by Joshua Cohen
There was a construction site in my head and then farther along the street was a construction site, jackhammering, pointed pneumatics of kurwa, pizda, overalled gastarbeiters cursing in Polish while breaking asphalt, drilling at sewage with sexual fury.
I felt a car creep up, but it was just a cab, which once it’d crept alongside my condition veered away and soaked me. My suit had been made to order, not to get stretched—it had pleats now.
Here’s the name of the street: Mainzer Landstraße. And here’s another streetname: Taunusanlage. The air was a sodden drear like a frozen screen. A constant pane between me and the skyscraping curtainwalls of mirrored glass just ahead.
Observe, perceive, glean everything—it was as if I were compensating for the material I’d lost by collecting the trash around me. Piking it, staving it, to fill this pit in me. To heal the welts pulsing like stoplights at my temples. Gravel in my shoes like babyteeth.
Into the Messe again. A guard halted me, examined my blood against my tag—“What happens to you?”
“Nothing,” I said. “I’m here for the panel on zombies.”
He said, “There is that today?” As if everyone was in peril.
“It’s on just now—zombie fiction, the undead.”
He was giddy now, silly, “That is the book I please to read.”
I went to the bathrooms and wet papertowels and pressed my face, spiffed up. Then slogged past the tropicalized Pacific Islander stalls, went unrecognized by the Czechs and Slovaks who just a diurnity ago had been my brothers.
Pod caffeine, strudel in a sleeve. And while I was at it, why not, grabbing the giveaway notebooks and ballpoints.
Lisabeth helmed the booth in mourningdress chic, channeling both the orphan and widow (typesetting jargon: an orphan the opening line of a paragraph stranded alone at the bottom of a page, a widow the closing line stranded alone at the top). It was as if she’d traveled prepared for a loss, a charcoal dress quivering to the knees. Her face was swollen from the crying or bouquets. Aaron would’ve appreciated that—he’d always been attracted to women allergic to flowers, and latex.
The foldingtable was shrouded in blueblack linens, furled roses and closelipped tulips, bonbons, sekt. Bereavement cards in soft and hardback, boxed sets. I lined behind the wild sprigs of a deliverer who turned around and cringed. My jaw must’ve been trickling again. Lisabeth signed for him, took another babysbreathed bouquet, set it among the aster strewings, doing her duty stalwart. Such rectitude, she wouldn’t even avail herself of a chair, but stayed standing as if all the books the agency had ever represented were balanced on her head.
I was about to pay a visit emptyhanded.
But then a woman cut in front of me—Cal’s editor, Lene Termin, Earth Mother. A batik peasant smock, a chunky butchness latebloomed with antidepressants.
Lene didn’t even meet my sneer, only said, “Pardon, Entschuldigung.”
She said to Lisabeth, “Pat Sagenhaft, my partner, just picked Seth up at Newark.”
“So helpful,” was all Lisabeth had.
“Pat’s going to sit in with him and the lawyer—Rich?”
“Spence Rich.”
“But just in an advisory capacity—make sure no one’s getting shafted.”
“Thanks.”
“That meeting’s for noon, NY noon. Meantime and with your OK I’ll go personally make the followup calls, to reassure the clients, offer like second opinion, outsider perspective. The immediate goal is fending off the poachers.”
“I understand. And thanks.”
“Again I can’t stress this enough, I’m here for you—Aaron meant a lot to me. If it makes sense to merge, you’ll merge—I’ve already got a few names in mind and even just casually a couple of feelers.”
“Already?”
“Too soon, but—interesting feelers.”
“Your partner Pat’s still with Riba Group, yes? Or Schwartzlist?”
“Then again it’s never too soon—especially with our girl to take care of, the princess of Princeton.”
“Achsa.”
“Exactly—we’ll be sure to involve her in all aspects of the process.”
“Achsa,” Lisabeth snuffed.
“I’m so proud of how you’re holding up, Lisabeth—that won’t go unnoticed. Now is there anything else I can do?”
There was nothing, and Lene lunged across the table to roll Lisabeth in her breast, then left, oblivious of me. Aar had loathed her—“Hel” he’d called her, “Helene, Queen of the Norse,” senior editor at Viking.
Lisabeth, poor wealthy Lisabeth who’d never understood how to take advantage, forsaken by her lanky associate with the quiff and clip, her underling, but in terms of power dynamics, overling, Seth—I could write it out already, it could write itself out clearly even black on black: Seth would coordinate publicity, the funeral, any lunches he’d take with other agents from other agencies he’d explain away as merely convivial, or acculturating, but then by the time Lisabeth’d get back to NY Seth would’ve installed himself either in Aar’s old corner niche, after having removed Miri’s sexless bed and finally fumigated the closets of her mothballs, or in newer officing toward the top of a Flatiron vivarium repping the bottom half of the list, which, the bottom half quarter, would mean repping me. Clever boy. With any brains he’d eventually move into media, but still keep a bit of lit to keep the cred up. If he or his next partners had any class they’d offer Lisabeth a job, or wouldn’t, that’s the only point on which I’m undecided—I’m sure Lene’ll be in touch.
To me, Lisabeth said, “The news just broke online.”
“Seth?”
“He wrote the statement, but I—why do you deserve an explanation? And what happened to your cheek?”
“I don’t. And Iceland happened.”
“Another tragedy another excuse to drink? You’re bleeding.”
“Take it from me: Bleeding means I have a heart.”
“Anyway,” Lisabeth shrilled, “before he flew back he left this envelope for you,” and she handed me a manila.
“Who? Seth did?” I gutted it for what, I’m not sure—a book already lost? already finished?
“It’s Cal’s, his manuscript. Seth said Cal was giving you a copy. For your thoughts. If you have any thoughts.”
“Appreciated.”
“You’re not acting appreciative. What did you expect?”
“Forget it.” The titlepage was inscribed: “With compliments and condolences—we have to be in touch—[email protected].”
“Care to tell me what you’re doing here, Josh?”
“What?”
“Here, in Frankfurt, why?”
“Aar never told you?”
“Told me what?”
“He never said anything about Switzerland? Our deal?”
“You have a deal or just a proposal, and didn’t you just say Iceland?”
“He mentioned nothing whatsoever?”
“All I have is what I get from your wife.”
“Exwife.”
“Not yet. Don’t worry, though—don’t tell me where you’re living and I can’t tell her where to have you served.”
“It’s complicated, Lis.”
“That’s what her companion’s always saying, the actor. Phoning twice a day about an Amex bill. He canceled the card. But he’s wondering for next time whether it pays to get the extra identity theft protection. I’m like customer care with him. Member services.”
“So you’re just the person to talk to.”
“What?”
“My money—can I have it?”
She stiffened, “Your money for what?”
“That’s why I was meeting Aar.”
“He was giving you a loan?”
“It was sort of like he owed me.”
“So send a record or invoice, I’ll have a check sent when I’m back.”
“Not happening.”
“If it’s an address thing I can wire you online.”
Lisabeth—let her be stunned by the gall of it all and not the truth of it. She tonguewriggled her toothgap, “Cash?”
“I need it bad.”
“You need it badly.”
“That’s correct.”
“But Seth has the agency Visa.”
“You can’t just stake me yourself?”
One inflamed white bud at tonguetip, “I make $40K a year.”
“You make $60K.”
“OK, $60.”
“Just help me out, Lis. I promise I’m good for it.”
She held her purse, both hands. That’s it. Nothing else and no deeper meaning. Lisabeth held onto her purse with both hands. She pallbore toward the rear of the hall—heels icepicking past the newest electroflex displays and penputing and fingerink platforms, then wading sullen through crumpled snowballs of epaper—to a temporary slidewall set with fussy ATMs. As we waited our turn she went on a pillage for the appropriate card—tampon, aloe handsanitizer, lipstick, gums, cherry suckers—verlag businesscards origamized or anxiously twisted, laundryoom passkey, Tetheld, lists, personal debit, platinum Visa, its frosty hologram unmistakable.
“Just use that one,” I said. “That has to be your parents’. ”
To be desperate is to live off what others let you have—I wonder if Aar ever met, and if so what his impressions were of, her parents.
She snorted and did the hairtuck behind the ears, what loyalty. Pathic girl, ticridden girl, who typed with nibbled nails and left voicemails with bruxism. She’d tolerated so much, so many clients reliant, and Aar, who’d insisted on salutations on email, phone honorifics, smoking indoors, rye in the drawer, regular drycleaning. He’d preferred the place 10 blocks south unless he’d needed the suit same day, in which case there was a place two blocks north, though he’d always leave it up to her to intuit which he’d needed. This was what I wanted to tell her, how grateful Aar’d been, how appreciative. How freeing but how guiltily freeing it was now that he wasn’t around to stop me from deceit.
With our turn I hung back, pointlessly because Lisabeth faced fully machineward, screening me from the screen and the keypad, her mouthbreathing fogging the prompts but not her compliance. To both sides other patrons swiped, tapped, scifi luminance and blare, sci-nonfi. The units were teleporters, timemachines. This wasn’t Frankfurt anymore, but Whitehall Street 2002. This was Miri’s bookstore, but in its afterlife as bank, and not even a fullservice bank, just machined, a Chase, which anytime I visited Aar’s office above it I took as command, chase the past forever. This was Achsa’s first time back since the space’s conversion. Aar, who had to work, and had no babysitter, and had to get cash anyway, had turned it into a lesson. Achsa knew what she stood in, tile, plateglass, she knew what’d happened to her mother’s books, the same thing that’d happened to her mother. They’d gone away and been turned into money. She’d asked how the cash got into the machine and Aar’d asked her back, just guess. Achsa’d said maybe it was printed, like a printer was housed inside each unit. Try again. Maybe it was like a sewer, she’d said, or like with trees, the roots of trees, the money was always just flowing through tubes, which routed it to blossom at locations of customer request. Aar’d loved that explanation. On the way home they’d passed a produce stand, he’d said, and Achsa hadn’t known what to make of an apple whose stem still had its leaf. It was news to her and shared delicious.
Choose English. I snagged the first two digits of Lisabeth’s PIN. 8, 0. Choose the cash advance.
“How much?”
“How much’s the max?”
Her $500/withdrawal limit rounded to €360, apparently, which we went for four times, and I even went in for scolding her, made her wait around for the last receipt to spit, while her Tetheld quaked with calls, msgs, txts, Momcell, Daddygreenwichwork, and fraud alert premonitions, and she ignored them.
What mystified, though, and heartened, was her holding out the bills and saying, “How are you going to convince me to expense this?”
“I’m a client, aren’t I? Haven’t we been discussing me?”
She shelled shut her wallet and pursed it. “Just don’t lose it.”
“All spending is losing, but sure.”
She yelled, “I don’t mean the money. Get drunk again, get a prostitute. You dick. I mean Cal’s novel—we can’t have it floating around.”
The envelope, which I’d been carrying. “Confirmative.”
A sigh. “Josh, tell me—why aren’t writers invited to Frankfurt?”
“Why?”
“Because they can’t deal with the fact that this is a business.”
://
a-bintel-b.tlog.tetrant.com/2011/01/07/thedumpydump2
expectancy. life comes first in semesters for school second in quarters for career and third in trimesters after which life ends and no one hangs with friends. but when i got pregs all my friends had become mothers already and they hadnt had time for me in semesters quarters my first trimester where they finally surfaced because i was finally becoming their peer. babyclothes and cribs and strollers and just about every other type of castoff handmedown bottle bootie were arriving by mail or being dropped off and explained over wheatgrass juice and muffintop brownies.
moom wanted to know how long i intended to nurse before she told me how long was recommended but her recommendation was shorter than anything in books or on weaner.org. its def a girl or boy i can tell moom was always telling me and “emi” said wed want to know before and that was the best decision and “tal” said we absolutely wouldnt want to know before and that was the best decision. hospital drugs and the nosocomical infections had to be weighed against the risk of homebirth and if homebirth a decision had to be made whether to purchase a tub or borrow a friends and disinfect it. like if you go to do what your parents did if you cursed as a kid you washed the kids mouth out but now that was considered abuse and if you did that you had to be concerned with whether what you washed with contained toxins.
but $@#! it was $@#!ing exhilarating. i was glowing healthy and even smelled nice like a bakery of pearls j said i wasnt showing just yet. the fertility docs each recommended their own gynobstetrician so we went browsing and still to doc meanley who was encouraging. he said we were doing better than ever until he pressed j to share and j who never liked being pressed said that he considered a child like a book like hed get to write a child but doc meanley dispproved and asked what happens if you get blocked dont books end up writing you and though j was peeved doc meanley pressured more by claiming that j was being “aversive.” He asked why did you try for a baby if you dont actually want a baby to which j asked “why did i get married if i didnt actually want a marriage” and the doc said it was enough with the “aversives” but then j said “i got married and am having a baby with her so that no one else would [have to????] because i love her so much” what a schmuck if youre reading this having you in my life was already like having a child.
work was so great to me too that already just the moment i told my boss “ben itkowitz” (reread my pseudo/anonymity policy) he was jumping up and down with me saying bubele take all the leave you need. which in ben language meant you best square everything away before you pop one. which meant training my templacement just personable enough that s/he would get on as comfy as sportswear with the clients but also just shoddy and incompatent enough for dealing with coworkers officeside that s/hed get fired if they didnt consult me on every single detail throughout my maternity. that was the only move to make according to “emi” and “tal” for u&i to beg me back to acct mgmt and beyond that promote me. also i needed to prepare clientside transitions for all the open accts though i have to be careful what im typing “net bank of new england ii” “manic webisode” “hellacopter: da game” “pomegranate” “beverage” all while brainstorming a campaign for the alarm system thing and planning the probono.
the msgings always the difficultest but dealing with the city its doubled. the conc
eptual idea of it was about links between the local and nonlocal or between personal health and the environment. it was an initiative directed at minority communities that are come on in the majority if you ever get out of the cabs. now just lump general women and children in with the minorities and you already have three quarters of the city and the rest are jewish males (the bulk of who are HANDICAPPED).
wed been working on the proposal copy/design for the promo material different versions for different schools and religious groups for community leaders and parents. it never made any sense that though the work was probono we still had to pitch but we did and so went downtown to the school like ps 188 that was interim headquarters until the office at the health dept got its hvac cleaned of mold.
a guard ushered us down the hall amid all the students leaving and told us to wait by the lockers and we obeyed like we ourselves were still in school and the guard became a teacher. i felt like that difficult to describe to anyone who hasnt felt it feeling of being elated but crap and feeling id rather be going with the students heading out from last class or extracurriculars to snuggle into carrot celery hummus and a nap. the students were so big in their bodies but their faces were small and they carried what i had high in front of me low on their backs huge enormous sagging backpacks. they were asian hispanic and every other race to justify my decision about bringing along “khan” who was pakistani and “rod” who was half brazilian half korean i think though this wasnt their acct. they were just relatively between accts at the agency and ive always known how to present. the rest of my team was “jim” and “jon” two guys (black) (and gay and jacked and impeccably tailored my bangers my banging creatives was our jk though they werent romantically involved with each other and me a preggers white girl rounding out her 20 lbs heavier filenes basement going out of business suit.
