O to be on the road…once He gets through rehearsal, that is, if He gets through it — not until the trainer’s totally satisfied He’s making the effort, meeting Him halfway to trusting. As of now — so rumors Page Six and all those other pages, those before it and those after — Ben’s too afraid of the lions, management’s said to be renegotiating the Ring of Fire; insurance adjusters haven’t yet evaluated the locusts; fine the promoters, have them trot their damn riders out to the territory to graze them down to glue, staples, bound at a papering’s clip: one (1) room for Mr. Israelien. This room should comfortably hold twelve (12) people. It should contain the following: two (2) lined trash containers, and room and tables for drinks/catering. This room must also have a clean bathroom and shower facilities with hot and cold running water. Must have four (4) 120 volt AC electrical outlets, if possible (Artist Hospitality Room must be kept kosher at all times — NO OUTSIDE FOOD ALLOWED!); a tour opening upon the anniversary of the giving of the Law, Shavuot’s the name hereafter trademarked, not to be shortened or abbreviated, always spelled and capitalized accordingly and appended with the appropriate copywritten mark (any questions, please refer to our Permissions & Trademark Guidelines for Third Party License, Usage, & Reference): Shavuot™ or Shavuot® we’re still not sure, our lawyers are going over it, a holiday to be observed in session atop the everdistant mountain, its binding contract so long and involved it’s been secretaried onto two tablets, to be signed over in fire, eventually, heldover to when — and scheduled to end upon the eve of the Day of Atonement, with what’s being billed, mannadewly newsed as a Gala Spectacular, morning edition rolled and tossed, rubberbanded at the stoop of the Midtown Temple, which by then, pray, should be up and slaughtering.
In preparation, with per diem schlock slung over one shoulder (the change of costume, the false beard, the spare pair of propprescriptive glasses), Ben’s slungshot around the city, necessary to keep His steps ahead of any pursuit, whether terrestrial or Other: the paparazzi imported from overseas and kept salaried by whom, the Pope, President Shade, Der himself, each of them credentialflashed, carded paranoiac without the knowledge of the others…the hebraized hebephrenia of being followed, too, by assigned hangerson, wholigans, boosters and Bens, Bennies or Bennys, whatever they’re called in whatever rag you’ve been wiping with of late at early toilet, midnight snack, decoys, nearlookalikes (because who could be that huge, normally’s, the suspect), always lumbering near, tripping Him up, stepping on His toes. If He’s a False Messiah, then they’re false False Messiahs, saviors twiceremoved, Redeemers-inlaw shadowing Him from event to affair, from symposium to party, from fundraised to lower underground — in the tunnels of the abandoned subway and there in their own private cars, boroughing irresistibly, until an emergence upon the dawning platform of the Eclass="underline" following Ben shikerred on bronfn, minibar mashke, puffing bummed cigarettes they’re slurry; themselves tailed frayed and splayed in a hot seething animal mass by an assorted host of actresses, latest models and miscellaneous It-maydels, behind whom shade yet another thirtysix, these not standins, nor stunted doubles, but His bodyguards, protection — making their ways down the street of heldover, hungover, morning oneway, at the Downtownmost and further deadend of whichever there’s, finally, shush, inexorable shtum: schlafing it off in whichever luxury hotelroom shining huge under the recommendation of five stars, in whatever glittery metropolis these afternoons early of sleep might hallow Him undead — bedbugged deserts of dream, turneddown oases of however relative ease.
Things, always scheduled as Things unspecificed due to security, being so busy, so crazily scheduled, so hectic and profitable, too, Ben’s being worked now on the Sabbath, hard and kept moving — not that it would matter to Him to desecrate the day we’re reminded to keep holy above six others, just that He doesn’t want to work period, never did whenever, and with who He is, why should He’s the liberating thought. There’s no secret it’s a day of rest. My public takes a holiday, why shouldn’t I? More should be expected of me? Please, no thanks your toil. I’ve paid my dues, completed covenants. Garden, Inc., though, maintains again it’s all for His own safety — believe me, Der’s saying to Him in the limo motorcaded a stretch up the West Side, all this Law merely hampers my ability to protect you, son, ties the old hands. Sidelocks and beard knots and tassle fringe come off it. I don’t understand, it’s ridiculous, especially whatwith…but what weight do I have, what say in the matter. Make light His mission, make money their humorless goal. And not just your mundane kept moving, the gossipy run of the gristmill — He’s On the schmoove: a salty slip of His misspoken live to the networks, duly resurrected as slang for immediate release to the press; Ben baumming around: a newest nature holed up in a tree is the image they’re getting, Parkside if imaginary, Edenic, highswaying above enormity, Him casting down left leaves to float slowly, widening out into headlines grained in green envy, ribs into folds, veins a slopping of copy — His wedding announcement, Israelien — Shade, the cancellation of next baseball season, the rising price of pork — going soggy toward the gutter, the sewering Hudson.
And, too, like any nature, His presence is everywhere, if not the ideal itself then its imaginable made: numinous as omni, the nimious divine — appearances whether in person or name cutting with the dullest rustiest knife to commercial again and again, on the eye of the teevee and over the mouth of the radio, also, Ben borne flaky and weightless upon their flurrying waves; interview the morning after gunkeyed, skunkmouthed, junketed night, this having to put up with: lumpy, lumpensaggy beds just upgraded cots, the patronizingly perky wakeup calls, impertinently polite alarms, and drecky, limited menu roomservice — without privacy to redeem any downtime allotted save that afforded Him by mother and sisters Mary, dizzying, revolving-doored, them following in the livery of a private minivan, metallic pink. Advance family, it’s theirs to prep His suite, pretrash it: filling it with His variegated mementos, babylore, and cheapskate keepsakes, His parent’s tchotchke inheritance already synchronized atop foreign shelves and alien mantels by His delayed ETA: the Messiah has landed; in every stop at nowhere, in every accommodation, they recreate His old room, which is contractually bound through the adjoining to an executive suite, to host Der footing the tab at the head of a hierarchy connective: down the halls doors opening onto doors, into the rooms of His minders Gelt, Mada, Hamm, theirs communicating ever further toward the obstructed, parkinggarage, parkinglot view with those of His others, His entourage whose disciples Ben pretends He doesn’t know, or wouldn’t — like when they dropin plausibly to borrow His bucket for ice or remotecontrol, then try to make professional acquaintance how He just grunts under the eyemask worn over His mouth, ignores them into the womb of the pillow (though it’s not snobbery, it’s just being bored with Himself, with His selves); altogether them a stagparty of shvitzy, hairy fat taking up an entire floor of even the most generous of hotels, bulging the atriums, which are sky-glassed, bursting through the fernfestooned, goldappointed lobbies…