by Joshua Cohen
A moment more of this loudly staccato and the Kush says, it’s urgent, sir, very—the party would have to rank it high in the millions.
Jesus H…. okay, collecting himself, haven’t had one of those before. But one last question, just to be sure: is it more important than urgent, or is it more urgent than, don’t worry, you get it and a raise…and so the Kush asks again, is the matter more urgent, and then he stops with the questioning answers before he’s finished to say, it’s both, sir, equally both, the Kush says the party says, all of them and more’s why he’s calling—consider this serious, a most plus.
Wowzer! in dialogue from roles their names reruns forgotten while their lines, they live on—quit your wasting the dude’s time, says Sure, and give the unit here…and the servant, what does he do, he goes and hangs up the telephone to wheel its cart over to his employer and before he has it rolling, nu, the ring goes ringing again, the Kush answers it and they, hymn, you know, having been conditioned to the rest, the spiel, it’s said, the speak softly but carry a big shtick routine, clocked calendrical almost, the ballagone whole—go through the very same ritual, and then and only then, only after Sure’s once more and for the last fully vetted this interruption following up, his delighting peevishness manifest in the swell of his neck, the tension of his temples, too, and that of his trademark chin bottomed like the tush of a newborn (kid or idea—clefted half his, half whose), does the Kush finally place the receiver this time upended atop the cart, rolls it over with plenty of corddistance, picks up the empty rosette plate that hosts only the residual grease of the meat of the pig and the pareve of the eggwhites and the silverware, which he places atop the plate in a cross, bows slightly to Master and Mistress as he’s paid to address them and heads on inside, through the patio and its glass doors, as Sure picks up the phone, cups with a pruned palm the business while nodding demeaningly to his wife to shuffle off to decorate the interior, to belittle herself with trifles: selfmedication at needlepoint, xword puzzles that’re the hidden study of Scripture (being the clue for 12 Across), mystery that ensures, too, her puckered pout and this, her shriveled slinking—then sits down at the landscaped edge of his mesa, his shivering legs to idle amid the emptiness, air, kicking feet through the sky shot through with cloudbursts: Sure speaking, he says, who’s this, whaddya want?
Lee, says a familiar voice, Billy Brove, STOP, long distance from parts east.
Brove, you old son of a bitch—why didn’t you say it was you? examining his pedicure over the drop, how the hell you doing out there?
Drop the formalities, STOP, the goy he talks like a telegram that refuses to sing, big news on this end, STOP, we found Him, STOP, Ben, STOP, now you want to hear I’m doing just fine, thank you, STOP, how’s the wife?
Israelien? Sure says, if I had a nickel, this is the tenth time today…you with your stops, pull’em out, ain’t no time to push me around: we’re lying low for the summer…anyway, I’ve got a houseful of unemployed producers with their consultant boyfriends telling me they’ve got masseuses with dreams, who’ve received visions, visitations, gotten tips, new information—let’s get down to it, how much you want from me, how much you need?
It’s legit, Lee. STOP. Take your hat off your ears.
Bill, you’re my friend but…
Buttinsky.
Don’t want to hear that talk, least of all from you…listen, Lee says, I heard the one, and Sure he’s heard them most, about the Affiliated, you know, how they’re hiding subterranean, I’m talking deep under the earth like in a hollow hollowedout for them through the agency of this worm, if you can believe it—and there holedup in small, definitely incestuous families, it’s said, and wretches that they were, that they are, they’re eating this worm, I mean like they’re feeding on it, drinking its essence, the blood, I don’t know what you’d call it, whether worms have blood or not, their only source of sustenance, right…STOP yourself, and that they hide there, guess what, plotting their takeover, the Final Days, Bill, the no nonsense End of Ends. I also heard the one in which they went off to settle this other planet, led by this mysterious, get this, Doktor Froid, left us in chariots of heavenly light, I heard fire, Bill, ascension with all the fixins, and—wait for it—that they’re planning to return, just waiting for the right moment, to zap the earth back to the ashes it sprang from. Zip, zilch, okay nada. Goddamn Bill, I heard that, and now you want me to believe this, which’ll be even crazier, won’t it: Israelien walking around in plain day, sunlight Sure as my name’s Lee, with a halo over His head and little yellow stars hung from His tits. Anyway, let’s out with it: you have Him, He’s being held, there’s a price on His head, you’re asking a ransom, He’s already dead…enough, give it up, Bill, what’s your deal?
About time, Brove says, keeping in mind STOP who’s paying for the call.
Is that what this is about? I’ll tell you…I have my suspicions, Bill, you cheapo Marx whatever the schmuck, if that’s how it’s said, I wouldn’t know—how do I know you’re not one of them, too?
He’s S/SW, Lee. STOP. Heading for Angels through desert STOP. Moving slow and in the open STOP. Three eyewitness reports STOP: latest in a burgerjoint just outside Tucson.
Why didn’t you say so before? gushing gosh. Don’t answer, rhetorical, say. Haven’t we done anything yet? Go ahead.
Thing is Der knows. STOP. Already sent—Gelt, Frank, alone.
Gelt? That goy couldn’t find himself even if both stood to profit. I got ten Mex working KP duty down here who could do his job in half the time…
For half the pay, says Brove.
And actually get their mensch, says Sure. Why not Mada?
Not his territory STOP, not his sort of people.
You have a point.
You had a few points there yourself.
Which means I’m winning, Bill, he always is, how Lee’s sure of it.
They’re two menschs, witnesses, any…affirmative; even offcamera, they’re always in pairs. In the paramount waitingroom, flipping through periodicals preposterously just a libration or so out of date: last Shabbos’ Times, recent back issues of the Weekly Affiliated, old Yinglish editions of Der Backvertz (a paper revived, Downtowned once again), anything to pass, riffling their ways upsidedown right to left through subscriptions in two names of a lawyer threenamed, H. Shy Lockermann of Corona, of counsel—they’d expire next moon unless he renews, unless they do in his name, as he’s dead. The two of them who, remind them, they’re waiting for what, a nurse, an assistant, any replacement receptionist, her desked at the door, chained to command in manacles made of bills bound small in denomination, and wadded tightly—anyone since Miss de Presser left her employ for pregnancy, moneygreener pastures, the free range of the oven; she’ll be missed. After smokes stubbed out upon the mediating arms of their twinned recliners, they take the liberty of announcing themselves to whichever Doctor Tweiss’s available.
A Hymie and a Hymie to see you, Doctor, a Hymie says…and Miss de Presser returned’s the sentiment, all nostalgized what with the dust daily rubbed into their gums, tingly—how they aren’t in a state to distinguish; they’ve been burning files for hours, they’ve been shredding documents with their teeth.
Shalom to you, says a Hymie to which one of them, with starring badge in hand him whichever barging like Sabbath’s eve suddenly through the door to the final corridor and its leftmost office after having negotiated the halls and their rooms for an hour, navigating the makeshift, makework waste: flayed paper, document skin, the files purged to stale air, light smoke; the trashcans are smoldering, the watercooler’s too dry to douse.
Upon their entrance, Doctor Tweiss forgets himself to rise, arranging his suit and pants unmatching professional detachment, to lounge up against the shelves of an office wall, uniforming ranks set with volumes of ostensible reference materials, in truth nothing but false spines; he picks at the drip of his nostrils.
We’re from a government agency with such a name as it wouldn’t pay to have an acr
onym, says one of them to him once they’ve made their marks on initial inspection, but we’ll refer to it as you’ll refer to us, HYMIE…that is, if you want to.
The doctor nods rapidly: no take a seat, no offered drink.
We’ve been led to understand, the Hymie goes on, that you’re in possession of materials necessary to our, let’s go with—project. His head flits around the room all schnozz.
As for his partner, he’s diagnosed as the Strong, Silent Type later that day: he’ll take disability and that’s that.
And what materials as you put it would those be?
We need the foreskin, Doctor, the first of them, the virgin shed if you will—you have it, and you have it here.
Is that what you think, Mister, hymn…Hyman, or Hymen was it—Hymie? Thank God for the nametag, he thinks, belief in a badge. I’m a medical doctor, a respected professional. I wouldn’t turn anything over to you: no patient information, no labwork, no specimens, samples, results, and I don’t have to, that’s privileged, protected—I dropped out of lawschool, I know my rights…I’m just not in the mood.
For once, Doctor, you’re right. I’m afraid, however, that my partner disagrees, he’s disagreeable, also highly illogical, suffers from…nu, as you say, you’re the professional: denkn, trachtn, klern or haltn, oystrachtn maybe, forgive me, I forget…perhaps he should arrange an appointment with your twin?
If that’s your thing…his offices are only down the hall, though I’m afraid he’s out—there’s been a death in the family, my cat ate his mouse, my dog ate his cat, he’s all broken up about it. Though you might want to take a meeting with our employer, have a word—I assume you know who that is.
We know, and we already have—we’ve had a few words, in fact: Shalom was one of them, Shalom the other. We understand he’s exclusively retained your services, and those of your fraternal twin—but your employer and ours, they’ve reached an understanding…I hope you understand, farshteyn.
That’s for Der to say, and when we spoke this morning he said nothing of the sort. He flinches. Didn’t even mention.
It’s all written right here, and the Hymie waves an official document as if it’s gone spoiled, along with a warrant, too, to search your property, to seize anything we might want to seize and then search through on our own time, though it’s no crime to waste yours—whether as faith’s evidence (FED), or, gevalt, just to aggravate you…anything out of the ordinary, our decision, our call, anything suspicious, whatever, vos nor. He squats to the ground to light another smoke, and the leather of his wingtips crackles like burning. From that position, removing his glengarry and scratching around his yarmulke a head that’s been recently buzzed, he asks, tell me, Doctor, do you have anything suspicious on your premises? and he takes a slow drag, exhales with a frown, you think I’m joking, joshing, narring with you, mishing, just witzing around—you want we should garnish your socks?
Nothing I know of, I assure you, and he tries to hide from the Hymie one foot behind the other he’s crossing them again and again, almost falling when he realizes one foot always has to be put forward, the best. This is a medical facility, righting himself. Long Island’s most discreet & expensive inpatient sanctum sanctorum’s our new ad campaign…what do you think, a bit much? No one’s here to take your call right now. If you’d like to leave a message, wait for the…
Hello, this is H.Y.M.I.E. I’m calling with regard to a particular foreskin in your possession, that of a Mister Israelien—actually, we’ve been led to understand you have multiple foreskins, but we only need one. If not that One, then another. Whichever. A futzing flake, a fall—is that too much to ask?
You’re not listening. I’ve handled many foreskins in my day: detaching, re-attaching, redetaching, dereattaching, you name it, and even my own—you might be interested in a procedure yourself, no offense: even with our rates so affordable, we could probably work out a deal…
His foreskin, you schmuck—first off the orla, then the ganze peria, a bissele brisele, His milah mine…the Hymie shrieking every schmeck of decorum lost if, also, messed around in this very referring deferral, passion for his mission refound. Jumping up from his squat, he flicks ash to the carpet, throws his hat bent out of shape atop the flaming as if to drench with his shvitz, then jumps up and down on the smolder; the other Hymie, however, remains impassive, stands still, “hebetudinal” as his partner’ll describe in his report: how he hangs deep in the shadow of the door edged open as wide as his mouth, as tongueless, and dull, no help at all but he’s family, how their sister fright wig and whining, she’d asked a favor, he’d needed a job.
His! the mensch’s shrieking again and again, His! Israelien’s rail, Ben’s bump epimorphic, you putz, you know of what I’m talking…pulling himself together, retrieving his hat thrown into the ring scorched on the floor, punches its dents into dings, then felshes it all into perfect shape brim to crown. Apparently, he goes on, further calming, an interesting specimen, the world’s largest, it’s said: falls off farkakta, grows back yadda and blah, regenerative, blastemal if you want, bornagain miraculous; echt, a neys if there’s ever been one gadol…he coos, it won’t be such a loss. I’ll tell you what, and his eyes shift this way, that, then cross: let’s say we forget search & seizure. Just confirm for me, will you—it’s true what they say; this wondermont to behold, call us curious…does it really live up to the hype?
And the doctor, he holds out his arms, indicative of either the state of dispossession, or the desire to take flight…how Hymie’s debriefing’ll take note of both possibilities: his palms out, facing up, fingers splayed, his wardrobe jacket baring cuffs then humiliate skin—anyone’s guess, the Ascension.
Then any hair samples, the Hymie says—actually, any and all organic materials of His whatsoever; anything that once lived: organs, nails, skin fore or aft, I’m sure something’s lying around somewhere, has to be, filed away no doubt. I hope you’ll see things our way (straightening his own sight, making of contact a bludgeon)—you have a reputation to think of, a future, too, olam haba…has anyone ever told you you have beautiful eyes?
You’ll make another of Him, others, I know it…the doctor thumbing still at his snort, maming nares. But it’s never been done before, don’t you understand—the first one to be cloned, He can’t be Affiliated.
The first one cloned has to be Affiliated…just think for a moment, Doctor—with any mazel, we’ll make Him that way.
But then is He Affiliated? Aha! and Doctor Tweiss jumpsup himself though he’s already standing, pedants over to the blackboard walling the west of the room, grabs a length of chalk to make a chit in its corner, upperrighthand. A point for me!
Doctor, He’s whatever we want Him to be, and the Hymie grabs his dark knit tie, spits to its tip a cusp of congestion to aid in his erasure.
But that’s insane…it’d never work, it’d never live, and the doctor returning dashes back toward the board, tripping on the rug that bunches under him falling, his fingers splayed to grip for the ledge, which gives way with his weight and he ends up on the floor stuck with a stick of white dust up a nostril.
It? Now, Doctor, is that any way to refer to the nearly living, to the in-the-works, the potentially possible, the perfectible Ben, b’ezrat Hashem’s what we’re saying—is that how you’d talk to the imminent Messiah Himself? Moshiach, I mean. Omniscience wouldn’t miss that. Heaven’s all ears, Doctor, old and humungoid, waxedhairy ears…it’s all recorded anyway, and the Hymie adjusts the lily in his lapel, though the mic’s actually clipped to a cufflink.
Even with a slightly smaller nose…which we’re planning on by the beshert, He’d still smell what stank.
God’s plan is His, if you believe in Him—and I don’t very much…but for now, it’s inviolable, and all these new adherents, they’ll do your work anyway, on their own, no questions asked. And no pay. But you, you…a little help here—you’ll blond Him up, you’ll blue up the eyes!
The doctor crumpled on the floor like a paper di
scarded: a subpoena, a prescription, the script—ripped through the middle with chalk.
Which will see for miles…gazing out from a head ten feet above the earth: a head like of marble, and with skin of such velvet so you’d like to stroke it, baby it, bathe it, sleep with it at night, wake atop it come morning. A nose ever straighter and straighter, teeth white and whiter even—until they’ll rob us of sight like a thief in the night, and we’ll look within. A Messiah who’ll live forever, every day made younger and smarter—making something of Himself, something more, all for us, His fathers and heirs, to have pride in, over which to shep nachas…
You don’t know what you’re doing…(the doctor getting himself up, reading off a script the other Hymie now hands him; before they’d been sharing one copy)—you have no idea of the forces at work…
You won’t make a God, it’s impossible.
But, Doctor, we’re not making a God, we’re duplicating Him: In the beginning there was creation, et ha’shamayim v’et ha’aretz…and it was good, but could always be better; think of it like this: we’re making improvements (the Hymie loses his place in the snark of delivery, the other Hymie points a finger, he finds it again and smirks on)…don’t worry, Doctor, we have our top ravs on this (would he really say that, “top ravs,” he asks, isn’t that a little much, over the top and toohatted—maybe “rabbis,” no, just a suggestion).
Take Two.
Now, if you please, time’s of the essence: we need the Jnome for replication, and we’ll have it no matter the source. Pause. Or the beliefs of those who might attempt to impede or frustrate our efforts.
