftover lawn-front nativities they took, the plywood mangers and glittery tangles of hay, the remaindered miniature camels humped in velveteen and those swaddled plasticine babes, factoryseconds without mouths, and voluminous gallons of water, batteries and cannedgoods, everything save the kernels, popping on their own in the fires the looting’s left raging; though all had miraculously left the screens stacked in the window smashed open, amid the glass and glassy tinsel and the signs and the wonders, the pyramids tottering of empty boxes and the decapitated remains of mannequined amputees as if veterans of discount wars and riotous sales—but the screens: not only to leave them but to leave them on as if in the seasonal spirit, a public service, to inform, and to warn; it’s civics, but mute.

  A wet street steeped in wind. Champagne bubbles burst by the rain, snow, then a hailstorming of corks. Sirens split the freeze. Mel clangs his cowbell as if it’s enough to disperse them: the medics, fire, police; then unzips his fly, pisses into the sewer. An emergency artery of the highest importance, the way of first response, Eastern Parkway’s packed with observers, the curious and condemned both, in their new, newly looted clothes, in hats and wigs and jackets marked down, layawayed no longer with ten pairs of used women’s shoes in each pocket. And then into this disaster comes more, it attracts—comes his wife, or his ex, who can be sure: hundreds of them, a thousand or more drunk Misses Clauses, blind Mel’s never seen so many raw and soused wives of Ole Saint Nick in his life, never even conceived of such opportunity, missed, the squandering of sexual promise; grayhaired and tipsy, grannydresses dragging end of shift limp in muddied snow, they stagger forward in a heaving pack, talcumteeming, seething steam, a defeated army of gingerbread women gone hardened in the bitterest cold, the memory of plump, dashed hope of rosy, bonnets on their wigs on their perms, oversized purses in hand, nearing his standing gape reeking of toilet gin, peppermint, cloves, desperation. Mel elastics his fake beard down under his chin, tries to understand just from the lips of the reporter, the old Santa shtick when the beard’s on too tight you can’t hear: a bland man in a black suit and mourning tie, he’s saying something about death, the thrust of his petroleum tongue, death, licking the undersides of his front teeth, death, capped and burning, corpses and burnings…preemption of seasonal specials, the cancellation of the parades and the Passions, the manic animation of news without censor, unapproved; President Shade addressing the nation…desk, suit, flag and face; on a screen facing him, the prompter’s scrolling, snows of speech; he squints, face full with air fills up the screen, the screens, a balloon of condolence, its stem a thorn, as if to smash out the glass of the screens themselves, as if to smash out the eye; to fill the den, our mouths; our prayers are with you, he mouths…and across the nation lips are pursed to indicate gravity, quiet; volumes are raised unto the roof; shock; sofas are sat upon, chairs are brought back from the brink of recline—you really should have asked us first to sit down…from somewhere, from nowhere, a telephone rings, millions of them, Apocalypse holds the line; then, the newscaster along with his feminine clone, a doppelgänger blond and trying her best not to smile; half the stations cut to a location the other half will cut to in a moment…sixpointed star graphic: two triangles, superimposed, singeing, tattooing themselves on his pupils, Mel’s—fades, into evermore scenes of distress, then through a handful of more rapid cuts, loops of disaster, cut, cuts, scissoring fingers sliced across neck; kill it, we’re going unscripted and live onlocation…dizzying, reeling tickers, bars and charts; different stations with the same footage, different stations with different footage, grained real though all without sound, without the break of commercial. As he stands and stares, the Misseses approach; their nearing warmth sickening him, their menopaused steam and their smell. Mel reaches into the display amid a pile of those amputated, desecrated limbs, legs without feet, arms without hands, torsos without navels or nipples, and with a ragged nail he takes the screens off their mute, a flick, a flickering, raises their volumes to the sky, the very dial of the tuning moon; their blasts a coverage like light, weathernoise eruptive, as jagged and as sharp as the glass that once kept their peace, now emptying into the air, they’re sanctifying the sirens, purifying the street.

  They’re dead.

  AAAAAAAAAthisisnotatesthisnotatest!

  Today marks the end of a glorious multimillennial history, and perhaps the richest tradition known to—is there no hope for the West—this is E.E. Tone, for A Voice in the Wilderness, reporting live, from Jerusalem—Pan—Mister Chancellor, your reactions, please—demonium—will it recover—can it even survive—over to you, in the studio—a lot of people are wondering—what does this mean for the rest of us, John—19—and for that, we turn to—mass death and rioting in the north of—39—has yet to comment—at present we have no official count—numbering toll—however experts estimate Midnight Eastern Standard Time, TOD (Time Of Death)—triage carnage age age age—a most sorrowful Xmas, indeed, Deborah—Misses Clauses in a fierce stumble, the oldest and ugliest of them leading the seething pack…they’re in pursuit, as you can hear small arms fire from just behind me, and what appears to be, yes, it’s a—I imagine the weather isn’t helping any, Helen—no, I imagine it’s not, John—Misses Clauses, all of them they’re massing into one giant Misses Claus, a grannywhite monster; they’re separate, individuated though nearidentical, and also one total woman, a great grayed grannywhite lumbering mutant with a full million eyes behind a hundred thousand pairs of glasses of every prescription, in orthopedic shoes and an apron giganticized out of their frocks that obliterates the horizon smeared in blood and in chocolate, their pearls’ strands whipping a weapon in the gusts against which it surges, past Utica toward Rockaway Avenue further, they surge forth, their din does, everywhere: Boro Park, the thorny crowns and heights of Crown Heights, Midwood and Brighton Beach down to Seagate north to Williamsburg then straight through to the borough of Queens and on to bury Long Island, the furthest Rockaway, through Hewlett and Woodmere and Lawrence, down south then, through the bedroom communities and all the commuters beached down in Ventnor and Margate and Longport in Joysey, all the way out west in Los Angeles and even more south now to Miami and the Beaches of Miami and Palm and Mexico and Panama and Rio on the water then over it to Golders Green, London, Manchester, Edinburgh and Dublin, then Amsterdam and Paris, its perfumed bodies stacked along Rue Captain Dreyfus, further east to Berlin, Karl Marx Allee a disaster, the Empire’s Vienna, better Buda than Pest then Prague, onto Kraków and Warsaw and Russia even and Shanghai and Sydney and Johannesburg, too—and even in Eden, which is now known as Iraq, with its wadis and palms and its explosives and madness, unto Tel Aviv and Jerusalem Herself, from the German Colony unto Mattersdorf, O the onehundred gates, the gushes from Gush, Bnai Brak with no one to fix…emptied of them, emptied of us, every city and Siburb and village and town made a cemetery, a house of mourning roofed by the sky for the sitting of shiva for seven days and seven nights accompanied by no one and
nothing save this very noise, its surge: all the gossip, the telephone, the radio, the shrieks of the screen. How to—Any word describe on the feelings survivors here today—No What survivors we can—Authorities make out at this are of course distance on the scene—This and attempting seems to me to be—An even the most of profound—Reports global significance from Russia are in—Our and statistics—Let’s go to show the—Do we map have any idea—An act as to what or who we’re of unparalleled dealing with Terrorism scope on an international The scale President is scheduled to address the nation tonight at ten from the White House and of course Stay tuned we’ll be bringing it to you for further developments You’re live We apologize for This technical is difficulties watching—How is It’s much this possible too? early Let’s for not anything be too hasty except in our judgment I’d hesitate speculation to say No comment ://dot.comment—

  One of these Misses Clauses fellating a candy cane, another fellating the other end of the treat, they’re sucking away to kiss sweet at the middle without stripe, dripping drool sugary thick.

  And yet another one, this their leader it would appear from the rear, the fat and old and the ugly, her face a rash of makeup, scars herpetic and of acne, too, black luck and its blue mutilation, she’s asking Mel…what you got in that sack of yours, you gimme a gift?

  Just looted dog food, a can of beer, root root root another pair of shades.

  One with a particularly heaving bosom leans up against Mel, grabs hands, presses them to the fuming insides of her thighs.

  Busy tonight, Santy?

  Any time for a lonely old Miss?

  Twenty for a halfhour, thirty for the hour, I’ll ride your North Pole.

  It’s a seasonal thing—a fire sale, don’t you know, feel how hot I am down there…my sleigh or yours?

  Mel suddenly defects his hands from the granny’s panties, punches her in the mouth, loosening teeth whether they’re dentures or real to gnaw among his knuckles like miniature graves, without name. Blood splurts onto the premature white of his faking beard as Misses Claus goes down and out, and her sisters go chasing Mel down the street; dodging formations of troops, winding around stalled and honking jams of military jeeps, trucks and tanks, armored snowcats, huskies and convoys of bison, Mel’s cowbell clanging his escape with the slip of his stride in the deepening snow, south into an unlit quarter of the world known as Canarsie; the Misseses wielding their hoarded purses weighted with dimes swindled from shoppers in the good name of the poor, swinging them around to hurl at him as they clutch at their florid hems through the piling hoar.

  Our sun rises as promised the next morning, Xmas—a covenant’s a covenant, and what’s death to annul it; though this rise occurs maybe spiteful, halting, reluctant, as if unsure of itself, the sun embarrassed by what’s happened in the hour it’s forbidden to light. At the horizon, gray; clouds assemble to breathe down flaming flakes. Medics, police, fire, National Guard goyim, US Army, Every Acronym (EA), Neighborhood Watch even and volunteers both organized and irregular, all the lineaments of uniformed disaster they’ve been mobilized, equipped then assembled with an amazing degree of expedition, and efficient professionalism given the hurry, though there’s just nothing for them to do except inhale, exhale into the freeze as if that’ll help any, but if it makes them feel better, then—as through the jammed caravan of patrol cars, miscellaneous emergency management personnel, and the triage that is local press with ambition, three survivors arrive at the Gatekeeper’s hut. One of them’s a shvartze, too, and though he’s the one driving this suggests not a few concerns, begging the profile—it’s standard policy to ask, I’m sure you understand, of all people…

  Might be a delivery, maybe a poolboychick, a worker but what crew; he’s not a gardener, no exterminator, perhaps another species of hand hired but by whom and for what, none he’s ever known, the Gatekeeper going on ten years, and so a suspicion to report—that is, if there’s anyone left to report to. One of the three, not the shvartze, the one in the passenger seat in the hood and robe, with the staff that’s just the bough of a cedar fallen by lightning, he gets himself out of the metallic puke Lexus, a rental, keeps his door open and walks around the hood to the slit in the window, yells hoarse above the sirens and wails.

  We’re looking for One Thousand Cedars, the Development, of course—tries to keep it light.

  We’re catering the bris, though we seem to have lost our passes—it’s tragic, forgive.

  What bris? the Gatekeeper wants to know, wiping at the rime of his eyelid, a tear.

  A bris, a circumcision, the face under the hood gives a smile, you know: down go the pants, snip goes the tip…

  I’ve been working here nearly a decade, says the Keeper, there’s no need to tell me what’s a bris, nu—what I’m asking is what circumcision, whose, who’s circumcising who around here? I’m saying, if anyone’s doing any circumcising, it’s me of you—get my drift?

  Above, planes plummet, and police helicopters descend, metalplated locusts, upon the Development’s baseball diamond, the roof of the Rec Center’s pool, onto great rolling lawns: rotors flaying shingles and swingsets; the air, a mass of noise and flashes, microphones held up to megaphones, the violent frolic of doppler, you know him; corpses are stacked on the sidewalk one by one then laid one atop another when there’s no more space, later becoming laidout feet to feet along streets, their toes tagged with ID, their heads propped against the curb, mouths left hanging open; in shock, postmortem disbelief—it’s as if they’d be revived by the snow.

  No, I haven’t heard of any circumcisions, Mister Bris, now disaster I’ve heard of, plague…

  It’s registered, he’s oblivious or doing wonders for faking: we’d submitted the application eight days ago, as per your requirements, did the whole background check, got together our recommendations; God, we’ve followed every single one of your guidelines—I can’t believe you don’t have us on file.

  Mister Simon Weizmann, plus two…check again, I’ll believe you.

  Weizmann, I don’t know any Weizmann…

  And the longer we wait, he’s not finished just yet…the more everything spoils.

  Hard for anything to spoil more than it already has, he taps his scratched plastic pane to alert, and no, it’s not registered, understand—nothing’s registered, not anymore.

  The Israelien family should’ve notified you in advance, made their wishes known—they only had Him a week ago, what’s to expect? Would it help to mention I’m a good friend of Alana Milfhaus? We did weddings together. She was in flowers.

  You have any identification?

  He hesitates. I seem to have left my license at the office. Anyway, it’s a little outdated. I’ve since lost the weight.

  Maybe you want to talk with my supervisor. He’s dead. You want his number? Or maybe you’ll rabbi this out on your own?

  It’s a party at Hanna and Israel Israelien’s, 333 Apple; it’s for Benjamin, their newborn—a boy, would you believe? Now how would I know that if I weren’t here with the lox and the spread?

  The Keeper shrugs, reaches under his desk to throw the emergency switch, then realizes all the armed response he’ll ever need’s already here, and has enough emergency as it is.

  We’ve reached our quota today, no more admissions; especially not for looters, fortunehunters…anyway, where’d you get that funny getup? he’s stalling, those robes? what’s with that?

  Also rentals, you like? and he twirls the hood’s gold tassels.

  Give me a moment, will you? the Keeper grunts, gulps at any medication then tosses its unlabeled jar to his desk, hobbles out of the hut and makes his way to stand before the robed tasseled figure and the rental Lexus, near to the face obscured by the hood. God save me for going offmessage, he says to himself and his whisper aches through last night’s two packs of smokes then the liquor redeemed from area cabinets and basements, stumbling on the numb of his tongue he says, they’re dead, then pauses to regain his face, its mouth, lips no longer trem
bling, you getting me, friend? he beats the breast of the robe immobilized in front of him, the visitor leaning up against the shine of the just washed, likenew sedan, and says again, they’re gone, all of them, as of last night, kaput, it’s over and done with, I’m sorry to be the one to tell you, but they seem to be out all over the place; he begins crying, a tear rips through his throat and he almost falls, Misses Herring, my supervisor, the Israeliens, too, a tragedy—what about me, I’ll be out of a job, I’ll be old and unemployed, uninsured, without a wife and…Mister Bris, there’ll be no circumcisions for anyone today, I don’t think, never again.