Joshua Cohen - Witz

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 acronym, 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.