by Joshua Cohen
And then, this, just what the I’s need: a woman at that retirement home gala linner out in Mass., He thinks come Connecticut…a woman He’s never known before, never known in any sense how she stands up for herself to announce, to the press and the hysterical rest: Ben Israelien the Messiah is the father of my daughter! and then, hymn, what do you know (from want, from accusation, from the hurt of denial), another woman from inside the receiving line in the parkinglot she stands just outside it, removed, holds her kid if it even is hers up in the air under the weather as if praying for lightning to strike them both down how she booms…mine, too! He’s the father of mine, just as much! Mister Israelien has never had relations with that woman, Gelt says. Sadly, He thinks. Unfortunately no, is maintained. You’re goddamned right you’ve never slept with me, she says into a mic, proferring—pardon. As if I would sleep with a God poo poo poo—the mothers hock at once, spit to ice. This kid’s immaculate, she goes on…as a wad of photographers press in to shoot her; for the sake of circulations (panting), she’s milking the kid at a scandalous teat, deviatorily distended, bared. And so the paternity suits begin pouring in, allegations of daughters, too, but predominantly of heirs, sons alleged prodigal, their birthrights assumed: their papers always served late at the partner hotel, after roomservice brunch or lunkfast but before its dessert, as if cream for His coffee, a sapping stir. A third woman big with His issue datelined the opposite coast, then an oviferous fourth from overseas where Ben’s never yet been; a fifth with issues with a sixth with problems and more, seeking a degree of enablement, and that materially as much as of the soul we should hope; some alleging two kinder by Him, others three, though even if these offspring would be acknowledged, and let’s be clear, none of them are, “none would be Affiliated, as such transference must be maternal,” reads in part the Garden’s statement—which doesn’t mean these women won’t be bought off. Envelope stomachs, a womb flush with coin. A Maggie Dalene, 26, of Mittel Albany who’s swollen with daughter; a Christiana Eleison, 18, of Kfar Echo Lake, she’s worrying twins; an A. Leah Capitolina, age and whereabouts withheld or unknown, who she’d suffered a miscarriage of triplets she claims had been His; an Agnes Day stunned at the virgin birth of her son one David Stern last name and the eyes of her husband now ex; one Polly Esther suing Miss Day for partial custody of the boy, willing to let judgment decide, seeking a severance Solomonstyle, perhaps; even and for the ennobling edification of none a Bea Titude of Kiryas Joe alleging rape, a night spent in the stairwell of a motel outside of what’d been Goshen, violent and apologetic and altogether pathetic (the pleading, the please) while the lobby hordes were kept waiting for moments; though rumors of a legitimate son will prove unfounded, what won’t, and even amid the handling of this issue misplaced deftly in how furious, fierce, they manage never to make public His, how to say—operation: His procedure’s never leaked is what, and Miss Shade is overtimes reassured of the purity of her bridegroom-to-be.
Another offday, downtime of sorts and this despite its appearance worked only in public defense: up in Cambridge, Ben’s squeezed into a suit of tweed the kind with the leather spleenshaped patches on the elbows to protect Him in His wriggling grovel. A deserved sabbatical upon a Monday spent pent within the ivy walls and ivory towers of this university turned kollel of late, He’s here to accept an honorary diploma, an nth degree in theology, it’s decided, demanded, its presentation followed by a turn at hightable, leading Kiddush at a private faculty oneg—the intelligentsia supporting Him more for what He represents, less for who He is, suspecting such when this dean promoted to Rosh hands Him His sheepskin unframed and unsigned. Campuseswide, lectures have been forsaken in favor of sermons. Higher homiletics; the week following newspapers carry columns Ben signs, never reads. Maui offers Him a pulpit. Nome counters to name Him Chief Rabbi. Elite me nothing, snub me no snob: He’s both pop and not, His cult a movement of mass and a stilling of One…the namebrand, the Name.
The ninetynine of them then one more of God, names a hundred allpardoning, undeniable and ineffable, inextinguishable and, as much, allnegating—they’re going sloganeered on traffic signs, stickered and stenciled, on the walls of public telephones and information kiosks, taxistands, bus and cartstops, nomens recently registered trademarks of Garden, Inc. (violations are being cataloged, with vandals charged only if they’re not billed). NEB! in kabbalistically diffuse red, white, & blue becoming sprayed in tunnels of the subway said to be held by any revolution convenient for comment, a loose though they’re said to be organizing group of shirkers, skeptics, and the libertarian available that might anyway be paranoid fearmongering, or just another Garden interest, disinformation as entertainment, misdirection as the only way forward, nothing new there. With the Nachmachen tasked to image maintenance with Doctor Abuya assisting, advising in matters of Law in a capacity interpretive, say—a consultancy of divination palms opened, thumbly their fumbling prestidigitation—while Gelt and Hamm have been remanded to merchandising, remaindered to the bargaining bin of this campaign for hearts and minds, wallets and purses, pocketsouls snapped, moderation getting caught in the zipper; supervising the PR initiatives, and administrating, too, the official production facilities of the Garden (and don’t ask as to an acronym—lately there’re just enough around to forget), which night through to day are spitting out every species of kitsch; barracks repurposed to manufacture, light industry, areas of lading and loading, property dezoned and downzoned out on the ice of Joysey eminently domained; the two of them standing on the floor of a factory fit for Kings, Queens, or Hudson counties, hardhattted and soft of face witnessing as Ben’s own squeezes cheeks lumpy and pasty, extruded out of every metallic orifice at once, laudably shiny, all wrapped up in Himself: here a line of gastrointestinal aids, there a regimen of heartburn pills, associated powders and tinctures reactive, inventions of the dead FBs, pharmaceutical patents shylocked for a promise, the prescription of a rare grave. Icons of Israelien inflatable to totter sandfooted, alongside plaster Bens to stand on ceremony, its columns; pressuremolded and plastic Hims even for inclement weather outdoor use on stoops and lawns (1 foot, 36 inches, & 50), said to be sainted, for a nominal supplementary fee, that is, Benblessed miraclegranting, that’s extra, it’s told—fear not, they’re faceless, to circumvent the prohibition of the second commandment; name it what it is, the newest rabbis say, an idol at fabulous savings. Furnishings for the garden and home, and a line of luggage, also, just perfect for your next refugee flee. All products bearing Ben’s stamp of approval, that cartoonishly capital almost bubbly B in their olden language facing opposite and intertwined with a Gothically fonted by way of the sofer’s stam Bet, is how it begins in another; that unmistakable B/ emblazoned in iridescent hologram across the obverse of the packaging—with a worldly dagesh or dot floating to blot their bind at middle—being the same seal that identifies the new currency, Israelien shekels entitling the bearer to His visage laurely ovaled though veiled, and in eighteen denominations, minted across the country and, soon, if the Garden gets its way, the world, under the auspicies of the Treasury, which, along with dissimulation, was Der’s old department.
Though the new isn’t even the half of it, as the relic market soars, through the roof—a chimney’s black puff: locks of hair said to be His go for a mint, wrapped for the shipping in mismatched to no matter white tubesocks, retrieved from the laundry, dirtied fetching more than clean, veils and vials of sacral saliva and if impotent seminal fluid are prized if always faked and known to be, too, forged receipts, counterfeit clippings of nail from finger and toe, bogus foreskins and eyelashes as questionable, and as unquestioned, as the proliferating public and publicized records of miscellaneous deeds done, of good works goodly worked upon billboards and within the webs of neon campaigns—Bens private and public assimilated into a bland middle, made pareve, approachable, relatable’s the term through the given mundane (gnawed nighttable pencils and pens, knives and forks stolen from roomservice carts and their dishes that chafe, y
armulkes blown from His head and from there—directly into the hands of the deserving, a blessing fallen from the steal of the wind), these artifacts of His lapsed divinity, these failures made object of abject, His. Witness the fervor for such relics culled and cleaned from the fleshified strata of this monumentally walkingtalking dig, this instantaneous forefather Ur; an involuntary authority just one appeal short of repealing Himself, it’s been said—meaning God…what tsuris, what terror!
And how He’s imperishable like divinity, too, managing to recover from any scandal, emerging ever stronger, with an authority that can’t even admit No Comment, that can’t even be questioned without asking back: the latest DNA tests performed manage to identify the Jnome, or its lack (though only the results are reported, the exact science hushed up), setting the issue of a son right once and for all. With the depths of scandal being translated to the heights of authority, an inviolable mandate atop its heightening mountain with the desert impending—He’s near teflon omni, a bulletproof golden cow without tarnish; a bush behind which hides the ram that is His fear, never to be burnt for a lark. A Moses’ Moses, which is as a lay God or lap dog, a stoolpigeon trained to fetch the new tablets: debut legislation, fall season’s ad copy, the invite list’s advance benevolence. At pattering parties, Ben going from being token to a coin, as currency musthave, to be booked long on advance notice only: as a straightmensch, or color commentary, as a guest host or rabbi-to-the-stars, engaging in scripted debates with Doctor Abuya and others for gabs fested on rushhour FM and late night teevee nationwide—though there’s only one network revived. He makes for pleasant filler; not too difficult, always engaging, toeing the Garden’s line in slippers orthopedic: a product of Benwear©, His own label of big & tall clothing. Ben weeknights hocking whatever product He’s been informed of His support of (Cistern Bottled Water®), personal predilection for (He-brew™, now available in eighteenpacks), scissoring ribbons at kosher food outlets all over the nation, opening libraries at minimum security prisons out of state, inaugurating kennels, speechifying at rallies and public gatherings for worthwhile cause (Late Onset Tay Sachs research) or catastrophe (COP, COnvert the Poor); opening matzahball and gefiltefish canneries, delivering keynote addresses at sales seminars for women’s undergarments, motivational speaking for headache survivors, and Friends of the Uncircumcised. The Orphan Bride Fund. CPA’s for Charity. Ben all day all around your dial, turn as you, the introspectively disaffected, might (though afraid as any are nowadays of being denounced), hocking insoles, insteps, solutions, too, and solvents, it’s amazing, Ben, it really works, and just wait, He says, till you take a sit down in one of these recliners, phenomenal, tell me about those hypoallergenic pillows, will you, hymn, Ben, they’re specially designed to service your cervical curve, wow, I can’t believe it, can you: grillers and smokers and knives, life’s never been so easy, the wife’s never had it this good; Ben embracing the neologic of the infomerical, smiling from behind every pulpit, smarming from atop any platform—name the price, He’s your mensch. Marketing loves it, they’ll die for His grins—or so the Garden assures its investors with data to prove, the Kings Ben plugs for, endorses on behalf of from late at night monologues through the walkover, hosted into morningshowed tomorrows that guest the same as todays, the total program. How’s life? Holiday plans? Primetime beckoning, a call in the wilderness of poolside, the lure of the highestpaying slots, their jangling ring: Ben’s mouth behind the tamtam diet, the herringflavored proteinsupplement, touting its kashrut, the benefits to your health; then, only a spot later He’s on again giving weepy testimonial for Praying Off The Pounds©, I’ve never been more excited, He says, than about this simpering-ly a-may-zing evangelical weightloss movement in a spate of commercials for which He’s backed by a vintaged folksinger who with guitar in hand jingles himself out the nose. Though to be fair to His handlers, and to keep up His image, that selflessness shtick, Ben’s out there publicservicing, too, paid per the platitude to engage with the kinder, announce: Stay in drugs, Don’t do School. Take two. Yeshiva, voiceover. Ben, nothing much matters, that He botches most of this if not all: in His overdubs, occasionally awkward, a stutter; comfortless and clumsy in photographs; in printspots in both how He’s imaged and quoted, nearly repellent in intentschmearing spreads: a pitchmensch grabbingly girthed, overflowing His waistline, foldout…Ben’s pants pinched in two, while pitching a tent in His fly (styling credits: WHose by Israelien, $59.99/1080 IS): an encampment pilgrimaged by everyone who’s, producers and their advancemenschs, their behindmenschs, faddists and setters and models and magnates, crossover heiresses and crosseyed tycoons; their congregation itself beset with the heated pants and ferocious howlings of autograph hounds, salivating and fearsomely scratching at an elusive itch perked by the ears or the tail—they need His signature, it’s His name or death: just kick it into the sand, will you, at the edge of our purpose, of Ben’s or of Judah’s or…legible only to the gaze of the sun, let the wind efface it on the morrow: it’ll be gone, but may that gust carry your fame far and wide. He has to memorize how to sign His name in the holy tongue, entailing Nachmachen instruction under Abuya supervision—it’s a popular request. He grips the pen fullfist, as if the tongue of His tongue concentratedly nibbed. Then, to make His mark upon their clammy, heaving flanks: a singular initial fanged across the ribs, with a hesitant flourish. He shakes hands if hands hounds have, and then’s gone, leaving behind Him a disappointed pack of fierce fandom, cursiveshaped jackals howling at the moon.
O pity this Kitschenmensch fallen, semioticized Semitically exotic, hermeneutered to death! It might be better, the Garden thinks, if all had their own individual Bens, then, a personal savior to call each their own, or Ishmael—that would make more sense than such overscheduling, these lookalikes who themselves have to be minded night and day to keep sober and kind. A figure, a figurine, poseable, plastic without soul. An animal stuffed with dream, stitched up with silvery linings. Scarred. Expressionless. Name it again what it is, not an idol but an idol’s idol, a God’s imaged god shelved Aisle Ten, opposite the mirrorlike void. Too bad you can’t massproduce stars. Stay with us, it’s part of and parceled with research, that’s it, at least that’s how R & D’d try to sell it to Him: trying to find out if Ben, both the concept and human, the menschboy, the boychick, would be more viable as what, a woman—with a pair of those, Doctor Tweiss snickers, the other Tweiss sniggers, and a you know, giggle, snort, tsk, tsk, down there, with baby chromozoans helixed just right, nice and neat to further the line. Twistingly turned. Have Him mate with Himself. Cloning, no buts. Stroke a schlong. I need more. Lightning and thunder. Frank & Stein, a firm whose services He’d be smart to retain. Idea is, nu, how Der and his inner tisch they don’t say what it is as much as it’s implicit in whatever they the doctors are allowed to be told: to make Him as versatile as possible, opened up to the widest possible appeal; though only after identification of the maximum number of permutations to be had from among xdemographed incarnations and yadda y furthered through z. Basically, as it’s lately explained, once the value proposition’s been defined in committee, to go right ahead and, synergistically proactivate the deepest spiritual desires of, fill in the blank—what was the budget of Babel, how high overhead? Forecasts, predictions, a waste of time, resources, money money money say the angels up in Accounting; it’s that we have to tap into dreams, sample only the tenth or so of the stuff that’s represented as prophecy, according to our Sages, their entitled fraction, the terumah…let them make their beds to lie in them, we’ll be the richer for it; let them grope for amelioration all they want upon waking, it’s not going to change anything soon. It’s too late to toss, turn, rollover, around; it’s going to be that they can’t tell when one dream ends and another begins, and what’s best is that they’re not going to care—as long as we’re always a delusion ahead.
Awake, Ben’s lying in bed. His room, a hotel, motel, don’t ask, He doesn’t, not anymore where. Bottles of butts with the teevee on we
ather, He’s on in an hour. To be due in Makeup & Wardrobe, stat, doubletime. He sits up, takes in the carpet, the cabinet and dresser and the grain of the desk, the rack and the luggage, its guts sliced open to air; His crib, too, never used, they always bring with to hold ice. He’s wrecked, doesn’t know what time it is, light or dark. And so He goes to the window to up the shades and stands there over the west laidout below Him—unable to remember how He got out here this far: parkinglot A, parkinglot B, parkinglot C…asphalt sanding away to the highways, the open America, nothingness deserted, disused; downstairs floors below the hotel complex a horde of extras going through a round of rushed alterations—the unionized seamstresses hemming and hawing; the animal wrangler’s bathing the goats, lions and lambs, as his assistant’s hosing the rank wet from their cages; the properties master’s inspecting the sets—Egypt, Venice, Poland, and Tenement: East Side—redoing the Yiddish on a sign set to be the frontage of a butcher’s; the harpist’s getting herself tuned in the pit to the strains of an anthem different, made minor. Outside, lit in the gloriole of the three letter marquee—there’s a kid, standing at attention, a pole, hoisting up the new flag. Its lone star shines lonely. Its six points, spiting. Martyring the sky surrounding—the pitiless desert, its insomniac pulse.
O the eve of the Fourth, the erev of the fourth day of Ju-ly—and there’s no better shrine at which to celebrate, nu, To observe, than this here: a city only recently risen a bright hump from out of the bleakness of dunes, the newest capital of what was once known as the West, not sure if you’re familiar…no more wondering around enough wandering hotel hallways, then down any that might seem, if just for a moment, a frayed thread of rug, a gilded mirror glint, auspicious in their direction, their winding, portentous of eventual give; begging bribing answers off porters uniformed and not, offduty, dishwatery waiters and wrungfaced nightdesk personnel; through the window left open, go forth and sin with your eyes: the globes revolving dizzily, above the fountains spewing radioactive—an empyrean stripped, fallen to its tar knees, openmouthed, sucking freonated air and noising urgent. Cut the crapola, the decks and deal, we’re talking the glittery take them off tits, the sparkly cunt graven deep between the dunes, then beyond…trudging heavied, pockets emptied of everything but sand: O the skulls and the crossed bones, the brittle cacti, the desert. And then—so much—the fade of these sounds…the bringing bling, the rubby, grubby coin ching, die’s deathrattle weighted for snake eyes—it can only be none other, fellowtraveled good friends. Knowest thou the whirlwound where of this Sodom? Givest thou the proverbial futz as to the hidden name of that there forbidding Gomorrah? He asks, fregn, farlangen, or environs. Welcome to Los Siegeles, baby, a cocktail maydel whispers in His ear, then quotes Him the price for an hour.