by Joshua Cohen
Mein Akzent, it’s just asking (your what, Ben wants to ask, only in order to say, O your accent!?), do you mind it? Mein research informs me zat you would find it distinguished, oder intelligent, ja…und zat anything sprached in this way would be listened to mit—Achtung, attention. In mein findings, am Ich—ach, how you say…accurate, Herr Israelien?
But instead, He begins to ask that whole what are you going to do with me shtick.
Like, why am I here?
I come in peace. I go to pieces. Be gentle, be kind.
Enough already, says Doktor Froid in a tone it’s now modulating to just east of placeless, here’s the deal…I’ll go ahead and drop the Kraut, if you stop sounding like we’re in a Spielgrob production.
Agreed?
Let’s dispense with the formalities, then…I am, I’m translating myself here, Doktor Froid, extraterrestrial.
From outer space, assigned to Earth.
To you, verstehen?
And where are we? We’re in my ship, presently hovering just above a stateline, what your nation would have referred to as the Arizona/New Mexico border—prior to the chaos to be expected of mass conversion, that is, and its regression attendant into a past that never really existed. Reactionary, actually. Fanaticism as an antidote to the modern, if you want the whole, what’s the word…spiel.
No thanks.
Where are my manners, it begins again—or are they provided for under another program?
It shifts in its seat, then asks, would you like a Schwanz? I’m quite partial to them myself…then waddles chitinous cephalopod across the office to a humidor hovering on a puff of purply pneuma as if the emanation of the very product within and once lit, produces from its perfumed innards four uniformly short and fat penises, gnaws away the leaved foreskins with a set of sharp, horny teeth, spits them with a radula’s huff to the floor, shoves three of them into any faces spare, proceeds to light their glandes with a match struck on the underfaced head from which it’s talking, then does the same for Ben as it drags, exhales slowly, savoring through every siphon.
Now then, it says, exhaling rings of smoke opening into the oblivious obviousness of the vaginal, let’s get down to business, shall we? We are collectors. Preservers. That is our nature. You with me? Ben lips His Schwanz, inhales to the corona, eliciting a fit of hack, wracks. We amass people and objects, Doktor Froid goes on, there’s no stopping it (anyway, it’s all too veiled, alluded to, tenatcularly gestured at, misted away amid the gathering smoke)—we amass things, objects, and people regarded as practically useless, worthless, superannuated, I mean obsolete; we hoard them, they’re our treasures. On our planet, which, so it’s not really a planet…but you don’t want to hear about that, more like an idea, or its orbits—we have the last locomotive, the last slice of ryebread, its last crust and caraway seed, the last sip of wine, which is dregs; the lasts even of things that haven’t yet been invented, we have: the Tushomantic Analysizer, for instance, which predicts futures according to posterior size and topography, you understand, but you wouldn’t, that’s still a long way off, give it time. As I’ve said, not just objects, though, but life as well, bioform, bio-mass, buy it up: plants and animals, endangerment, extinction, how they’re just the beginning; we have the last dodo, the last unicorn, dinosaur, dragon, the Leviathan, too, you name it, it’s ours…Ben considers the offer, then realizes this alien just likes to hear itself talk. Me me me, mine—we have the last postage stamp, the last telephone and the last television, the last atomic weapon, the last drop of oil…the final, the ultimate desinent, eschatological-wise, the caudal conterminous never.
On our planet, just follow me here, and there on permanent display—having been made available for inspection subject of course to a nominal charge, are the last novelty items: glo-in-the-dark vomit and poop, the lapel squirting-flower, the buzzer, the cushion that makes you make whoopee. We have Misses Stahl’s last knish, the last car of the last Q train that once lined from the bottom of the Park down all the way to Coney Island, Seventh Avenue to Stillwell, then the last seltzer nozzle from Canarsie found rusted, its bottle shattered down at the end of the L. What else. The last pocketwatch. The last threepiecesuit, though, admittedly, there are holes in the vest. We don’t do restoration. We don’t do replica. Nor facsimile, neither reproduction. Come to think of it, the list of what we don’t do wouldn’t fit in your universe. Number the stars. Kiss the sand. Ours is the last temptation. An enshrining of kitsch. An ennobling of the fleet, and forgotten. To begin again at the end, the ideal. Doesn’t matter, you don’t want that either. We have most of the last things, and only from your planet’s what. Other planets, other peoples, have other collectors, aggregators of their own, private interests with private capital, their own personal private manias; obsessional, it’s like a madness with them. We have you. It’s our shared fate, as they say. Symbiotic, yadda. And we would have this last of everything, not just to have it, no, but to hold it, preserve—to keep it in its decline, maybe, outside of your destruction, outside of your time.
Preserve what for what, and why’d you want to go and do a thing like that—having finally found His mouth, kept numbed around the smoke: no way there’s much money in the last if all you do is keep it locked up, like sleep with it, why. Seems strange. Icky. Aberrant. Unclean. A thing weird uncles would do.
You’re not understanding. It’s that the lastness of last things taken altogether, it’s not a lastness, it’s more like a nonlastness, a firstness, no, an extraordinary unordinal, you with me?
A whatness for whoness of whyness now?
In our time, which is not your time, which is outside your time much as your Einstein once thought, if you know him, you might, the one with the hair and the mc2…we have the last black & white photograph, listen up, the last phonograph record ever pressed, the Ninth Symphony of Mahler, conducted by your landsmann, sehr langsam; his name was Bernstein, like amber. We have, also, the last book ever published, though its title escapes me, its author unheard of. No one’s read it; we don’t want to break any bindings. Anyway, to explain: these three items, each the last of its kind, these three times together, they’re no longer the last—together, they fill in each other, reconstitute, recreate, repopulate the world that once made them…regeneration, reincarnation, not really, not quite; more like resurrection, that’s right: the last things of any world, at the instant they’re the last, are that world, nicht wahr, a world that, and this I don’t need to tell you, will never Turn turn turn again in the same manner ever.
And so? He wants to know.
And so, your presence is requested.
Me?
Yes, not now, though, soon enough…as if to say, I’m sorry, sir, your incredulity’s no longer good here. All the arrangements have been made. Everything’s paid already. Up front. Posterity’s been booked long in advance. A palace is waiting, like Solomon’s, Herod’s, whichever, a real Temple…that is, if you want it, a manger, a Mecca, a White House, all yours—and in it the last two Philistine women, now I have your attention, aloelipped, myrrhhaired twins both above and below how you wouldn’t believe, luckily enough for you they’ve got the last four perfect mammæ in your universe: they’ll attend to your every need, they’ll wait on you hand and hoof. We have, as well, the last of every species allowed to you, and if and when you finish them, and we’ll allow you to subsist on them, to eat and to drink them—that’s how important you are to us—you can start in on the tablets, which have been clinically proven to successfully simulate among the tastes of many other foodstuffs both that of kosher deli and takeout Chinese.
And why are you, answer me this, indulge me…Ben ashes His Schwantz into an attending green nurse’s He thinks it’s its cleavage, a pulsating bust itself interplanetary—why are you so interested, so obsessed, with this lastness?
An obvious question, Doktor Froid says, which it has all the answers…it’s that we have nothing to lose; nothing of ours ever ages, nothing becomes old and so, nothing dies. And
if there’s no death, nothing at the end, indeed, no end at all, then, and follow me here, there’s no possibility of our being exceptional; in other words, of this lastness, of being the last, as you say…sof pasuk: which estate we consider either the highest honor or the lowest punishment in a world such as yours, in which everyone’s punished to one severity or another—to tell you the truth, we’re still not quite sure. Understand me, please, and it stubs out all three of its Schwanzs in the rounds of ashtraying suckers—we’re immortal: for us, there’s no being born, and then again neither is there any being unborn, any life outside or, better, beyond, our cache. We’re the first people, also the last; the two qualities negate each other, commingle in cancellation, if you will, dialectically anull any ambition, hope or faith; and so we’re obsessed with this mortality, not only with yours but more perfectly—we’re fascinated by the end of it All, with what might be called universal mortality, if that makes any sense, deadline, flatlined timeline, catastrophe with all the fixings, Chaos the first God, Apocalypse’s Greek revelation…with the idea that any world can just—end; this quality of lastness, this idea of singularity, of being unique…we’re talking survival. Genug.
Whoever you are, whoever you would’ve been only if, whatever it is you do and whatever it is you would’ve done—you are it. And I mean, It. You, Ben of my Ben. The past and the future are now. Sit straight, make eye contact, bend me an ear…
To name a thing’s to give it life, that’s your tradition, just trust me on this. It’s like Adam, prothoplastus to ultimaplastus, the Roman, the Latin, you follow…then a negative Adam, an antiAdam, the genetic repository of God’s imaged intention and its debasement by you, I mean them. Ben, you have no culture, but to those left behind you are the culture. No matter what you might want out of life, no matter what you might’ve wanted out of it once, or needed, or else what’d been expected of you or by you, you Ben—liebchen, if I may presume—are chosen, and like you, we, too, have no choice…and Doktor Froid stretches out, slowly, expectantly, crossing tentacles to reveal behind them and underneath squishy, an armchair: plush, loosely jointed, and creaky maybe a century old; emitting in its recline a patter of soft flatulent noise He mistakes for the sounds things like this make when they respire, if they respire—ask it.
Bitte, He says, I’ll bite, I’ll even chomp at the bit and He spits out a loose shred of Schwanz…I’m interested, I won’t deny it. Let’s talk particulars—how does it work? the salary, the hours? Vacations? Benefits? What’s your coverage?
To begin with, we beam you up here and ship you to Zion—I know, I know, we’re thinking about changing the name…
And then?
And then what else do you expect, you exist. But you’ll want motivation, incentive, enticement, a little of the what’s in it for me. Shema, hear and then harken: for you, we’ve broken the rules, violated directives, thrown basic principles to the wind that isn’t in space and so we’ve made it ourselves with rain and with snow and then set it blowing on course, that’s how serious. Your happiness means the world to us; what I mean is—we’re really going out of our way. Especially, we’ve acquired not a last, and neither a first, except as she represents for us a departure, and for you, everything, the universe known and, at the same time, not so well…she has her own distinction, I mean. We have for you a woman named Hanna, though we know this isn’t how she was known to you. She was Mother, Ima, Eve and Lilith, think suckle.
You do? He springs from His seat to stand the unsteady thrust of the ship, gags on His Schwanz, begins choking.
And now we need you…not now, though, later—your later.
And then? He asks, getting breath.
And then we’ll have you, that’s it, and we’ll keep you and well, that should be enough. What else do you need: you want we should probe you, perform experiments, polish off the speculum, speculate deep—anything else you secretly hope against fear we’d do because you’d be disappointed if we didn’t, wouldn’t you? Doktor Froid whacks Ben on the back with a tentacle uncrossed, He hurls His Schwantz out of His mouth to fly across the room wildly butt over cherry, as if with tractoring lock to smack this nurse attending in the tush if it’s tushes they have like orbiting moons; a fit of hurt throat, then a calming of cough, a stifle and soon, amid silence, another of the Doktor’s tentacles exploring His lap in a special direction, leaving across His knees damp trails of suction.
Yes, He admits, recovering, I’d probably be disappointed, usually am.
But don’t disappoint us!
One more thing, though. It’s what’s this? Ben’s asking to move the session along from groping to fate, so as not to run this session overtime and on reserve power at that, the emergency beamblinking, winking, lowlight supply or who would’ve thought engines down—and so, owing additional money He doesn’t have to an alien who probably doesn’t have need for it…if I have no say in the matter, I’m thinking, what’s with this abduction?
Only a reminder, a noodge or a nudge. It’s to say hurry up and expire, enough with this already: get your life together and live out your span, your eternity, or only what you perceive as your eternity, and then, we’ll be back…we’ll return for you on our next pass through this quadrant, you should be honored—you’ll be our only stop in the galaxy. Now, and I mean no disrespect, you’re not the only acquisition on our agenda this time.
What, He wants to know who, who’s more important than me?
If I must, and Doktor Froid strokes its moist staches, its beardy clammed thought. Discretion, divulge. It’s the last of the last, this One. Though we would’ve retrieved Him on our last trip, the logistics wouldn’t work—just didn’t make sense to Accounting, wasn’t they said costeffective, even we have to deal with budgets, deadlines, and crunch: we would’ve been backtracking, would’ve spent half an infinity on inventory and restock alone; this One’s at the end reaches; He doesn’t live where He works, doesn’t bring the office home with Him, no mixing business with pleasure. We need Him before you—but you’ll get to meet Him, don’t worry, and you might even like Him. A wonderful addition to our collection. It’s big, I’m talking a raise, might be in for a promotion, Management’s impressed. What I’m saying is that though for your world He’s the last of the last, it’s not that He’s a nothing to us.
Last what? who?
Though there’s a slight problem: it’s that we can’t quite figure out what He eats, if He eats, if He drinks, sleeps or wakes or whatever, we’re not sure, how could we be and Him, it’s not like He’s telling, keeps a lowprofile lately, silent, and hidden; it’s as if, it’s been said—it’s whispering slurpily—He doesn’t even exist, is maybe already dead, or perhaps never did exist…more like He just seems that way, wants to seem that way, out to prove, make a point: at least appears if imageless, resistant, apprehensive about the whole process, I’m sure, irked, jealous, and vengeful…relatively normal response under the circumstances, can’t say I blame Him, don’t hold it against. He’s not used to being bullied, coopted, told what to do. Not Him, not the last of the Gods—and, would you believe it, the Doktor says brightening, and rising from behind it as if they’ve all along padded its sit atop the decline of the armchair a handful of tentacles each banded around with a hundred fancy schmancy watches clocking their times differently though equally and expensively regular—it’s fifty minutes past an hour of yours; my how sessions fly, and how we should, too. It’s been a pleasure; truly, I’m honored, it’s deep. Don’t worry, we’ll deduct the fee for this session from your first week’s allowance. My office won’t be in touch until it’s too late; we don’t call or send cards. Speaking professionally, you’ll forget all about us. But you might want to get a second opinion. Rest assured, Ben—we’ll meet again soon.
A ray of light or shaft, with Him beneath, the disposition terrible. One leg of a ladder missing another leg and then, too, their rungs altogether, with Him beneath and passedout. A pole, and not that of the moustachioed, sausage-tongued nationality, those who
once had been known as Poles, and so to be fatter and even taller and immensely hairier and more violent than that of the present species—but a pole like a totem, as in a lamppost, a telephonepole, above Ben, passedout about to cometo.
The mood, horrendous, don’t ask.
A pole just poling out there alone in the middle of the desert—O the West Pole, standing blown to bow in the cold wind of dawn, its shadow so long it reaches all the way to the easterly pole and right back around again, equatorial and such, gone global. As for the loose rag atop, that flappity schmatte: it’s flying the standard of a nation Ben’s never heard of before, a flag for a land He’s never even seen on the maps, a country maybe unconscious.
18, it says, where’s that?
Ask Aba—golf was his thing.
It’s freezing, and His robe’s no help, it’s wet, not fabricate but filth. It’d snowed, then icedover, and all the while the grounds’ sprinklers have been on, shooting their water to harden, to still, their sprays frozen insectlike, or into seacreature tentacles—coldhanging cages of flow, as if capturing air, imprisoning cold.
Ben on a golfcourse, His form a divot of earth.
The shadow is the pole and its shading flutter the poletop flag for the eighteenth hole He’s sprawledout atop, or below: comingto, goingout, Him coming and going again to where He doesn’t know which, nauseous, perplexed—an incalculable time dialed, teed upon the posts of His lie. On the head and the arms, there are wounds, there are scars, and then the shadow’s in a different lie from where He’d last left it, dimming across a hazard with the westerly swing of the sun. The light, His eyes…the kopf of His head. Ben’d been knocked-out: a prick of blood encircled by the red of unconscious scratch on an arm up near the hock of the shoulder…a doctor, it said it was, then there’d been a needle unnursed, its sharp tipped widely and as dark as the night. He’s hit that head, too—on a rung fallen from, knocked a dream. He tosses, numbed, though His numb also aching, and His putz slipping from its shorts, then pajamapants and mothering robe to writhe within the hole lubricious with ice melting from the friction: Ben rubbing up and down against the astroturf, and upon spurting He goes out again and when He comes to He’s shed a skin and soft again and there’s greengrass that’s strangely not God’s Third Day of the beginning creationary grass and the green, it’s a strange bitterherb in His mouth, between His teeth a tongue that’s jealous of wet. He spits to the wind, turf and leaves fallen, flails under the eyes of vultures perched on powerlines neighboring the fairway, aged and blistered buzzards out for fleisch, His or any. It seems, with the long, sharply tipped tufts His hands weed from the course, that the astroturf, regularly watered by weather, has begun growing on it own; it hasn’t been manicured for moons.