Joshua Cohen - Witz

From Newark out to Westchester, from White Plains on down to Wishniak Hill, from synagogue rededications to fundraisers for yeshivas and day schools, from mikveh grand openings to sales spectaculars at hat and haberdashery outlets and superstores for discounted furs, Ben lately in promotional mode’s been doing a lot of this, or His standins have, this smooching of infants, the laying of brunch, the breath of only, upon a profusion of cheeks both upper and lower, on foreheads then even on lips, the face of all flesh. The Bens, they’ve been coached as if birthing, coddled through the criteria: righthand handshake with the mother or father, lefthand holding the head of the infant, without any pressure applied, minding the softspots, the give of the skull not yet fused; then, the lean in for the kiss, under the veil, this the scariest aspect for the infant, the approach of this hairy toothed monster, him looming, descending Him, beard brushing skin not to tickle a giggle but to irritate, chafe, while he, she, clutches at curls; how they shriek then soil themselves as they pucker a suckle at lips His or theirs, twirl hairs around their littlest fingers, tugging and how He or they just has to laugh it off, at the same time applying enough, pressure; not enough to smash hands, crush tiny bones, just enough to make them let go; fingers leaving a honey’s stick or other icky substance behind for a Mary to shampoo, condition, comb out; rinse and repeat. Imageconsultants, brandmanagers, remind: never let them tear at the veil, God forbid; revelation’s disallowed, verboten, no peeking.

And then, this, just what the I’s need: a woman at that retirement home gala linner out in Mass., He thinks come Connecticut…a woman He’s never known before, never known in any sense how she stands up for herself to announce, to the press and the hysterical rest: Ben Israelien the Messiah is the father of my daughter! and then, hymn, what do you know (from want, from accusation, from the hurt of denial), another woman from inside the receiving line in the parkinglot she stands just outside it, removed, holds her kid if it even is hers up in the air under the weather as if praying for lightning to strike them both down how she booms…mine, too! He’s the father of mine, just as much! Mister Israelien has never had relations with that woman, Gelt says. Sadly, He thinks. Unfortunately no, is maintained. You’re goddamned right you’ve never slept with me, she says into a mic, proferring — pardon. As if I would sleep with a God poo poo poo — the mothers hock at once, spit to ice. This kid’s immaculate, she goes on…as a wad of photographers press in to shoot her; for the sake of circulations (panting), she’s milking the kid at a scandalous teat, deviatorily distended, bared. And so the paternity suits begin pouring in, allegations of daughters, too, but predominantly of heirs, sons alleged prodigal, their birthrights assumed: their papers always served late at the partner hotel, after roomservice brunch or lunkfast but before its dessert, as if cream for His coffee, a sapping stir. A third woman big with His issue datelined the opposite coast, then an oviferous fourth from overseas where Ben’s never yet been; a fifth with issues with a sixth with problems and more, seeking a degree of enablement, and that materially as much as of the soul we should hope; some alleging two kinder by Him, others three, though even if these offspring would be acknowledged, and let’s be clear, none of them are, “none would be Affiliated, as such transference must be maternal,” reads in part the Garden’s statement — which doesn’t mean these women won’t be bought off. Envelope stomachs, a womb flush with coin. A Maggie Dalene, 26, of Mittel Albany who’s swollen with daughter; a Christiana Eleison, 18, of Kfar Echo Lake, she’s worrying twins; an A. Leah Capitolina, age and whereabouts withheld or unknown, who she’d suffered a miscarriage of triplets she claims had been His; an Agnes Day stunned at the virgin birth of her son one David Stern last name and the eyes of her husband now ex; one Polly Esther suing Miss Day for partial custody of the boy, willing to let judgment decide, seeking a severance Solomonstyle, perhaps; even and for the ennobling edification of none a Bea Titude of Kiryas Joe alleging rape, a night spent in the stairwell of a motel outside of what’d been Goshen, violent and apologetic and altogether pathetic (the pleading, the please) while the lobby hordes were kept waiting for moments; though rumors of a legitimate son will prove unfounded, what won’t, and even amid the handling of this issue misplaced deftly in how furious, fierce, they manage never to make public His, how to say — operation: His procedure’s never leaked is what, and Miss Shade is overtimes reassured of the purity of her bridegroom-to-be.

Another offday, downtime of sorts and this despite its appearance worked only in public defense: up in Cambridge, Ben’s squeezed into a suit of tweed the kind with the leather spleenshaped patches on the elbows to protect Him in His wriggling grovel. A deserved sabbatical upon a Monday spent pent within the ivy walls and ivory towers of this university turned kollel of late, He’s here to accept an honorary diploma, an nth degree in theology, it’s decided, demanded, its presentation followed by a turn at hightable, leading Kiddush at a private faculty oneg — the intelligentsia supporting Him more for what He represents, less for who He is, suspecting such when this dean promoted to Rosh hands Him His sheepskin unframed and unsigned. Campuseswide, lectures have been forsaken in favor of sermons. Higher homiletics; the week following newspapers carry columns Ben signs, never reads. Maui offers Him a pulpit. Nome counters to name Him Chief Rabbi. Elite me nothing, snub me no snob: He’s both pop and not, His cult a movement of mass and a stilling of One…the namebrand, the Name.

The ninetynine of them then one more of God, names a hundred allpardoning, undeniable and ineffable, inextinguishable and, as much, allnegating — they’re going sloganeered on traffic signs, stickered and stenciled, on the walls of public telephones and information kiosks, taxistands, bus and cartstops, nomens recently registered trademarks of Garden, Inc. (violations are being cataloged, with vandals charged only if they’re not billed). NEB! in kabbalistically diffuse red, white, & blue becoming sprayed in tunnels of the subway said to be held by any revolution convenient for comment, a loose though they’re said to be organizing group of shirkers, skeptics, and the libertarian available that might anyway be paranoid fearmongering, or just another Garden interest, disinformation as entertainment, misdirection as the only way forward, nothing new there. With the Nachmachen tasked to image maintenance with Doctor Abuya assisting, advising in matters of Law in a capacity interpretive, say — a consultancy of divination palms opened, thumbly their fumbling prestidigitation — while Gelt and Hamm have been remanded to merchandising, remaindered to the bargaining bin of this campaign for hearts and minds, wallets and purses, pocketsouls snapped, moderation getting caught in the zipper; supervising the PR initiatives, and administrating, too, the official production facilities of the Garden (and don’t ask as to an acronym — lately there’re just enough around to forget), which night through to day are spitting out every species of kitsch; barracks repurposed to manufacture, light industry, areas of lading and loading, property dezoned and downzoned out on the ice of Joysey eminently domained; the two of them standing on the floor of a factory fit for Kings, Queens, or Hudson counties, hardhattted and soft of face witnessing as Ben’s own squeezes cheeks lumpy and pasty, extruded out of every metallic orifice at once, laudably shiny, all wrapped up in Himself: here a line of gastrointestinal aids, there a regimen of heartburn pills, associated powders and tinctures reactive, inventions of the dead FBs, pharmaceutical patents shylocked for a promise, the prescription of a rare grave. Icons of Israelien inflatable to totter sandfooted, alongside plaster Bens to stand on ceremony, its columns; pressuremolded and plastic Hims even for inclement weather outdoor use on stoops and lawns (1 foot, 36 inches, & 50), said to be sainted, for a nominal supplementary fee, that is, Benblessed miraclegranting, that’s extra, it’s told — fear not, they’re faceless, to circumvent the prohibition of the second commandment; name it what it is, the newest rabbis say, an idol at fabulous savings. Furnishings for the garden and home, and a line of luggage, also, just perfect for your next refugee flee. All products bearing Ben’s stamp of approval, that cartoonishly capital almost bubbly B in their olden language facing opposite and intertwined with a Gothically fonted by way of the sofer’s stam Bet, is how it begins in another; that unmistakable B/ emblazoned in iridescent hologram across the obverse of the packaging — with a worldly dagesh or dot floating to blot their bind at middle — being the same seal that identifies the new currency, Israelien shekels entitling the bearer to His visage laurely ovaled though veiled, and in eighteen denominations, minted across the country and, soon, if the Garden gets its way, the world, under the auspicies of the Treasury, which, along with dissimulation, was Der’s old department.