by Joshua Cohen
The House of His Father just north of Israel’s old office stooped in its shadow, along with His house, too, in its mirroring—and Ben, He’s enraptured: by it, and by Himself…His first unveiled glimpse of the dwelling within which He’s been fathered to history and now, to air; leaning out over the sill to the Temple’s great reflecting eye, to behold Himself captured in that dome’s lone sloping facet that is the dome, its reflection of an unguarded face…a moment of silence passing for peace, only of Him made relation to the city beyond, married, mated, Him as Himself the city beyond, and then—the door’s knocked into a flood, watery light like gauze, a rippling welter. A front of journalists with cold cameras porting tripods, pens and pads, microphones and lights, fresnels and pars: they’re here for their publicity shots the less posed the more they’ll appeal to the growing ranks of the righteous, it’s supposed; here, too, for His comments, for any, the hurried documentation of a life lived on the record—then, for analysis and observation, scrutinized on slow; Ben an idol stood upon the Record Itself, or if not on it then altared by it, changed from burn to smoke to air; here for their quotes, their content and bracketfiller; for their whiplashed quips, their bytes off more than an earth would swallow down to molten chew. As if punishment for public living even the famous are given graves, and often those they dig themselves with the sharpness of their tongues. As shallow as the rest.
Sit still, they say in one mouth, within one mouth, massed amid its dim…that’s it, hold it, oneeyed—right there, you blinked, you’re beautiful, you’re perfect.
Maybe He should hold some lilies? Or contemplate some busts? Say AlleGory! emPHAsis on the last sylLAble!
Q. do you really think you’re ready for marriage? don’t slouch—do dodge, evade, and lie: a little to the left, to the right, your other right, I mean, that’s right, now suck it up and in, say Dairy!
What do you think of the policies of your future father-inlaw, the President; with your impending marriage to his daughter, do you think you’ll assume a greater role in the decisions of this Administration? Ben, how much involved, how little—depends on what they say; any names, what about the kinder…over here, over there, chins up, chins down, just be yourself, kid, hold it, that’s it, good—and don’t forget to smile!
And so Introit the fuss, the sinuous us! snaredrum rolllllllllll out the rolodex, flog the flak, riff and stretch, sell your soul for a bowl of lentil’s suppering sung, brassbumbudumbudum…krank up the PR machine, will you, and take a propagander at this: ladies and gentilemen, boychicks and goyls, seniors, and the disabled putupon, unborn kinder of all ages, it’s just about that time again, that’s right, so step right up and claim your place in line, in time, your plotzing platz, no spots will be saved, no reservations will be accepted—aliyah yourselves up off those pews and get your tickets early, Operators are standing by. Or they’re sitting, nevermind.
Why, it’s the wet ’n’ wild millenniawide revival of the Wandering Tour, the Eternal Return Tour eternally wandering return to a town near you, close by, your local dorf or major shtetl, picklebarreling through fifty states’ worth of this here contiguous nowhere, pulling legs for a mere ten handfuls of, nu, maybe not so exclusive engagements, onenight standing room to run only: a packed Radio City Musik Hall, two soldout shows at the Spelt Palace, a near riot at the Fillmore, a melee at the Fill Less, oddstastemachers prophesizing serious profits, prime revenue from merchandising tieins, licensing, subsidiary rights, and subsubsidiary yadda, deals bubbling like the gassiest of concessions, available for purchase in the lobby.
O to be on the road…once He gets through rehearsal, that is, if He gets through it—not until the trainer’s totally satisfied He’s making the effort, meeting Him halfway to trusting. As of now—so rumors Page Six and all those other pages, those before it and those after—Ben’s too afraid of the lions, management’s said to be renegotiating the Ring of Fire; insurance adjusters haven’t yet evaluated the locusts; fine the promoters, have them trot their damn riders out to the territory to graze them down to glue, staples, bound at a papering’s clip: one (1) room for Mr. Israelien. This room should comfortably hold twelve (12) people. It should contain the following: two (2) lined trash containers, and room and tables for drinks/catering. This room must also have a clean bathroom and shower facilities with hot and cold running water. Must have four (4) 120 volt AC electrical outlets, if possible (Artist Hospitality Room must be kept kosher at all times—NO OUTSIDE FOOD ALLOWED!); a tour opening upon the anniversary of the giving of the Law, Shavuot’s the name hereafter trademarked, not to be shortened or abbreviated, always spelled and capitalized accordingly and appended with the appropriate copywritten mark (any questions, please refer to our Permissions & Trademark Guidelines for Third Party License, Usage, & Reference): Shavuot™ or Shavuot® we’re still not sure, our lawyers are going over it, a holiday to be observed in session atop the everdistant mountain, its binding contract so long and involved it’s been secretaried onto two tablets, to be signed over in fire, eventually, heldover to when—and scheduled to end upon the eve of the Day of Atonement, with what’s being billed, mannadewly newsed as a Gala Spectacular, morning edition rolled and tossed, rubberbanded at the stoop of the Midtown Temple, which by then, pray, should be up and slaughtering.
In preparation, with per diem schlock slung over one shoulder (the change of costume, the false beard, the spare pair of propprescriptive glasses), Ben’s slungshot around the city, necessary to keep His steps ahead of any pursuit, whether terrestrial or Other: the paparazzi imported from overseas and kept salaried by whom, the Pope, President Shade, Der himself, each of them credentialflashed, carded paranoiac without the knowledge of the others…the hebraized hebephrenia of being followed, too, by assigned hangerson, wholigans, boosters and Bens, Bennies or Bennys, whatever they’re called in whatever rag you’ve been wiping with of late at early toilet, midnight snack, decoys, nearlookalikes (because who could be that huge, normally’s, the suspect), always lumbering near, tripping Him up, stepping on His toes. If He’s a False Messiah, then they’re false False Messiahs, saviors twiceremoved, Redeemers-inlaw shadowing Him from event to affair, from symposium to party, from fundraised to lower underground—in the tunnels of the abandoned subway and there in their own private cars, boroughing irresistibly, until an emergence upon the dawning platform of the El: following Ben shikerred on bronfn, minibar mashke, puffing bummed cigarettes they’re slurry; themselves tailed frayed and splayed in a hot seething animal mass by an assorted host of actresses, latest models and miscellaneous It-maydels, behind whom shade yet another thirtysix, these not standins, nor stunted doubles, but His bodyguards, protection—making their ways down the street of heldover, hungover, morning oneway, at the Downtownmost and further deadend of whichever there’s, finally, shush, inexorable shtum: schlafing it off in whichever luxury hotelroom shining huge under the recommendation of five stars, in whatever glittery metropolis these afternoons early of sleep might hallow Him undead—bedbugged deserts of dream, turneddown oases of however relative ease.
Things, always scheduled as Things unspecificed due to security, being so busy, so crazily scheduled, so hectic and profitable, too, Ben’s being worked now on the Sabbath, hard and kept moving—not that it would matter to Him to desecrate the day we’re reminded to keep holy above six others, just that He doesn’t want to work period, never did whenever, and with who He is, why should He’s the liberating thought. There’s no secret it’s a day of rest. My public takes a holiday, why shouldn’t I? More should be expected of me? Please, no thanks your toil. I’ve paid my dues, completed covenants. Garden, Inc., though, maintains again it’s all for His own safety—believe me, Der’s saying to Him in the limo motorcaded a stretch up the West Side, all this Law merely hampers my ability to protect you, son, ties the old hands. Sidelocks and beard knots and tassle fringe come off it. I don’t understand, it’s ridiculous, especially whatwith…but what weight do I have, what say in the matter. Make light His mission, make
money their humorless goal. And not just your mundane kept moving, the gossipy run of the gristmill—He’s On the schmoove: a salty slip of His misspoken live to the networks, duly resurrected as slang for immediate release to the press; Ben baumming around: a newest nature holed up in a tree is the image they’re getting, Parkside if imaginary, Edenic, highswaying above enormity, Him casting down left leaves to float slowly, widening out into headlines grained in green envy, ribs into folds, veins a slopping of copy—His wedding announcement, Israelien–Shade, the cancellation of next baseball season, the rising price of pork—going soggy toward the gutter, the sewering Hudson.
And, too, like any nature, His presence is everywhere, if not the ideal itself then its imaginable made: numinous as omni, the nimious divine—appearances whether in person or name cutting with the dullest rustiest knife to commercial again and again, on the eye of the teevee and over the mouth of the radio, also, Ben borne flaky and weightless upon their flurrying waves; interview the morning after gunkeyed, skunkmouthed, junketed night, this having to put up with: lumpy, lumpensaggy beds just upgraded cots, the patronizingly perky wakeup calls, impertinently polite alarms, and drecky, limited menu roomservice—without privacy to redeem any downtime allotted save that afforded Him by mother and sisters Mary, dizzying, revolving-doored, them following in the livery of a private minivan, metallic pink. Advance family, it’s theirs to prep His suite, pretrash it: filling it with His variegated mementos, babylore, and cheapskate keepsakes, His parent’s tchotchke inheritance already synchronized atop foreign shelves and alien mantels by His delayed ETA: the Messiah has landed; in every stop at nowhere, in every accommodation, they recreate His old room, which is contractually bound through the adjoining to an executive suite, to host Der footing the tab at the head of a hierarchy connective: down the halls doors opening onto doors, into the rooms of His minders Gelt, Mada, Hamm, theirs communicating ever further toward the obstructed, parkinggarage, parkinglot view with those of His others, His entourage whose disciples Ben pretends He doesn’t know, or wouldn’t—like when they dropin plausibly to borrow His bucket for ice or remotecontrol, then try to make professional acquaintance how He just grunts under the eyemask worn over His mouth, ignores them into the womb of the pillow (though it’s not snobbery, it’s just being bored with Himself, with His selves); altogether them a stagparty of shvitzy, hairy fat taking up an entire floor of even the most generous of hotels, bulging the atriums, which are sky-glassed, bursting through the fernfestooned, goldappointed lobbies…
No matter, Der says to Him in the limo up the highway, passing the docks disused, the empty slips and their warehouses warehousing only the inferiorly talmudic, mishnaic, and midrashic effects of the Torahfact dead (that’s where the excess haggadahs went, that’s where the surplus megillot are stored); the asphalt lots surrounding still fenced if lain fallow, for now, cracking, they’re breaking apart from within, furrowed for the lasting plant of the weather—the Sabbath’s always a traveling day, we’ve booked no engagements; you’ll notice, all our Saturday shows begin after sundown.
You’ve booked no engagements because nobody’s going to pay for a show on the Shabbos, haven’t you noticed?
The world’s lost its mind. Everyone wants to be me, except me.
Wait, Der says as the limo drags the slushed and scaled trashy wake of its wide, fishtailing turn into West 72nd, it’s more a question of you than of them…I’m sorry, he has to insist: I’m doing this for you, son. You’ve made, or you have through no fault of your own, plenty of enemies—Ishmael’s, Esau’s, Amalek’s more personal if you want it like that. Offhand—as the limo slips to a stop, with Der sitting scratching what itches, greasing his own palm while averting his eyes to the window, tinted, which he can prophesize out of without anyone peering in: a glimpse of an animally upholstered soul; the beasts who feed on redcarpets, that scopophiliac swarm—I can think of up to eighteen acronyms that want you…quieting as he’s let out from the limo to wait at sidewalk for Ben to be escorted out by the expediter on loan from Secret Service, then all the way around the limo’s trunk to meet him with His pose. Tightlidded, lipped—eighteen why who want me what? Ben’s thinking. Dead, an outsized flicker. Away…under a breath, circumspect one step down the walkway to the revived, relocated Undisclosed Avenue Deli, it’s called: Broadway, Amsterdamned, who knows, the unaddressed location of this recently opened ratnering dive, a katzified joint so premiere and exclusively new it like their refound God doesn’t yet have a name, or a phone, doesn’t take reservations, might never; this a Scripturally themed media insiders party organized by the office of Doctor Abuya, like bring your own Bible and He’ll autograph it for you no problem is the thinking. A Torah torah torah. Reassessed…in another step, hatting His face from the produce and eggs of the salaried protests, then disappearing—the flashes clouding Ben in heavens, the mortal stuff of stars. Redirected, pose, clickclack, who are you wearing, myself, my own wearing skin, Reinterpreted again yet again, with yet another slow step as journalists from the Times, Die Zeit, Le Monde, Il Corriere della Sera, Gazeta Wyborcza, and Pravda among incomprehensible others scribble down that term in our language, soon superseded—with a last step to the door-mensch, Der with an arm around a pole sustaining the sag of the rabinically velvet ropes offers repurposed, rethought…and I would think, Silenced; he smiles flack, crosses the threshold, then and only once inside and safe amid the rank air wafting from the imported grove of ulcerous Jaffa citrus turns a heel to whisper: what would happen—just putting an idea out there, oblige me—what would happen if you God forbid died, Ben…and then what—the ingathered demand refunds, out of my pocket? and he pinches out from the pants of his uniform his own, to air their immaculate linings, softbellied without coin…and in no time it’s a style, a trend, everyone’s doing it, that and those pants of theirs are more and more being bought secondhand, sold door-to-door.
Tonight’s the eve of the eve of Shavuout, also known as the Feast of the Tabernacles, even as we speak being doneup by Properties in granite—the last night of any success to simcha, before tomorrow’s opening at Radio City, for three nights of previews then the road, hitting the stix. And after the well-wishing, the Mazeling gut luck hugs and doubling kisses from the lips of the famous, which never meet veil but always wing at the air at both cheeks, Ben’s returned not to the limousine that’s never left curbside only idled and burnt, at the appointed hour swerving out from the front in its motorcade of ten police up front with ten more down behind and then fire, in the middle the limo warding only a paddedly paid Mexicano double of His, a ruse down Broadway south and into Midtown with a solo helicopter’s whirring moon providing searchlight assistance above—but now out the backdoor, Him through the service entrance and from there crowded through the trash alley and out to the stairwell at corner; its wet descent into the warmer mouth of a metallic smoke snake, the train buried steps below the icy crust of the earth; Heber to limo on, Ben and His minders to travel underground, depths deeper toward down there, Ben suspects where: gehenna, Hell Itself in these the latter days of the subway’s use, His own private transit always express, stopskipping without transfer, no hops to opposite tracks, He’s routed direct even through the outermost boroughs, bridge & tunneling ways toward the ends of the line, terminal termini—the domains of resistance, at Far Rockaway and Ozone Park, is the rumor, at Flushing, Coney Island, and Van Cortlandt, last stops with everyone off the settlements of the unredeemed the gossip goes; or else others hold it’s all a hopeful hoax, that the fix is in if broken, collapsing, and that Der’s just using a threat preexistent, capitalizing on it, creating fear from whatever incentive around; or, he’s been slandered to have set an entire counterrevolutionary consciousness onto the fasttrack, having been behind a Resistance from the very beginning—with his nose to the last cold car with his hands and arms straining, legs taut, and teeth set, to have the system all to his own miscellaneous purposes, once they’ve become clear…don’t mind us, we’ll wait.
&nbs
p; Ben riding sitting but jittered, His minders forced to stand, straphanging, leanedup against doors derelict, slouching asleep; them alone together in the frontcar coming down so fanatically fast, snaking the tracks that swallow themselves in an engorgedly warm worming of tunnel, a rodentlike, every-tailed scurry this rush of Him and train like a roach upon the rail of its own vomit…one lone latemodel hurtle if unnumbered, unlettered—now that one train’s givenover to all, every route—turned expressly loose and dullheaded, shrieking senseless on the system entire with everything else stilled, its others last warehoused in a yard boroughed so far Downtown it’s in Brooklyn, which don’t even think about it, too far and dimly imagined, how it only gives a headache to further squint or suspect: the glumsmogged recesses, through the windows—the catacombs; Ben passing here in the tunnels the snuffed candle shadows of saints without cults, the brave without canon, the homeless more beaten than beatified, without legend or enough money to afford for themselves miracles; ragged almost naked, they’re freezing and skeletalstarved, some kneeling to their Savior’s shattered statues, with orders of the secular others disheartened, huddling around their fires, sternoing for themselves icicles, a potable Hudson, taking turns to guard their encampments from the recent patrols—until, a gasp for air upon the Path tracks in Joysey, Exchange Place the stop with Ben’s train surfacing to spit from its rusted mouth a new Caddy, a towncar blackened without motorcade or support from the air, which takes on its own the alternate route ice homeward to the Garden; Heber and the limo to return to the Garden alone, with the escorting police and fire sirening the night with whirlingly guttural flashes, leaving behind a hundred utility vehicles leased on plans as various as they’ve been complicatedly voided: jealousy green bugs and extended sedans, and the yellow thinning ice fear of taxistani cabs both medallion and gypsy honking a sheepish bleat to the edge of the freeze that’ll never hold their gas; exhaust fills the sky; after a time, they turn wide around and skid home, hazards on, empty.