Joshua Cohen - Witz

A crackling barbed rustle, then a prickle of shrubs, a mustering sound…as over a slicking hump He’d driven around once the concrete barrier of the parkinglot fronting the lazaretlike, leprosariumal Greenhouse and all in a tizzy tripping and falling over fallen and tripped parts of themselves, deforming in a partiform peel — the feral caddies klutz in on Him, pariahs in a panicked charge; they’re hurling golfballs at the misered glass the edifice has left as windows, as walls, sharding into stings, to embed amid the loosening of limbs; they the frontline, they’re tearing under their armpits with grownout nails and fisted tees wedged to nest between the knuckles remaining; caddies devolved, grown apelike, primalputsched, silverfurry with the molder of fervent, feverous illness, they’re sharp of tooth and eyed in wild suppuration, overworked yet underpaid, never tipped enough to stave off their eventual, inevitable revenge: some weak ones hanging by the stumps of near trees, wrapping their wounds one by one in the club’s insignified linen napkins so as to be prepared at a moment or signal, for a last assault, a final attempt — to swing for the groin or the throat; others scramble up trees shaggy with snow, drooptrunked, for a better position from which to sling their pocketed balls, smashing even the heads of their fellows, the stronger ones having hopped the lot’s perimeter hedge to swarm through the remains of and tumular over this Greenhouse fallen, its sharp edges of metalmade detritus: counters’, chairs’, tables’, slicing them flanking Him at all ruin’s routes, fall’s momentary escapes, with exits left unilluminated; they’re wielding gripless sand wedges, drivers and irons numbering high into the sixthousands, woods and putters, their bags’ umbrellas, poisonously ferruled, ribs spooked out to corner Him to carcass, to whip Him into submission with gratis towels knotted from the laundrybins of the lockerroom showers, soiled and un, wetted hard then rolled, and then there in the last stall with its spillsticky floor and its soapdish bitten to muffle to punch and kick at Ben, as if to infect their own form, sustaining toward what if not death…their knuckling tees, their fingers and toes only missing, not missed.

Ben makes for an exit, from them and His fear, the scabrous heat piling piteously through the scaly, hairy rubble, the caddies assailing from the rear: His momentum knocking them to impalement on unframed window mullions, lepromatically ferruginous supports, squamous stang and transom, upended foundations studded with infecting nails of just rust, crushed by blocks in cinders; heads through what’d been the club’s kitchen and its service entrance in a vaulting slide over the meridian counter, banging Himself on the hanging pans and pots and skillets, on His way grabbing at the handles and knobs of bins and cabinets and pantries abandoned, looted empty of goods canned, preservativebalmed in case of Apocalypse or Sunday shortage, then out the door to flee the course entire; lunging over the fence at the rough’s rough edge, there falling into a neighboring yard, getting mired in a swimmingpool dry though filled with the pasttime of personal days — innumerable faked sick leaves’ worth of golfballs lost, fouled globes.

Ben’s clambering over the slippery mount, atop, near giving up, balls giving way bumptiously under His effort, the righting rump; then, a last, lumbering thrash, and He emerges to hurl Himself over the pool’s far ledge — on His gut, slit, a fish floundering fluke, the catch of last days to fin up onto dry land upon two legs now to fly through the house (its screendoor, open, its door-door, open); then, as if Friday’s first course belated, through the blessing of a family’s kitchen, around its middle countertop and there parents and kinder gathered in their service of Havdalah, meaning To make distinct, to keep kadosh, or segulah separate the mundanity of tonight and its tomorrow from that or the sanctified of another tonight, that of its sacred today — Havdalah the candled conclusion of the Sabbath with its Elijah arrived as Him, scaring the gehenna out of this newest Affiliate, Ima, Aba, their two point five kinder, upsetting their braid of fire to consume the cabinetry, to tarnish with smoke the cups for Kiddush, its wine inflamingly holy, to incense the box of spices at which we nose at Shabbos’ end, as if to revive ourselves after an illness.

A few clicks up the high dry you bet Jurassic it once was a river — now only a moat without the water or bridging courtesy to freeze, a snowedover safeguard of the turreted monstrosity above: a forbiddingly outlandish stucco manse, pinkening with the dawn though perched resident heavens higher out on that thar mesa, which juts up majestically from the very middle of an enormous cañon sunk around it, a socket of this cold and blinded earth. This the estate of the legendary Lee Sure, a former Holywood actor, producer, director you name it who’d retired his own household name for a new home out here only a moon ago, deserted his career in its recent crisis to zone this plot his own; dedicating the future development of this scenic openness around him as a sanctuary for fellow moviefolk blacklisted for their refusal to convert. He’s a hefty and tanned goy, threechinned, fourbanked, presently a mere two laps and a length or so into his daily routine in his pool dramatically overheated when what do you know the poolside numberless telephone rings. His wife, Lara née Busch of the once prominent militaryindustrial Buschs, maybe you know them or better — she sits alongside the unit ringing without registering any interest, even awareness: a woman sunned to small under artificial lamps, pruned, heated to petite…the morning is, in her words to her Kush of almost every morning when and if the medication takes, perfect, am I right? Above the sun a yolk hidden forever within its cloudy shell, never to crack down upon us its warmth, though as she says she only eats the whites, dear, she reminds again her servant who she’s just sounding him out for the umptillionth time and only today, I only eat the whites…this the first day for her outside in a week: the new agoraphobia drug’s finally spaced her (a tumult, a whirlwind of late the reconstruction of its disaster psychologically requiring a host of special prescriptions and proscriptions both phoned in and forged: how they’d finally cashed out of the city, which’d meant Angels, last moon, headed out to the desert to get away from this next generation of players like Spielgrob, Kinoff, Joshuabaum, P. A. Yuccabaum, all the freest agency of their wives present and ex, to live heightened security and alone in this mansion they’ve been renovating forever, it already seems, what with memory, way back since the beginning of western time, ever since this mesa had been no more than a dunghill, and the immigrants laboring no more than dark scurrying dreams), she’s dulled insensate though perched purty in a freshly oiled chaiselounge under sunlamps set in the shade of the umbrellad highdiving platform facing her darting husband deaf to the telephone again with its insistent rattle, a needy baby cribbed upon an elegantly fineboned wicker cart to her side that also holds, on its topmost shelf, the remains of her brunch: bacon and sausages and slices of contraband ham for the protein, hold the salt, with blood pressure onefortysomething over a hundred causes heart disease served up still beating if slowing apropos a white plate trimmed with three eggs scrambled to the texture of her brains; dear, I only eat the whites (cholesterol)…can’t be bothered to answer the phone, too much trouble, how could she on a day as perfect as this, so stressfree, am I right, and so the Kush obliges — how can’t he and keep his employ, still run his illegal smuggling operation of goyim fleeing, running, swimming, over to Mexico out of the caves of the valley below; he drags Sure in to the concrete shore with a hook used to retrieve cocktail glasses sunk to pool’s bottom.