by Joshua Cohen
We’ve all been there before, Mister Jacobson, and the mensch smiles to twinkling glint, trust me, chching. Let’s not underestimate ourselves, chaverim…Mister Jacobson’s beasts are every bit as terrifying as those of Daniel’s dream: The first was like a lion, and had eagle’s wings: I beheld till the wings thereof were plucked, and it was lifted up from the earth, and made stand upon the feet as a man, and a man’s heart was given to it. Chapter 7, verses 4 through 8—copies not even xeroxed but mimeographed will be made available during the break between sessions.
And so, Mister Jacobson, the 3rd Step, dying to know what that is?
We’re dying, they say, we’re so dying.
Nu, for the remaining five days of the week, deal with one beast a day, in order from first through the fourth—bad to worse, if you will.
On the Second Day, after highlighting your recent work achievements, and I’m sure you have at least one, respectfully ask your boss for a raise, plus an additional week’s paid vacation.
On the Third Day, plan to go into work late if it all, having had brunch after sex in the morning…relations with your wife, I mean, buy her flowers, a shtickel candy, balloons and a card, calmly and coolly outline your reasons for not wanting to take her mother, your mother-inlaw, on your vacation, which, as a direct result of my method, will have been extended by a week that you both can afford.
On the Fourth Day, Mister Jacobson—nu, that was His name—make the decision to switch accountants, and you’ll find one, through the recommendation of a coworker, I’m sure, or try your accountant’s accountant, who’ll subsequently save you a swindle; remember—feel free to deduct the tuition you’re paying today.
On the Fifth Day, Mister Jacobson, make sure to thank your coworker for his recommendation, and you’ll be asked to engage with him in a multitude of racquet sports, followed by a shvitz, let’s say, with him and his friends who’ll soon be your friends, too, perhaps due to the newfound confidence you’ll surely exude.
On the Sixth Day, invite your mother-inlaw over for Shabbos just so that there’re no hard feelings and, never forget, on the Seventh Day, rest—I’m sure you know how to do that, Mister Jacobson; you seem quite capable in that department…hahaha, but seriously.
On Days One through Seven, you, Mister Jacobson, by first identifying your four beasts, ranking them, then dealing with them manageably, one at a time, will be able to get control of your life—and if He can do it, chaverim, then you’d be pitiful not to! Raving applause, Ben palms His forehead with a complimentary towel unrolled from a tabled hot stack. And now, the mensch won’t get held up in inspiration when time, which is five days older than mensch, means money and so much of it, which is far younger and more attractive, more useful, accommodating, understanding and pliant, we’ll break to take questions and refreshment, he says, the carted coffee and coffeecake rolling in to the rear, but make sure to be back in time for Session Two: The Book of Job: How to Be a Friend in the Midst of a Whirlwind, for which I hope you’ve all paid in full. Save your seats. Only six more weeks to go…and thank you, Mister Jacobson, for allowing us to make an example of you. You’ve been good people; have a slice, a sip, take a bow.
In the multipurpose, eminently convertible room opposite, opening up at the western end of the lobby of the Grand, this Ben, often billed as the Fantabulous Neb Disraelien, affectionately known as the Nebbish of Northern Illinois, in high demand at yeshivas, kollels, rabbinic courts, and community fundraisers, lifecycle rituals large, small, formal, semi, hemi, and demi, as Host, M.C., he’ll do your dishes, your windows, or just spend quality time as a reassuring presence, work whatever room you want him to work (Madison Square Garden, hotel, showroom kitchen or broomcloset) as a straightmensch, a narrowmensch, an eyeoftheneedle mensch, even as his own “beautiful assistant,” takes all comers and kinds shaved, waxed, and inordinately plumed, makes appearances at among others the first hopefully annual meeting of the Schnorrer’s Lodge, arriving in from the hallway’s wings on a unicycle and juggling babies and utilitybills mind the vomit and papercuts, then humming while pretending to play on a homemade varnishspattered prop of a Stradivarius violin: discontinuous excerpts from the classical repertoire, two bars each all he knows, interspersed with hot klezmer variants and sung parodies of zmirot, liturgical gems including but not limited to a flatulence/syncopation version of a popular Shabbos niggun, and a strained Arabian arrangement of the Kaddish entitled Muezzin on Up; and maybe just maybe if you asked nicely or took to justify to him a special occasion, a favor or bris milah belated, when he had to stretch or just the gelt did, he’d close with a set of magic, always the same tricks: doing two things at once, doing three things at once, which multitasking is perfected in his signature disappearing act, being in two places at the same time. Old hat, you might say, but the new one’s in the mail, he assures, being blocked. That’s how he makes rent and meets obligations, him and the other impersonators though maybe not all of equal skill; they make do how they make out: some doing alright, fulltimers with talent and good representation even impressively, you’d be jealous, while others limit their incarnations to secondlives, moonlit impersonation, Shabbos night pillowstuffing, deluding themselves backstage, on breaks in whispers to their agents their stagey, smothering mothers: it’s a hobby, it’s only a hobby, don’t take it so seriously, you know, the amatory amateur, I do it for the love…or else, making progress, I’m almost there, the big’s about to break just around the corner—and all of them, despite the dilettantish dereistic, and regardless of income, reported or not, and whether or not their involvement extended or ever will into an investment in a multitude of surgical options, whether loved, respected if not acclaimed, or just pitied or reviled for the fallen stars in their eyes, all are false, counterfeit Bens numbering in the hundreds of thousands (that is, if the original’s even real), each with alimony to think of, and court costs, the price of getting another Get, and, always, there’s the mortgage to make, mouths to feed, life.
Surgically enhanced, Continentally trained in impersonation, the Nebbish’s echt making a decent little living for himself a parnassa, a sizable grubstake of remunerative usurpation here—out in Holywood, the leftmost wing of Angels, having been cordially invited the week prior to open for the Kings, to warm up the room for their now quarterly meeting during which they’ll debate for its entire scheduled duration what the first issue on the agenda should be, with Neb (full disclosure, a minority shareholder in the Mattress Kingdom holding of Laz-R-Us, Inc.) doing his fifteen minutes, his shtick wellhoned, how the Envelope King slips him his pay in an irregular surplus model #1B, and only then do they all sit down to their business. Holywood now finally emptied of its Affiliated directors, producers, the kooky komedy writers, neurotic or not smart or witty enough and so nervous, or endearing, your call or both, polite, dark, and hairy and hairily funny—actors and actresses just sitting around, just like always, waiting for the phone to ring role, memorizing themselves: there’s nothing to do, no runways to stalk, no parties to crash with crass flash, only hitting on the hick rube but already Goldberging interns still making coffee for what.
Around this table are the Kings, the newest elders, the heads of a revived operation: eighteen on one side, eighteen on the other’s how many total, each regal on whatever side makes for their more successful profile as surveyed from the head—the money wing and, also, the mind of the allpowerful, allseeing poultry: this quarter’s mascot, a muscled, possibly steroidal, bespectacled fowl, in honor of the president, newly installed, Plosher, formerly Perdue, the Poultry King, who sits squawkily at foot. Appropriate to the sham it must seem like to those who paid for the Studio Tour, this sitdown takes place on a set so stripped of glamour it just has to be real, which is merely the irredeemably fake truly felt: fans to stream screeching names of God down the Hills into Holywood proper, mobbing for a mere glimpse of the action on a lot on a soundstage once used for the production of oldie tworeelers and talkies, since disused, doneup in its storage ca
pacity in an unintentional style called High Kitsch, it might be, fin de stickler for detail warehousing for shtetl scenery not presently in service—coops, two bits of fence, foam-rubber gravestones rubbing up against withered polyurethane trees that instead of backdropping coached guttural wails and travails must now provide the setting for this, an unprecedented (meaning they’d just never gotten around to it before, couldn’t make the time, schedule it in) meeting of the principal thirtysix, heads or designated representatives from entertainment, goods & services, industry light & heavy, all the big macher big money big idea movers & shakes (nu, hope they don’t move or shake too hard: among the thirtysix how there’re only half that many kidneys and, hymn, a quarter that number of lungs). Moguling takes it all out of you. Wheeze the bowel’s bottomline. Roll’s called, checking names off the blacklist, but that’s only its type: everyone who’s everyone, who’s anyone, too, your invitation must’ve gotten lost in the mail, don’t hold it against them, you don’t want to be schmeared, misdenounced—them throwing gavels, yelling, demanding to make their demands, as Plosher finishes taking names but where to: the Apple King, the Aspirin King, the Bathtub King, the Brassiere King, the Candle King, the Coop King who he’s in tight with Plosher, the Diamond King, the Ear King who for Nose & Throat refers to his uncle, the Envelope King, the Fish King, PopPop’s old Miami neighbor Freddie the Fur King still making a fortune since Feivel, no his name it was Faivish he died with the rest, the Glove King, the Hair Replacement Product King, the Iodine King, the Juice King and his seedmoneyed son-inlaw, Fruchtfleisch, the future Pulp King assisting (along with His brother, the Prince of String just here to learn ropes), the King of Kings at the head of the table (presiding in matters of judgment, which matters never arise and so no one knows what he does, if he does anything—not that they’d question), flanked by an Insky, an Outsky, and their muscle, a goy just in from the Pale, calls himself Caldo “Cold” Sorvino, backingup Shimi Bellarosa from Belorussia, the Kipper King the oathed enemy of the Fish King because who can swear anymore and on what flipflopping around get a grip…the Laundry Detergent King with Fabric Softener Included, the LaughTrack King who he’s always got the best lines, the Mattress King, the Microphone King whispering—present, but no one hears him and so he’s marked absent, the (egg) Noodle King, the (pitted) Olive King, the Pillow King you’d better believe it sitting on his own product, Plosher the Poultry King, again, plucking himself up in his seat as if shocked at his saying of his own name, nominally presiding at least in matters of order, the Queensized Fashions King, the Quinine King THE maker of tonicwater being waited on by three of his top distributors, the Retinal Reattachment Surgery King, the Shoe King with two of his foremost athletic Supporters, the Tea King with sugar held between his teeth to prevent him from making a point, the Utilities Regulation King, the Varicose Vein Removal Kream King, the Wishniak King (purveyor of fine flavor to the tastemaching trade), the Xray Machine King, the Yo Yo King his menschs out walking the dog, then the Zipper King with his heat, the Zealous Kid (AKA Maxx Gross) lounging louche into shadow, demonstratively puffing, inhaling his smoke down to the filter, then exhaling winter out into the studiolights.
To begin with, a few questions; junkets come with the job…what’s the occasion for this assemblage here in the midst of deep white, with flights outbound to anywhere delayed, then cancelled? Their meeting. And what’s their meeting about? The occasion. Okay, okay, alright already, nobody knows, nobody’ll admit to not knowing. Tightlipped. Burnttongued. Closed set. What’s that about? It’s about time, again. About time for what? For this. All under the lettered sign on the hill. Who stole the L, what’s it stand for, how much’s the ransom? It’s not stolen. One night, it just flickered away. Lalala. Plosher pounds his head against a gavel pounding, echoes giving way to talk all at once…everyone gossiping, doing deals, making rain check your bill then snow and then hail, selling, buying, trading, bargaining down and, finally—coming to shtum when the Zipper King, he whips his out and one lone hoarse voice remains:
I’m telling you, we owned New Amsterdam, we took New York, we had the whole island, the inners, the outers, the nation, the entire goddamnit world.
Anything was ours for the taking—
We had all the reservations, all the restaurants and tables in town.
You want a house, you got a house.
You want an election, it’s yours.
Jesus God they named streets after us, can you believe, squares and parks. We had the press, the television and the movies, too, we owned the networks and the theaters, the unions and art.
We wrote the books, then we’d close them on anyone who’d presume to oppose.
And then, nu, you know the rest…this is the Laughtrack King talking and, hahahamutterfutzingha as he’s drinking the Tea King’s wild fruits assortment, he spurts it out his nose then back into the cup and then drinking again, spurting and yadda—how we knew everyone, presidents and senators and actors, how we knew the presidentsenators, the senator-actor-artist-&-athletes, all the way down to the shvartze jazzsingers whose contracts we canceled and wages we prorated, held against their habits (here’s a swell, a whistling Dixie)—we were the sitcoms and Broadway, deli and stocks stacked high on rye, the funds hedge and mutual, medicine and law, the military’s authority, the conservative bombs and all the liberalism in the world with which to apologize when we dropped them…they’re talking at once when the Shoe King takes one of his support’s loafers off, pounds the table with it as a secretary emerges, struck from oblivion to shorthand, the Shoe King takes one of his support’s…
THE MATTRESS KING
How we knew all the titles, their acronyms, the big machers & the contract menschs, the personalities, and the gossipedabout.
How we worked all the angles, had every number, knew every score, played hard on all schemes.
We rose to their equals, then we raised them one more. Our hands were everywhere—even they were in hand.
THE PILLOW KING
What we bought, we sold, and what we sold, we bought back then sold it again, for a profit margin higher, always higher, toward heaven.
Let’s talk rate of return, taking a piece of everything then putting them back together into new wholes: threehalves of any percentage always to parties of our own imaginative accounting, leveraged in the greed that only in America’s known as ambition.
The vig for living free, you just have to deal.
But aside from family immediate and extended, a congregation of maybe arsonhappy brothers-inlaw, it wasn’t a Syndicate, wasn’t a System—it was a loose thing…
That’s what no one ever understood. Family—
And that’s a wrap! says Spielgrob.
Print it! he says to the soundstage, emptied…even he’s not there, anymore.
A promise, though—we’ll patch it up in edits…
Always, there’s post.
All the while all the way back east—being the manger of opinion, straw-thought, dungwonder—the tsking siskeling critics, the talkinghead commentariat, latenite pundits, qrating mongers and their PR meisterminders they’re asking, for once without rhetoric and in unison, from a deck above the reader’s pew…shtumup, where is He?
Benjamin. Ben. Mister Israelien. Give Him over unto us. Produce Him or wither upon an alien vine.
What’s with this journey dorf-to-dorf, this khuter hopping, this zemstvo zip…is it a quote unquote quest for identity, a search for roots, an undertaken Wander not quite though by now almost jahr, a pilgrimage and if so then, to where—who owns the rights? Listeners and viewers at home, by now they’re not even encouraged, they’re urged, to send in their votes, any ideas, tips hot or not, c/o any dark rider headed through the night to the next town, just over the river.
For a moon, though, it’s none of those.
Here’s the spiel, the lashon hara, it’s said: He’s on the sacrificial lam, evading authorities, subpoenas unto even the poenas below the subpoenas, subsubpoenas to appear before,
nu, it’s either a Judge Cohen or Coen, it’s forgotten, a Cohn or a Cone maybe, or else, then again, maybe a Koen or Kohen, a Kohn or even a Kone, it’s been said, then again maybe a Cahn or Kagen, a Kahane or a Kahn; hymn, others say she’s a female judge, like Deborah, perhaps, who, it’s said, would hold her court and prophecy under a warm shvitzy palm as if to say, pay me—but this with one of those hyphenated-names, Cohen-Cone or the like, formerly with the firm of Gimme, Loot, & Hasidim, LLC…whatever name the robe elected before taking the bench. Ben’s being sued for damages, is it. Character defamation. Misrepresentation. For Impersonating the Savior. For False Messianism. Fraud. And she’s naming names, the whore-plaintiff: I sold everything I owned expecting the End of Days, the Eschaton. My husband, who he was an Affiliated, May His Memory Be for a Blessing, died for this schmuck. And for nothing. For nodding. The woman, who wouldn’t convert for her husband over my dead body left to depose of—her husband’s family and their plotz (buried up in one of those shoulder cemeteries that are necropolitan northern Joysey, on a strip right by the side of the Turnpike so that when a big rig would come through, eighteen wheels and more how those stones would shake, in their graves the caskets would rumble, rattle like seeds in a shell—like loose teeth in a cheeky mouth, bellied to laugh, that tumult of chattering coffins)—but anyway, long story short did after his death and theirs, convert, now refers everyone who’s interested to her new husband, also her lawyer: they were married on the steps of the courthouse while waiting for their case to be heard.
My client, also my wife, the lawyer says, is seeking compensation for emotional trauma she experienced in being grossly misled by a mensch pretending to be the Messiah. Period. Paragraph.
Manipulation. He less talks than dictates for press; when he raises his voice and an eyebrow, which, that’s a headline in itself, period, paragraph…my client had invested much faith, time, and money in Mister Israelien. And she’s not the only one. No. There’ve been others, too afraid or embarrassed to come forward just now. Their loss has to be worth something. My time. I urge them to contact me directly. And now—a miracle, what a classy action, a tort. We’re asking, he says, for a thousand shekels a day, let’s say each, for every day my clients were under the impression of Mister Israelien’s stated symbolism, and purported power—in addition to half a million each because, don’t blame us, we just want it.
