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.
Though the new isn’t even the half of it, as the relic market soars, through the roof — a chimney’s black puff: locks of hair said to be His go for a mint, wrapped for the shipping in mismatched to no matter white tubesocks, retrieved from the laundry, dirtied fetching more than clean, veils and vials of sacral saliva and if impotent seminal fluid are prized if always faked and known to be, too, forged receipts, counterfeit clippings of nail from finger and toe, bogus foreskins and eyelashes as questionable, and as unquestioned, as the proliferating public and publicized records of miscellaneous deeds done, of good works goodly worked upon billboards and within the webs of neon campaigns — Bens private and public assimilated into a bland middle, made pareve, approachable, relatable’s the term through the given mundane (gnawed nighttable pencils and pens, knives and forks stolen from roomservice carts and their dishes that chafe, yarmulkes blown from His head and from there — directly into the hands of the deserving, a blessing fallen from the steal of the wind), these artifacts of His lapsed divinity, these failures made object of abject, His. Witness the fervor for such relics culled and cleaned from the fleshified strata of this monumentally walkingtalking dig, this instantaneous forefather Ur; an involuntary authority just one appeal short of repealing Himself, it’s been said — meaning God…what tsuris, what terror!
And how He’s imperishable like divinity, too, managing to recover from any scandal, emerging ever stronger, with an authority that can’t even admit No Comment, that can’t even be questioned without asking back: the latest DNA tests performed manage to identify the Jnome, or its lack (though only the results are reported, the exact science hushed up), setting the issue of a son right once and for all. With the depths of scandal being translated to the heights of authority, an inviolable mandate atop its heightening mountain with the desert impending — He’s near teflon omni, a bulletproof golden cow without tarnish; a bush behind which hides the ram that is His fear, never to be burnt for a lark. A Moses’ Moses, which is as a lay God or lap dog, a stoolpigeon trained to fetch the new tablets: debut legislation, fall season’s ad copy, the invite list’s advance benevolence. At pattering parties, Ben going from being token to a coin, as currency musthave, to be booked long on advance notice only: as a straightmensch, or color commentary, as a guest host or rabbi-to-the-stars, engaging in scripted debates with Doctor Abuya and others for gabs fested on rushhour FM and late night teevee nationwide — though there’s only one network revived. He makes for pleasant filler; not too difficult, always engaging, toeing the Garden’s line in slippers orthopedic: a product of Benwear©, His own label of big & tall clothing. Ben weeknights hocking whatever product He’s been informed of His support of (Cistern Bottled Water®), personal predilection for (He-brew™, now available in eighteenpacks), scissoring ribbons at kosher food outlets all over the nation, opening libraries at minimum security prisons out of state, inaugurating kennels, speechifying at rallies and public gatherings for worthwhile cause (Late Onset Tay Sachs research) or catastrophe (COP, COnvert the Poor); opening matzahball and gefiltefish canneries, delivering keynote addresses at sales seminars for women’s undergarments, motivational speaking for headache survivors, and Friends of the Uncircumcised. The Orphan Bride Fund. CPA’s for Charity. Ben all day all around your dial, turn as you, the introspectively disaffected, might (though afraid as any are nowadays of being denounced), hocking insoles, insteps, solutions, too, and solvents, it’s amazing, Ben, it really works, and just wait, He says, till you take a sit down in one of these recliners, phenomenal, tell me about those hypoallergenic pillows, will you, hymn, Ben, they’re specially designed to service your cervical curve, wow, I can’t believe it, can you: grillers and smokers and knives, life’s never been so easy, the wife’s never had it this good; Ben embracing the neologic of the infomerical, smiling from behind every pulpit, smarming from atop any platform — name the price, He’s your mensch. Marketing loves it, they’ll die for His grins — or so the Garden assures its investors with data to prove, the Kings Ben plugs for, endorses on behalf of from late at night monologues through the walkover, hosted into morningshowed tomorrows that guest the same as todays, the total program. How’s life? Holiday plans? Primetime beckoning, a call in the wilderness of poolside, the lure of the highestpaying slots, their jangling ring: Ben’s mouth behind the tamtam diet, the herringflavored proteinsupplement, touting its kashrut, the benefits to your health; then, only a spot later He’s on again giving weepy testimonial for Praying Off The Pounds©, I’ve never been more excited, He says, than about this simpering-ly a-may-zing evangelical weightloss movement in a spate of commercials for which He’s backed by a vintaged folksinger who with guitar in hand jingles himself out the nose. Though to be fair to His handlers, and to keep up His image, that selflessness shtick, Ben’s out there publicservicing, too, paid per the platitude to engage with the kinder, announce: Stay in drugs, Don’t do School. Take two. Yeshiva, voiceover. Ben, nothing much matters, that He botches most of this if not alclass="underline" in His overdubs, occasionally awkward, a stutter; comfortless and clumsy in photographs; in printspots in both how He’s imaged and quoted, nearly repellent in intentschmearing spreads: a pitchmensch grabbingly girthed, overflowing His waistline, foldout…Ben’s pants pinched in two, while pitching a tent in His fly (styling credits: WHose by Israelien, $59.99/1080 IS): an encampment pilgrimaged by everyone who’s, producers and their advancemenschs, their behindmenschs, faddists and setters and models and magnates, crossover heiresses and crosseyed tycoons; their congregation itself beset with the heated pants and ferocious howlings of autograph hounds, salivating and fearsomely scratching at an elusive itch perked by the ears or the tail — they need His signature, it’s His name or death: just kick it into the sand, will you, at the edge of our purpose, of Ben’s or of Judah’s or…legible only to the gaze of the sun, let the wind efface it on the morrow: it’ll be gone, but may that gust carry your fame far and wide. He has to memorize how to sign His name in the holy tongue, entailing Nachmachen instruction under Abuya supervision — it’s a popular request. He grips the pen fullfist, as if the tongue of His tongue concentratedly nibbed. Then, to make His mark upon their clammy, heaving flanks: a singular initial fanged across the ribs, with a hesitant flourish. He shakes hands if hands hounds have, and then’s gone, leaving behind Him a disappointed pack of fierce fandom, cursiveshaped jackals howling at the moon.