by Joshua Cohen
Though Why? is never asked or answered, only said. Or else it’s both asked and answered, or neither and green, flint as much as diamond. This is where the difficulties begin, when the generations become tangled, ensnared—trippedup on marks of punctuation…interrogatories phrased falsely as pronouncements, prophecy no longer extolled from the mountaintop but whispered from the valleys, without authority, unsure. It’s that we have forgotten how to ask—how to bring into this answering world a boy who is Himself a question. And so what ensures survival is not to search for Why? but instead to search for others who also search for Why? then to embrace them, give them gifts and marry them off to our sisters. This is the only way to peace. In this way, we increase our inheritance, which are our generations—and soon the Why? it’s said, becomes less a search than a limb. And then less a limb than a germ—a gene. Passed down. Flung among. Reactive, it’s been said. In our day, this inheritance has been programmed for extinction. Traits come up for expiration. A breath—expired. Rumors abound. After their death, the world deals only with the second rate, trafficks exclusively amid the middling and managing, the niggling clerks, the bores and the hopeless…gone are the thinkers; remaining are only the losers, the gentile. Unspeakable, thy name is mediocrity. It’s the best they have. We might as well make do.
And did they ever make do! Garden, Inc., its president Der, with the approval then partnership of the Shade Administration selling stock in stock, in the drained blood of the Affliated to anyone who’d afford it; huge banks stored in the holds of those tankers anchored out in flowing water past the freeze, a haul of the consanguine made public, nominally, in concept—not that any of these shareholders would ever come into actual physical possession of so precious a commodity, but—the coffers cough, spit thick gobs of gold. Though the blood it’s just a portion, a peripherally profitable venture, of this government scheme only vaguely privatized within the icicled gates of the Garden to preserve for the powerful the merest assurance of plausible deniability—this project proposing to study the physiological and psychological conditions of the ingathered survivors, which means tests: the laborious filling out of forms by which they sign themselves away, assenting to all manner of invasive procedures not limited to the sampling of everything from everywhere, whenever, intensive patience tries, the trial withholding of approval, hat and shoetightening, protracted submersion within lukewarm water; damningly, the injection of miscellaneous fluids, spuriously saving plasmic transfusions, veined in the hues of the last rainbow ever to be hung sagging over Liberty scorched to the east.
A searching of a newer weather. Another push for Why? What made them die. Was it something I said. Or did something. Or didn’t say. I love you. I renounce and yadda. And all an opinion requires is an opinion observed previously. Experts in quotes. A gene, a genome, which is the congregation of genes—a community of their genomes, a Jnome, say. Expelled from the midst. Researchers with eyes blackened from microscopic squint. Bruised tongue with a funny bone. Selfdestructive encoding from the sixth day of Creation—lies dormant on the seventh, inherited on its night. Late abortion by a rib. One doctor DDS, and probably also disbarred from an earlier career as a lawyer and, though briefly, imprisoned—he thinks it a reaction to whatever they’d sustained themselves on, the kosher, kashering food. Another doctor DPM and moonlighting lately as an accountant, dissents. And so to convene another cenacle of scholars. Then wait. Ideas, the ultimate in waste. Tenured philosophers and metaphysicians of the Continental school feel it wasn’t death, couldn’t be—that they’d only disappeared. Absorption. An assimilation, intractable. Rashed out to another existence plane. Palpated hard to dimension the fourth. Is that the best you can do. Group shrug. Mass Hysteria the foregone conclusion of the Free University of Leiden, stemming from latent fear of insignificance, what’s the term in Latin. University of Chicago cites ideal incest with the air. Who knows. And who cares, decisively. Who can read let alone understand these reports coming in by the hour, might as well be bound in skin and stitched with hair; these journals stretching to an impenetrable six, seven hundred pages, with prettily unfocused pictures and blurry charts to graphs and tables the university presses did up themselves and backward as the printers have just begun converting to a new language right to left what with the multinational publishing houses broke and gone. Speeches are broadcast, but the microphones aren’t turned on. Anything but apathy, that’s the idea, the thinking mensch on the street—apathy the breathless cause, though, and not the effect; that they died of apathy, let’s say, and so the reaction to their death must be the opposite, whatever antipode sanctified: enthusiasm, maybe, for their rituals, for their traditions…initiatives initiated, mantles taken up, causes championed to great effect. Accumulating interest. And verily interest would breed regard, would breed affection, then love, which is the sworn enemy of hate. Theirs a hate that had been a hatred of the self, however, which was only a love that should in theory kill, but paradoxically preserved. If only for a time. Dialecticians having a field day in a new field, which is rutted, smutted—the frontlawn seeded only with morning frost. Each half of any dialectic like one of two vases, blue or white, or both, gifts from who remembers—an uncle’s aunt, though she’d been married to—which Hanna always hated but placed on the table in the diningroom anyway, because something had to go there, anything at all…
A passingover, perhaps…an angel of God forbid to even think of it, death Itself—no Moloching matter. Or so announces the Honorable Meir Meyer, Mayor of New York, on the basis of information supplied by his staff, interns and unpaid. A thesis if you’re feeling generous, we’re just putting it out there, giving gnosis. That, and a collective allergic reaction amid the greater congregation. Bad milk; mutated poison secreted in the previous generation’s lacteal unmissables. And then, it’s gossiped, that the firstborns, they might have been the first to claim their chosenness, but they’re not firstborns. Impostors. Stand in proxies. The latest generation of secundogeniture. Seekers of fortune, profiteers. Opiners opine. Public intellectuals publicize. A malfunction in the mechanism of infridge units of water purification, another. Tampering down at the plant, etc. A reaction theory advances a week, half a lunation, a triggering agent hidden somewhere molecular or other, rendering it innocuous for drink to pass the lips of those for whom the Law’s without cause. Dribble. Mere chin music. Then, a Section A’s last page retraction of an entire moon’s worth of coverage, letting the metro area know they can’t believe everything they read. Tabloid advertorials headlining mass starvation. Overconsumption. To burn like a bush. Or a parasite’s parasite. Autopsies reveal nothing. Milkmuscled meatus. Shrinks analyze the dead upon metal sofas. It looks like a Rorschach to me. Now close both eyes and tell me what you see. A panel of mediums flown in from Anywhere That Sounds Good. Only to find that the Affiliated—they’re still around, why shouldn’t they be; that they’d only transcended human form, went on to exist in a galaxy popularly referred to as Memory (subsequently identified as dwarf spheroidal 3600, type dE0, though disputed). Under the crust of the earth, alternatively, secreted deep in its core, waiting out their day. Talkingheads and yesmensching no. And always with those suits: drycleaners must be making a fortune; salesmenschs, distributors, suppliers. Still, what of selfdestruction. Hardwired martyrdom. Mutation of the urge to submit. Give in, give up, relinquish or relent. An adapted strain of abnegation, anyone. Ritual mass suicide—this the thesis advanced in a private, independent study matchingly funded by the undeniably patronizing sponsorship of the Humboldt-Universität, Berlin. All of them just transmigrating into the ocean at once to drown, holding their yarmulkes down on their heads against the tides. Though, what’s most revealing is this: that not one authority has the media audacity to suggest sin. Who’d the nerve; anyway, it’s called chutzpah now. And on primetime, publicized to an audience of fearmouthed, willing millions. Punishment. As in, Divine Retribution. Deserving. Wanting, needing. Had it coming, then it came. Ask for death, and thou shalt receive o
nly death—and cards you can’t see to read, prayers and sympathy you can’t hear to thank, flowers you can’t smell, and brunch spreads you can’t taste, then a grave that will give you no rest.
Initial tests come up negative for nearly everything—except when a positive false or not would more effectively frustrate any effort to know, to put in perspective. Across the board for those who’ve failed their boards—levels are levels, the counts count, nothing’s found out of the recent reinterpretation of the ordinary. Livers are functioning, urea, uric acid…mensch goes to the doctor, doctor gives him six months to live, you know this, don’t you, mensch can’t pay the bill, doctor gives him another six months is how it goes. RH’s factored in, age, height, and weight, how much you need a name for your problem, too, how syllabically badly you want to be wronged. Another round of injections are prescribed: thinners, thickeners, transalphabetical vitamins, middles, downers and ups; pressurelowering meds are administered; gel’s smeared on nipples, hearts thump away. FB test subjects—initially a sample of thirtysix—are prevailed upon to urinate into a cup, one cup plastic for everyone that no one wants to hold, understandably, as they’re all going to go at once; they drool their warm piss all over their hands, each other’s. Prostates are groped, they give cough all at the same time then gag swabbed, their only culture that of the throat and unbecoming, without feeling; they’re poked, prodded, their fettles are fondled, levels leveraged…saliva samples are taken, and that of their colloidal, colluding sperm; the walls of their tushes each the lower and upper the hairily lipped are scraped for the petri, as fungi’s selectively tweezered out from under finger and toenails, then laid flat atop altars of glass for the sacrifice of institutional money, time, and effort; test after test, more tests than Abram ever had to pass to become Abraham, than ever Jabob had to endure to make us Israel if only in name and more trying, without thicketed rams, no angels stilling hands or laming limbs to save. Ratnosed, roachfingered goyim in white labcoats that’ve been tagged with more initials than God has names, paperputschers, pawing keyslaves, buttonclawers, they’re consulting their charts, a flow veining throughout the evidential body, illuminating only the black mass of ectoplasmic night: testing fresh FB samples, every six hours, three, then retesting again why not, those of the living to be compared with those of the dead, all in an attempt, but how, to fix that strange date in this, the strangest land. Idea is, they couldn’t live forever, could they; naturally or not, they as a people would die out, the thought. And then, let’s say they lived, wishful for argument’s sake or hope’s survival: they could intermarry, they could reproduce with us, meaning with others, and then what Lawwise. Attention, executively ordered, is being given to Xmas Eve of this year; Year 0 A.I. it’s been proposed to call it, After Israel or Israelien, depends (studies have been commissioned: how can we ever count again?)—but they’re too optimistic…Unaffiliated. As forecasts are at odds for the upcoming eve of Passover, and when not at odds then just odd, unrelenting in their manifold predictions: such obscuring fronts and systems, ever colder dates calculated for contrast, timetables and stats, too many numbers serving not to clarify but to darken with cloud, with spilled ink; with the government, Garden, Inc., and not to forget the people, too, the firstborns themselves whose inheritance however imaginary is, in the end, what’s funding this Island endeavor, attempting to ensure that their investment remains protected, tasking Der and the Administration behind him to ensure this never happens again; and that, as the President privately asserts, if it does, which might be inevitable, when it does, then they know not how to prevent fatalities, which might prove impossible, but how best to exploit a survivor, if any survivor there’ll be.
If one needed in order to satisfy an unimaginable impulse, or wanted out of some derangement or another, I’m sure a term exists, to diagnose the office, the physical plant—I have the address somewhere out on Long Island—of the twin Doctors Tweiss, dispensing their office and its forsaken environs a dose of their own medicine, transferring temperament, displacing aims and verbiage in an inevitably misguided attempt to describe, preliminary examination would result in recommendation for the immediate destruction of the facility entire, on second opinion along with its parkinglot, too, and with dynamite. It’s squat stucco with not enough windows; altogether against the human—in no way a place of healing, better interested in hurt. Before they’d moved in, it’d been a funeralhome.
As if to say, Aesculapius, I don’t know. Never heard of him. Aesculapius, think I took his sister out once.
An office a mere block away by carpool from their home, in which they’ve lived ever since a disproportionately protracted birth resulting in the death of their mother and, aggrieved, as if in response, in the eventual feminization of their father, beginning with a regimen of hormonal therapy and then, ultimately, a surgical procedure necessitating a second mortgage—a vaginoplasty in which his testes had been severed to form a labia with the remnant, the shaft of his penis, inverted to manifest the hollow of a shallow vagina. Their office, it’s situated across a meridian from a takeout, drivethru concrete box, at the far end of an icy asphalt lot rented at a nominal monthly fee from that once promiment, national fastfoood purveyor just beginning bankruptcy proceedings, its paving recently annexed into adjacency with the mediating island homeopathically weeded, untended, disused—a tar openness providing ample space for the parking of their modest twin sedans, with the smaller, otherwise zoned expanse just past the island made unofficially available to their patients, too, and to any other visitor to this facility of which their practice, or practices, are at present the only two tenants. Here there used to be seven lawyers, six accountants, five actuaries, four insurance firms, three dentists, two dermatologists, and that lone funeralhome, groundfloor fronting the one pear tree, now barren, stripped by wind of partridges and bark. All of whose space is theirs as of last moon, an expansion from their previously tiny office that had been approximately one street, one address, one suite number too far to the west, which is already Queens. This ever since their official retention, an agreement to diagnose exclusively for Garden, Inc., from the aborted bris on to remain oncall; though they still, if guiltily and with a semblance of quiet, are willing do a number of things, grudging favors, for friends and friends of friends, too, for hard money on the side: accepting diamonds, gold, and other precious gems and metals, free meals, drinks, and High Holiday tickets in return, you didn’t hear it from me, for circumcisions and the mental health counseling their effect would subsequently require, both procedures always ritually performed. If with a handful of weird personal touches: as Doctor Tweiss the plasticsurgeon never uses anesthesia, whereas his twin the psychoanalyst always does, explain that; both having practiced for performance upon Ben, they’re thinking, why not put their work to abuse on a person truly grateful and willing—the general paying public. All at the Garden tolerate it, they have to, it’s too lucrative for them not to, and so they take their cuts both sharp and blunt, and look the other way—at their shoes, on the advice of their counsel.
The doctors, they’re booked for moons.
Through the door to the office that’s wide enough for a gurney, a prehumous coffin and its two medically fit pallbearers—this to facilitate the twins’ coming and going, the two of them at once through the lobby—there’s a sign: The Tweiss Group. One to the left and one to the right, then they meet in the middle. A lobby that also serves as the first waitingroom, as the initial station of a series of rooms that would test the commitment to recovery of each individual patient: however long they’re willing to be kept waiting indicative of how badly they’re in want, or need, of healing. Ratty pornographic periodicals they’ve recovered from the trash of a lawyer vacated or dead, facsimiles of transcribed testimonials provided by, if extorted from, patients former and present, promotional materials for ever newer prescription narcotics designed to alleviate the aftereffects of elective surgical procedures, too, fanned out atop little rickety, unmatching endtables, the nice
st of them hardwoods topped in fauxmarble. A scattering of vases with even their cracks chipped, their fill a handling of left umbrellas, corrupt caducei. Antiquities behind frames that once held glass, stationed on both sides of the door, cabinets of rare fragiles shuddering with the entrance of every patient, never exit—and so their shattered statuettes with the heads of dogs and Gods, their idols in shards and showy halfamphoræ. Against that wall an analysand’s settee forbidden for sitting, at its sides two armchairs dermatologist’s purchases smokedamaged, tossed out, then divested by the brothers from a temporarily neighboring dumpster; the other wall hosts the receptiondesk, which is splintering, set on shapely legs—set on highheels—forbiddingly high.
As the firstborns are put through their battery of tests, subject to the painful whim of any government granting or other ostensibly official disbursement, many, though, private and so privately festishistic, insane, Ben’s kept waiting, shifting in one of the waitingroom’s armchairs, sloppily womblike, leaking its stuffing. His appointment scheduled for a lifetime ago, hours, an hour. Reduced to the abject, demeaned by each knifing lick of the clock above, He’s become its lowly ward, and that of the desk below it, too, not to forget behind the desk its girl, sitting low as if unaware of her power. All the waitingrooms, and there are many, as many of them as there are hells, even as many as there are ways and means by which to earn your hell, to become cursed and damned, to deserve it here on earth—all are the domain of this young woman, the offices’ shared receptionist and sole fulltime employee; according to the nameplate her employers would often fantasize nailing to her forehead, her name’s Minnie Tung de Presser.
No, I have Misses Abernathy down for three this afternoon.
Yes, she says, she dialed me frantic from work and I just managed to squeeze her in…squeezes herself, then realizes the telephone’s disconnected, plugs its jack back into the wall. What did she do, what didn’t she do: she’d settle disputes in case of scheduling conflicts, though often she’d be the one responsible for scheduling the conflicts, in an effort to assert her dominance over the doctors who’d woo her, this hourglass shiksa maybe a few grains shy of legal age. Domineering, like she’s making double what she makes, with spoiled ascension pretensions though of trashy stock, a Midwest import, eightfathered Bible Beltbeaten provenance, this who does she thinks she is requiring no analysis and even less anatomical enhancement. The Doctors Tweiss, they’d both been trying to bed her for years, to no avail, though they’ve become quite successful at their fantasy, wetdaydreaming of penetrating her small, pinch-veined, hairless, O so tight nostrils with what they think, they hope, passes for professional abandon; straddling her face, their testes dumbly smacking like tonsils her soft lips glossed in red, then leaving their seed there, shooting it deep and up to store, gunking her septum, behind her eyes then to her brain, giving her recurring sinus headaches they’d surely charge her to cure, deduct it from her minimum wage. They give her no insurance; they pay her in cash only when they don’t miser her in coin. To sit with her breasts rising from the fall of her halter uniform, midnight pleather; her chair’s retrofitted with a dildo, its modification to her feeling natural, the ultimate in cervical comfort, and a bonus to her employers, too, who for relaxation would sniff and lick it after hours: she’d sit impaled on it all day, her legs dangling for the floor, their feet nude, vanillapale and perfect. If perhaps indicative, or so the doctors would only wish, of the laterlife lymphatic—edema, a swelling from pregnant idle. If only she’d let them inseminate; if only impotence wasn’t physiological, too—then, they couldn’t have cared less. Dominatrix pleather except for the naked feet with their toes tapping to the rhythmlessness of her altogether tuneless hum, both accomplished at a volume enervatingly low amid the loud of her lipchewing, gumclacking, and the sucking of her sweets, which are ostensibly sugarfree, a panoply of red and green lozenges she’d enjoy herself while denying them to the uninitiated impatient from a jar atop her desk; rationing them in return for humiliation, to be perpetrated only during breaks from her work of all break, which is nothing more than losing things, not limited to files and office supplies. Abutting the jar, a holder hosts a single businesscard, lonely, its corners crumpled stale—that of the funeralhome director, having long required his own services.