They Is Us

by Tama Janowitz

  “Hi there!” says Mr President. “Good to see you, A., and thanks for the lift!” Of course he is accompanied by the SS men, but thanks to the President’s fiancé these guys are much better dressed nowadays.

  “Jesse, we really don’t have all that much time before we land, so shall we get started?” The President looks at A. Jesse meaningfully.

  “You know, Tahnee, maybe you better go and sit in the back, Mr President and I have much business to discuss!”

  Tahnee likes having a flight attendant all to herself and the couch in the back folds out into a bed with the softest white sheets. The sheets are pure cotton with an eight hundred-thread count, according to Marie-Therese who is wearing the cutest little attendant’s uniform by Tark Bocaj. Tahnee has never before lain on 100 per cent cotton. Cotton is a luxury fabric, they don’t grow it in the laboratories. She is learning rapidly. Marie-Therese brings her crab cakes, which are made not from processed imitation crab but the real thing; likewise the cheese, these cheeses are artisanal cheeses aged up to seven years in temperature-controlled caves. And the orange juice is made of freshly squeezed oranges. Although she’s not of drinking age, Marie-Therese has been told to give Tahnee whatever she wants; thus Tahnee is able to select from an incredible variety of vodka. Among the brands are: Grey Goose, Sky, Smirnoff, Russian Standard, Imperial, Cristal, Absolut, Stolyichnaya, Finlandia, Royal Scarab and approximately eighty-seven more. There are also flavored vodkas: pepper, orange, citron, pomegranate, mushroom, peach, lime, vanilla and quite a number of other flavors!

  By the time the plane lands Tahnee is woozy, her eyes bright, her cheeks are the slightest bit flushed, almost the color of dawn. He likes it this way. He doesn’t exactly ply her with more, which really would be tacky and beside, he is not in any hurry.

  “You see,” A. Jesse tells her, lighting up a blunt, which, after all, compared to steet – and crait – is perfectly natural, “the meeting: well, so the President says to me, ‘Listen, A., let’s set off another underwater bomb’.” He hands her the joint. “To prevent war, but in actual fact he’s got his science department telling him it’ll raise an island and we can relocate Vegas there. Of course any new land coming up is going to be contaminated – at which, of course, Wesley almost has a cardio infarct, he doesn’t want to hear it – but East Coast citizens will be allowed to go there, spend their money and feel like they’ve somewhere. Actually, this isn’t such a bad idea, we’ll have casinos, ship in some sand, slap up some palm trees or pine trees – whatever. These people, they haven’t seen a pine tree before, so, anything will be like a vacation for them!” Tahnee is fixing herself another drink before she takes the blunt from him. Nothing seems to have any effect on this kid. “We’ll have, I dunno, replicas of things. This is agreed. Problem: my guys say it will cause a tsunami and destroy a lot of the country that we’re claiming to be at war with. No problem, says Wesley, we’re gonna say that they have biochemical munitions that we have to get rid of. Point to him. The devastation will slow them down; we’ll go over with soldiers to blow up the rest of them and turn them democrat. Afterward, the aid from American peoples will make them realize that they are much loved by us.”

  Oops. The plane is landing and as they exit on to the tarmac and A. Jesse’s waiting car, Tahnee is looped out of her gourd, she is not used to smoking such quality marijuana. And it is cold here, in fact, it is winter here, with beautiful clean flakes of snow floating and floating, so clean and white and Christmassy that in her tiny satin hot pants she can’t help but shiver. “Oh, gee, are you cold?” says A. Jesse considerately. He leans forward to turn up the heat and puts his arm around her. To his surprise, Tahnee cuddles into him with a purr. “There’s a nice shop here for fur coats,” he says, “We’ll go and pick out one for you tomorrow.”

  “Gross!” says Tahnee, giving him a shove. “I would never wear fur, do you know what they do to those poor little animals?”

  “Oh no, sweetie, out here that’s not something you have to worry about. The fur comes from dead animals.”

  “Yes? And your point is?”

  “I mean animals that die of natural causes; and they’re all programmed to keel over when they reach the age of two-and-a-half or three. At their peak. Mink, fox, chinchilla. Until then they lead happy happy lives! I’ll show you tomorrow. You see, out here in Nature’s Caul, the animals are all so tame and gentle, they come and go as they please. And when it’s time for them to go, they go back to where they’re used to being fed and drop dead in full coat.”

  “Oh.”

  For the first time he has the sense he has genuinely engaged her, impressed her. “Anyway, as I was saying.” He is used to women acting attentive, but she offers no encouraging murmurs of interest, “In addition, the decimated country will be required to use the money to hire American construction and contracting firms and buy US food supplies such as peanut butter and macaroni and cheese. So what’s in it for me? My hedge fund is going to quadruple, at the least, overnight. But do I need the money? Not really. What’s my private… oh gosh, what is the word I’m looking for? You know how each person has a…”

  “Dream?” says Tahnee, snuggling more closely into his side. Marijuana always makes her affectionate.

  “I guess.” Oh God, he will absolutely swoon now. Swoon? What the hell is wrong with him, and at his age. He presses his nose and lips to the soft area below her neck, and as he does so he has a sensation something akin to his two frontal lobes being gently parted. Or a massage by a thousand fluttering feathers? He suddenly hates her. “Let me move you over a little bit, honey, I got your elbow digging into me.”

  Miserable now, he looks out the window. As the car climbs the mountain round the trees change from deciduous to fir, covered with snow.

  The girl snores gently, dribbling a little drool on his custom-made white shirt. He has had a big stiffy for the past four or five hours, off and on; it’s been goddamn painful, but now finally it goes away. Maybe he’s lost interest in her altogether, who knows? He’s never had much of an attention span for people. And now he realizes something else: thin rips, or maybe ridges, have appeared in the universe’s fabric. If not the universe, the skin around the earth. He unrolls the window and looks out at the night sky. The stars twitch above. You can still see them here, maybe the only place left and the air is so clean and fresh, thanks to specially piped-in ozone and ions and special plug-in scents every few feet along the road.

  He is a scientific genius. Or a financial genius, but then, who can tell the difference between them? Or anything, for that matter. It’s the process. His mind has now made the leap, this understanding about the fabric of the globe, similar to old underpants. It’s a pair of boxer shorts washed too many times, or with too much bleach. It has something to do with the surplus of electronic devices. Or that too many people and things have died, there’s no room left for them or their electrons, neurons, what have you.

  The marijuana really was too strong. At least they have arrived at last at his house. “Here, honey,” he says, nudging her gently. “We’re home.”

  His lodge is ski-in, ski-out, and a big roaring fire in the stone fireplace has been made per his orders in the vast reception hall; one of the staff comes to take the luggage while another carries steamy drinks on a tray that might be glog or grog or gluwein or hot mulled cider. “Why aren’t these toddies hot?” complains A., taking a sip.

  “Sorry, sir, we’re having trouble with the stove, it doesn’t seem to be working at present, nor the microwave, the remote system has its wires crossed and when we press the button the sliding doors open.”

  “Don’t bother me now, with all that – can’t you see I’ve got company?” he says, indicating Tahnee as a big dog comes in, who might be a Scottish Deerhound or an Irish Wolfhound or golden retriever or a Labrador retriever or a Newfoundland or a hyena.

  Hyena

  The hyena’s reputation as a skulking, craven coward is not justified

  Scottish Deerhou
nd

  Whatever it is, it crosses the slate or bluestone or ipe wood floor, wagging its tail, claws clicking, clickety, clap, tap, tap, tap. “Hi there, Boss, he says, though it is unclear whether the dog actually knows him. “Don’t worry, he’s friendly.” He has arranged all these things specially, it is just that he can’t remember whether he has selected items a, b, c, or d, for this particular residence.

  All Caul is divided into three parts. The richest of the rich have custom-built homes from which a person can choose from items listed below

  • heated outdoor infinity pool with view of mountains and valley below or indoor pool with waterfall

  • glass greenhouse redolent with rare exotic orchids or fragrant citrus or unusual sedums and succulents resembling stones

  • heated barn with pure Arabian horses or gaited Pasofinos or Lipizzaners (your choice of color except for the Lipizzaner which change from dark to white as they age or possibly the other way round)

  • living room decor: paintings by Rothko, Agnes Martin, Alfred Jensen, and furniture by Herman Miller, Knoll, Eames and George Nakashimaya or collection of Legeres, Braques, Brancusis, Picabia accompanied by zebra wood furnishings by Ruehlemann or works by Matthew Barney, Ed Ruschka, Damien Hirst, Andy Warhol diamond dust silkscreens of shoes and furnishings of (tk) or Elfrieda Biondi sculptures, Dewey Whitefish installations, paintings by Sorbet Finkelstein, Toppy Bleck, Erna Meisterstuck and furniture by Mississippi Ralphman, Stephen Jonas and Lucash Amelio.

  Someone has his private number. A woman’s face with three dark chin hairs four feet high, nostrils the size of buckets, emerges on the screen. His ceilings are eighteen feet high, at first he thinks he is going to scream: that face is so darn huge! Who the heck could it be? He has forgotten to do something – press a button? utter a word or phrase? – to reduce the image to a corner. Oh, gosh, it is that darn Murielle already bugging him.

  “Darling, it’s me.” The breathless fakeness of the voice on the other end, who does she think she is fooling? “I’ve been so worried, I’ve been trying to reach you, of course I’m wondering how Tahnee’s doing and all, but I know you just got there, I’m sure she hasn’t even settled in. The thing is, I really miss you, I can’t wait to see you. When do you think you can send the plane for me?”

  It occurs to him he doesn’t have to put up with this. “Honey, I am right in the middle of a meeting, that’s why I haven’t turned on my screen for you to see me – let’s talk later.”

  Tahnee comes down the stairs pink and freshly showered, dressed in a luxurious qiviut robe he provides for all his guests. It is true that the underfur of the musk ox is the softest fiber in the world, though there is also vicuña and shahtush, then there is cashmere, which is not quite so soft though nearly; there are various other types of furs that can be woven into knitted coats, soft and light, marabou feathers are mighty soft too, and warm!

  There is a limit however to the kinds and varieties of soft, exclusive material that exist, not that Tahnee knows bespoke from off-the-rack; she is very ignorant, all she knows is she can’t believe how good she feels, the never-ending stream of real water, and hot and clean at that. She feels so good she even sits down next to him. Oh she smells good with that clean hair and freshly powdered skin; gently he strokes her arm, traces a delicate pattern along a blue beating vein. “Mmm,” he nuzzles, “Shall I take you up to bed?”

  “Oh, heheh,” says Tahnee, abruptly sliding away. “Did you know there was something wrong with the hot water, or, I mean the cold water? I practically got burnt! Good thing I didn’t try to give one of our pets a bath, I would have cooked it. And so strange to have water without lumps.”

  “Mmmhmmm.” He nuzzles softly, oh the tender stem of neck and how good she smells, uncontaminated by anything other than the lightest sprinkling of hormones, so delicate she might have been a pre-pubescent boy, no funky testosterone here, nor that sour slap slap slap of estrogen breaking upon the seaweed-strewn shore…

  “You know, my sister… she was always taking home all the animals from the lab? Like, animals that were either going to be killed or got thrown out before they were dead? Like, we have these rabbits, with feathers, so so cute! And one time, like, we found this dog – we still have him. Its name is Breakfast. Anyway, my dad taught him how to talk! Not very well, of course, and it’s not like he has anything particularly interesting to say –”

  “Jackass Designer!” he curses and sits back. “You’re telling me that you and your sister have the animals from my lab? Nobody is supposed to have those! They’re supposed to be top secret. What else do you have in your house?”

  “I dunno. I’ll have to try and remember. Um, some big flies followed my dad? He’s not my real dad, but…”

  “Flies? What kind of flies, there must be stuff going on in there I don’t even know about. Try to remember what else.”

  “Jesse, do you think I could have my own geisha?”

  “We’ll talk about it tomorrow, okay?” he says, “You have to realize, this is all a shock to me.”

  “Ohh, please?” She’s now stroking his hand, bringing it up to her lips. What a little tease, he feels himself getting flushed and begins to slide closer once more just as the door opens.

  It’s his first… he doesn’t want to say… son. B. Jesse isn’t really his son. On the other hand he is the only father or parent B. has ever had. It’s just too fussy to call B. his clone, it’s like introducing someone as your ‘second’ cousin, rather than just saying cousin. Besides, it’s embarrassing to think B. is him, twenty years younger.

  “Hi, Dad!” says B. happily. “I was just over at Tanky’s Roadhouse and I thought – whoa, who do we have here, who’s this little minx? Jeez, Dad, what is she, sixteen?”

  “Actually I’m almost fifteen,” Tahnee says, sitting up primly and folding the robe tight over her legs. She can’t take her eyes off B.

  “What?” Now A. Jesse is bolt upright. “I thought you were eighteen?”

  “I don’t know where you got that idea.”

  “Okay, almost eighteen, you said this was going to be your last year of high school.”

  “Listen, I didn’t mean to interrupt nuthin’, I just wanted to ask, Dad, if I could borrow the plane, me and a couple of friends were thinking…”

  “You didn’t interrupt,” says Tahnee coolly. “I was just heading up to bed, see you tomorrow!” She gives A. a wink. “Nice to meet you!” she calls to B., though A. doesn’t remember making any introductions.

  “See you around,” says B. “She’s too young for you, Dad,” he adds once she has left the room. “She sure is hot, though, I guess we have the same taste in gals, huh?”

  B. could lose thirty pounds, thinks A., he’s like an overgrown frat boy. And those stupid shoes! He would never wear high-heeled sandals at this time of year – especially red sequined ones! “Do you really need to wear so much eyeliner?” snaps A. How is it possible that he gave birth, well, not gave birth, exactly, but how is it possible he had such an idiot when they are one and the same? He is a genius, therefore how could B. not be? They are the same person, after all, even though B. is thirty and A. is fifty; well, he was only twenty when he had B. and that was too young to be a dad, let alone a single dad. His own parents had been so strict and rigid, he always thought when he was a parent things would be different, he would never treat his kid the way they had treated him.

  But B. hadn’t been like him at all. From the start the kid was disobedient, refused to study. The boy wanted to be ‘an artist’. Artist is a hereditary position, just like movie director or movie actor or pop star, they weren’t going to let someone from outside come in. Particularly someone like his pudgy son/clone who had no talent whatsoever, at least as far as he could see! B. hadn’t even bothered to finish art school, he expected a free ride through life from A. just because he was in the one percent and A. indulged him, now to his regret. Unlike the way A. was raised, he gave B. unlimited funds. A. had grown up middle class, to
one of the poorer families in Morphew Valley (his father was estate manager and they had a cottage on the grounds of Wolkingfordshireham Chateaux-and-Castle). He knew what it was like to be looked down on. Was it so wrong to let B. spend the money when they had so much?

  “Uh, A.?” B. has a plummy voice, a stagey voice; he should be wearing a raccoon coat and carrying a hip flask, yowsah, yowsah, yowsah, “I was asking you about the plane?”

  “No, you can’t borrow my plane,” A. tells him in an angry tone. “I told you if I didn’t see some real effort to improve on your part, you were going to have to work for me. Look at you, you’re thirty years old, hanging out at Tanky’s Hide-Away –”

  “It’s Roadhouse, Pater. Tanky’s Roadhouse.”

  “Whatever. What have you done with your life? What have you managed to accomplish? Not much, from what I can see. You know, by the time I was thirty…”

  “I know, you’ve told me one million times. And I said, if you want me to come to work for you, I will, but you never wanted me to! You never give me a chance, you just ruin my self-esteem by saying all that stuff like I would put Bermese Pythion under in a week.”

  The two men are shouting, a rutting elk battling its reflection, antlers smashing into glass – they sure have that in common. Finally the phone rings, giving B. the chance to sneak out. Whinging blubber-boy, thinks A. Jesse, the only reason the kid left is because he knew A. would deduct his allowance if he kept it up before taking the call.

  All he has to do is wave at the screen to answer it, that one tiny chip embedded in the web between his thumb and index finger, it is amazing! It can operate up to nineteen hundred electronic devices by microchip implantation. “Yes? What is it?” he barks before he finds out who it is. At least this time he’s shrunk the image down to a more reasonable size, no more pores as big as tennis balls, no more faces to which the camera has added pounds and years and changed to a weird color, no matter how amazing the number of pixels.