Ben shuffles endearingly slowly, kloymershtily klutzy manner up to the microphone of the podium atop the dais and shadowing there as if the one hand left of a clock, unbound, shading the face entire of this Timeless Square, this mess of Mitteltown recently redeemed from business, freed from the oppressive glare and din of commerce, lately rededicated to the holy — to the faith of these newest menschs and their womenfolk and kinder of thousands, these million they seem welling tears to flood the avenues east and west then ten street blocks north and further to spill out like blood spurted from the vein of the lane to stain the ice of the Park, to taint the pure and coldly bright earth surrounding the Temple, its reflection of the sanctuary’s dome, skymutual. With His veil lifted, Ben about to lift His voice — an echo comes from the crowd, a yelp that pierces air, its spittle a bullet, stray of flesh, He falls…a frenzied screech, its tongue the clapper of an urgent bell — then Tongues, speaking in or of them…
We need a witness! a witness over here! is what’s said, such nasally stop-tongued fortition made in response to a miracle wholly engineered, perhaps, or, nu, possibly even imagined, in the midst of the assembled…whaddya want: women faint, menschs overwhelmed themselves; they bawl like the babies they’re having; an accent failing: Hamm’s wing strikes quickly to hand out forms, passing them into the crowd from hand to fist, no longer questionnaires or surveys, but disclaimers, nondisclosure agreements. Is anybody hurt, I repeat, is anybody hoooooyt? Broadway’s sewers shrieking rhotic, lid their throats, go futz em. Officers get reared up into the air, go thrown from spooked mounts, geyn galloping under — slipping on prankish lots, lost marbles, trampled in the fracas ensuing. Shots rain up to snow stars. Nightsticks rap skull. Out with the hoses. Tonight, the glass will burn, the fire will shatter. No commandments will be broken, but who’ll vouch for their stones? Ben’s snatched; the rostra, evacuated. A helicopter rises, hoisting an overload, an underslung calf crying out…Ich bin the goddamned German Ambassador! The other guests of honor have disappeared, your honor. Ben’s dispersed into His doubles, lettered through the exhaustion of any alphabet, then numbered, alien Israeliens, the Garden’s gang of gängers…who is who, they want to know, how should I, they look the same to me; kicking, punching their ways through the home teem — enough of whom are happy to ape His likeness for no pay at all, not even for the admiration of neighbors, family friends. I’m me, Ben whimpers from His knees, cowered, who else — over here, you, nu, I’m talking to you, He’s saying at Union Square where they’re (unionized, but “for entertainment purposes only”) picketing each other, when that afternoon Bowery downed to the idol that is ye olde Battery amid a mob founded atop the altared ruins of its fort, they’re grossly salival kissing His feet and hugging His legs; pecking and petting a lovein, how they’re begging, beseeching, anyone but Him, His others…but it’s me you want, He says, me. Not who else, who better. Unconscionable, futzed — how they grovel like that, humble themselves at the feet of impostors. Ben grabs at His head, then His gut, the ego’s fat, turns it around in His hand. Me, this is me. Roots out His hair. Makes me sick. How they’ll prostrate themselves before any beard. Throng a finger risen in scorn. Asphalt gives poor reflection, tar no mirror at all — can’t tell how ridiculous we’ve become, so blackened, so changed. Hamm has Him facedown in the street in the freeze. Mada crackles the radio, over. A siren late through the Square airs His name. Another hand grubbing, not His own — it fists hairy paunch, digs nails, drags Him into the rear of a limo. Get in, Heber’s grunting over the seat, and stay in; be a good boychick for once, shut your door for yourself. They head west without light and against a oneway, turning onto Tenth Avenue parting the waters that are not water but oy lachrymose people, wave after wave of them unapplauding, widemouthed and raging and now coming to crack across the fender and hood, leaving behind them a staggering wake tipped sharply with spittle, a tide thick with gobhocked curses and blood. A squeal, then a left onto the West Side Highway, Downtown then a swerve off its edge — from a pier, there’s a crash to the flume, ice giving them way upon the riverine remains of the bay.
At a bivouac set up in the Park just south of the Temple, a tentcity of pilgrims with no further plans, having thought through nothing beyond this coming to town: arrival, mere showing, setting up camp then awaiting the blessing — Johannine among them, being inquisitioned by both presscorps and the public dismayed. Even given this utzy ruckus, there are still questions to ask, half as serious as sky, the other lightweight, to be dismissed in a manner professional, hand to mouth disarming and quick, a small laugh given out of the recline of the lips, a yuk humoring chuckle; the reporters love him and their cameras, they’re jealous…asking him what: boxers or briefs; nu, what’s His opinion of the Temple, or the new Sabbath legislation; really ready for marriage, are we finally saved? That was Him, the pilgrims gathering around, they’re asking, indubitable dupes; He was here, wasn’t He, what every arrived acolyte wants to know, I didn’t miss Him, did I, hope not, God bless, we came all this way just for this. Always late. It’s your fault, says husband to wife, though it’s his, always is.