by Joshua Cohen
Why here? Why, nowhere else. B hitching a hayride at the mouth of the tunnel, He’s offered to pay the toll plus an epes extra for hay—a cart laden with a couple of subsubcontinental emmigrunts, with their dreams hitchedup, hauling in the persons of their innumerable kinder whom they hope to sell as housegoyim or indenture as glaziers’ apprentices, their worldly possessions piled atop and around Him hidden hush under the straw past the cops with their customs and emergency checks: in traffic, stalled amid the whinnying honk of horses, the bleating of goats—they’re stopped in the tunnel’s middle for prayers, extolling ashrey yoshvey—the two of them husband and wife, or husband and sister, or brother and mother, spitting away in indeterminate what language that is, Him thinking He’s always hearing His name, wipes it from His face with a palm. Shalom, good luck, by which they mean mazel, mincha finishesup, they roll forward to drop Him Downtown, wish Him away with much phlegm. Though the streets are empty for the holiday, such is the familiar severe—a formation of metalworked winter; Liberty’s dimmed, His Island’s lost shrouded in weather.
What a day to arrive, B’s thinking, up from Joysey on a life like this: the wind, then the fast, its prayers pouring out a hush from the gusts, Him privated with what, to go without money, without purpose save go, apologize to the gutters and grates. It’s the people, though, they’re the unaskable, the unanswering why—the Other, these others, and nu, fill us in…how can you stay in Joysey living the life of the mind? As the Greeks once said, don’t know if you know: show us a mensch without a city, and we’ll show you what’s either a beast or a God—that’s if the secular isn’t already banned, or otherwise censured. In the name of the Ramjohn, is what Johannine’s calling himself lately, we’re asked the following, what we’ll be asking ourselves for generations to come—what does He have to return to, He doesn’t know anywhere else? How dumb is this? How dumb is this. Hymn. He should have stayed quiet in Joysey and small.
At the Stateline, in the midst of the Holland, verily, the waters are divided—and then, there’s a sign at the exit, a billboard that blinks:
- 12° F
- BLIN - - KING -
COLD ENOUGH FOR YOU?
Landscaped from one of the two mouths of the tunnel, for the many tunnels of this mutated city are monstrous throats that never digest or ever waste what they swallow, without intestine or stomached gargle, how they merely gorge then regurgitate and then gorge themselves again down to the bottom of Broadway—willows groved tightly, their trunks lashed together to prevent them from being uprooted by the tunneling wind, their boughs hung with among many other objects, or forsakings, the harps of the Philharmonic disbanded since last season’s interruption, and then with their strings, all their sections: their violins first and seconds, violas and violoncellos, the occasional weeping, droopy bass, their strings wilting in memory, going loose and de-tuned in the howl coming up from the bay—trees hung not just with bis-biglissandoing harps and with fiddles gutted and bows but with memories, too, and forgettings, pleas and supplications, signs and notes slipped and tied dire: help me find my father, one says, have you seen my partner? another, this posted alongside a photo faced grainy from its constant reproduction, a losingly lined courtroomsketch, if so contact Sassoon & Silver LLP., cash reward for information leading to his recovery, all (succor) wanted, needed, & offered…tins of spam dangling from giftribbons, plastic liters of generic soda, empty jars of mayo weeping ornamentally wrapped from these trees, trays of decorative cupcakes and cookies, novelty balloons; these groves nymphabandoned, lining Canal Street west to the Bowery with equity neckties, daytrader suits on hangers commoditized in plastic fresh from the drycleaners, highheels, dressy pearls’ strands—this the highest rate of return, a reversion to our natural state, a great comfort unconfined: this season, menschs let out their bellies; womenfolk smear their makeup onto the faces of streets, pink and streaks of red like rainbows trailed by snails, then pray for an innerly inclement weather, asking the cloudfall to cool their lusts, to purify their souls; their kinder pitch pennies worthless into the sewer green and gold; dogs once theirs now stray dash lame from snow to snow…skyscrapers once new, abandoned to scaffolds; earthmoving giants idle, dumpster hulks sanctifying as symbols of an emptiness within: ambition unfinished, thrusts unfulfilled; lorded over by an inutile silence and the holy stillness of cranes.
At Union Square, which is called such still, despite—as the most niggling, let’s say perspisacious, of our sages note—its hosting no more unions now broken, busted, and, too, that it’s not, strictly speaking, a square, though in another sense a calling appropriate, and even accurate, a bissel, if only because misrepresentation is what’s expected, what this promised city does best and has always since first it was found, lies to us, misdirects then destroys…B goes and asks a mensch on a bench if he knows the way to the, hymn—Zimmerman’s…if only to say something, anything, just to feel alive and with it, but the mensch turns to Him and answers with some dyspeptic word, not understood, then spits a lip’s worth of angst on His shoes. At Madison despite, He works up the nerve to stop another mensch, this one older, a pensioner and so He thinks more respectful or honest, asks him what he thinks of Mister Israelien, and also, if you don’t mind, as long as I’m keeping you, is his opinion, you know, regarded as popular, but the mensch he just shrugs, keeps his sunglasses down, taps his cane due west. Then up and eastward at the Library, there He says an exploratory, nervous Shalom to a woman who she only blushes, bites her lips—the mouth mortified—the rest of her ignores if flushing still, then skits down the block, turns the corner and bursts into crying…denied, again that feeling that He doesn’t deserve it, not as much this being alive as being alive in a city, in this city with such life, with such change, and how B, He doesn’t belong, feels what’s worse than abused, debased, it’s turned within—unworthy. My people had been right to exurb themselves early—we deserved Joysey, I should never have left.
How it takes so much—headenergy, foot’s thought—to get used to it again, never, the land lying down for no one, less and less: all the customs, the rituals and traditions, B, what’s hot, who’s not and the indifference of the undifferentiated lumpenmass, thinking God you leave for one day, just one night, then you come back, bridge & tunnel yourself in, the Holland’s swallow, the Lincoln as if an escape back into bondage—and how everything’s different…new people, new rules. Lately, the whole city’s been rented out: now everything’s owned, every block, each slab of sidewalk, asphalt’s each twinkly grain. He’s walked through the particulars; explained to, talked down to, they give Him the business: you, I’m talking to you—shopkeeps, menschs leaning their drafty beards out the windows—you can’t walk there, that’s leased, don’t make a kasha, a drygoods, a delicatessen, what right do you have, what are you not understanding? Their language, for one, a mix from the guttery guttural, slumming, the slang slung of an easterly gust; which becomes slowly translated, though (it’s not too difficult, already halfknown, it feels, if not just felt and faked), then translated again—He’d rather not put forth the effort. Takes time, this targum. Have the pity of patience, wait for it, geduld. Another mensch sticks his head outside a storefront below a sign that says, He’s trying, He’s sounding it out: Peter Portnoy & Sons—Purveyor of New Antiquities—begins sweeping his walk with copious hairs, with sidelocks gingy, dingedusty, he’s swallowing his whistle to yell at Him to get the futz off my property, private, No Trespassing, Keep Out, what do you think, this is your house?
Apparently, the whole town had been sold off, if not sold outright from under then at least from above it’s been rented, leased then sublet: this untrafficked stretch of Mitteltown pavement bought by a mensch off a mensch who rented from yet another who lived large across the river, Not So Short Island it’s going by now’s the line for a laugh; how some mensch owned the sidewalk (actually him the cement only, though, his halfbrother’d bought the rights to the concrete), another owned the street, yet another the avenue intersecting and
yadda blah north by south, and so you have to know always where you walk on whose you’re walking, how much more it’ll run you and fast: alleys held by a business, owned by this dummy corporation don’t ask, we’re talking fake addresses, doors without handles or hinges, empty windows (the mullions, however, they’re still on the market, any interest, you know who to call, be in touch), it’s all strictly needtoknow, none of your business, bubkiss my tuchus lecker, who the hock mir are you, wanting, on the outs, skidded, stop right there, no room at the inn.
After being evicted from standing His loiter upon every corner in Mitteltown, B makes its upper limits, Times Square and keeps moving: keeping it in mind, that the more you keep moving the faster, the less chance they have to charge you for putting your feet up and staying a while. Billed by the hour, the square a roundless clock, He’s got nothing left by now, not much. After the tunnel’s toll and the tax on the toll, then the tax’s tax assessed to’ve been no more than a bribe, He’s broke, busted, inclusive of slavery severance: without money whether in bills or coins, He’ll take either even if His face is fading from them; they’re being phased out, converted into a currency newer, the metals and paper as fragile as yesterday, as precious, too, though the gems still as hard as tomorrow. Speculation, in every denomination. Foreign forage. Hofn oyf, forget it, meaning hope.
He heads for a pawnshop He finds advertised on a wall, peeling in promise from exposed brick blackened with smoke—ripped like a disreputable, deathinscribed name from the yellowpaged book sealed within the booth of a payphone…but it’s closed, we’ll be back at and locked and so B with klutzy fingers rings at the bell, wakes the onelunged, tiny like an insect beadle and when the sun’s still cresting high, waits for him to fall downstairs two flights, a spindle with a twinge of gray hair hung in green pajamas. Knock knock. Who’s there, who’s there? A wink that it’s worth your time—enough urgent assurance to justify suspicion, expectation lowered so much by now that it might on its own trip the alarm. Rachmones, you have to have pity, the pawnbroker’s saying as he opens, undoing the intricate locks of his door and shutters and grate, this I’m always telling my wife—keys and patience, patience, the life of the deadbolt, bound to who knows how many chains. B comes in quickly His hands in His pockets as if armed for a robbery—a lining giving shine, only a glint, an equatorial edging: His silverspoon—He’ll hock it, to afford an aliyah in any direction.
You’re disturbing me on a holiday, what’s so important, what’s the emergency, a fire, pogrom, has the Messiah arrived?
B holds out His hand.
O, the pawnbroker’s saying as if he’s surprised—though it’s only resignation hidden, this ritual yet another act, a tallis cloak or spare tefillin cover (whatever kind you’re interested in, he’ll oblige with wait). As he has all day, he’ll see what he can do, and by the looks of Him—Him, too. Having been retired to readiness ever since B’s very entrance, the customary ring, his own sleepy slowness merely a shtick, allowing whosoever here to pawn the pretense of advantage, and so now just offering the most requisite of prayers: shoptalk, this Kaddishing of weights & measures, the formulaic preparation of an Amen’s delay—all to enable him a sizing up, as if for B’s coffin, a suitable shroud; him ensconced behind his cage, already putting on his visor and adjusting, always, the scales of his enterprise both the honest and those used to weigh by his daughters and the wife—what he wants, the mark in his palms of the object not yet his a suppurant stigma: what he could get, he’s calculating, conniving, there is no can’t, and those thoughts and others like them not motivational, but true and believing, felt so long he’s convinced, convicted upon his own recognizance of B’s desperation, which he’ll share for half; all such thoughts, hopes, prayers, and dreams accompanied by the various commercial ablutions: such as, the sacred wicking of the moustachebeard, the ritual liplick, the calming of the throat into a fist that’s tightly held…hymn, he’s beginning so soon with the setup, the Blessed Art bumble—so it’s a spoon you want to sell me, nu? Business. That’s something else altogether. Everything. Come in, come closer, that’s it?
A spoon, He says, silver, and an heirloom, worth more to me than to you: hard times have forced…
Forced me, too…says the mensch, he’s heard it all, listened to little, to none—now examining the pawn under a glass, a loupe unlidded and wedged over an eye within the rim of a wrinkle. It’s a spoon, he’s saying, that I can tell for myself, silver, not much. Hymn. A bit tarnished, isn’t it?
As if to noncommit, intereshting.
How? He wants to know, what do you mean…B wanting His money but more His calm, doesn’t want to impress Himself on anyone’s memory—anonymous charity, isn’t that what they say, that it’s the highest form of help…
Nicht, I mean nothing, a bit touchy, aren’t you, neurotic, the shpilkes, and this on a yomtov, it’s unfortunate. You seem good people, though—have you ever been told such things…what am I talking, bet you get that all the time: presentable as you are (but suck it up, will you, tuck that in), and sensitive, too, compassionate’s what they used to say, and with character, such a nice boy that face, such hands, without parents, am I right, a tragedy, always too young, always too soon…an orphan, it must be difficult, and for that you have my condolences, my very best, you’re assured—but forgive me, your spoon, a triflele lefele…so it’s kosher, as an antique it’s echt, not by much. As a keepsake, I’d say it’s worth something. Tell me, how much?
A hundred…He’s thinking as an initial offering high enough, which means there’s still ample low to spare for his greed, the pawnbroker’s—the long, thin fingers refusing to knuckle under, stirringup the cracked teacup mouth, the eyes above unsalted butterpads over the unleavened skin—this alterhocker whose fix seems to be in…an even hundred, thinking that’s fair, as if assuring Himself He does and He doesn’t, B saying it twice, once for each zero on the count of His breath, which is horrible, hungry.
As if to say to the mensch—here’s my pride, bubeleh, now bargain me down what you will.
Ach, the pawnbroker moans, why, it’s a sin…don’t sell yourself short, and he slams his head on the bars of his cage, clatters between them the visor. Tell you what, he counters, I’ll give you three hundred and, hymn, a daughter of mine in marriage (you know how many I have—nu, I don’t either), you have maybe plans for tonight, my wife’s making break the fast, such a cook as you wouldn’t believe!
What’s this all about, B thinks with His face almost too knowingly…and then how the mensch suspects that this, too, might be a tactic, just another ruse, one of many—then why not, with eyes lit as if for effect and His mind going fiery…He’s a quick study, innocent but willing, preternaturally thorough, immediately expert, at ease. I don’t deal with thieves, He says to begin again, then commences with His walking away, the requisite display of disinterest. It’s so unexpected and yet so perfect, so right…wherefrom this instinctual guile, such inheritance heretofore subconscious, underknown, His respect for the deal, the old hand and its shake in its gloriously fallible humanity, its mouth sensuous and sad and yet humorous, too, below the pointiest and so most accusative of noses now put to the grind—and so with that dealhand, the stealhand, on the knob of the door and turning, He turns to the mensch to ask of him fifty, adding…more than fair—I’ll even sweep up around here, and throw in a shoeshine…or two.
I’ve underestimated, the pawnbroker says in a voice that says underneath in a muttering undertone (but that nothing’s ever tragic, or final), must be dealing with a real professional here…listen, tateleh, jokes I don’t pay for. Hahaha, a laugh won’t pay for the coffin, or my utilitybills. You have so much promise, don’t settle for less, I won’t stand for it, you hear me…let’s say five hundred, and meals for the week, a daughter of mine and a house out in Joysey (though only once you’re married—with kinder), three floors—tell you what, and another daughter, too, just to sweeten the pot: you have maybe a brother, an eligible cousin?
Ridiculous�
��B’s almost through the door, it’s insulting: eighteen’s my final offer, chai and chaver—I won’t go any lower, I can’t and you won’t…I’ll pay you eighteen, do the mopping, the sweeping, a shoeshine, I’ll even take in your laundry for a month and sit with your animals when you go and visit your mother. Water your plants, keep up the house, that sort of thing.
