Promise. Save that very vague promissory notion He hasn’t fully thought through, though who has — destiny or fate, reward or punishment, step right up, step right up — Ben has no thoughts whatsoever as to just where exactly what territory He’s lighting out for is, if lit, if anywhere and not just more of that proverbial prophetic dimness or dumb…God’s talking to me in my voice; God’s talking to me, and I’m God — whether in metaphor or image. Confused, who’s not, but out, just out’s enough — He rolls from the sand, half-somersaults then gets up onto feet, stumbles toward the front. And there, to His right, signed at the turn of the sidewalk, a black letterboard bulleted with letters in white: Shalom, it says, Welcome to II: Israelien Impersonators. Then an incongruous Philistine arrow, pointing this’a’way and Ben — despite any freedom a slave still to ego, like a dog sniffling for terrorist bombs, or a God responding to an invocation of names — has to follow, dripping sand and shvitz. Through the door, He’s swung into the lobby crowded but vast, then through the Q’asino floor and its tangle of topiary of Him, celebrity cacti kept decorative up against the glaring edges of wallmounted display cases said to contain: Ben’s wardrobe from His babyclothes up to His wear from the show, then His shoes — bronzed booties that just have to be faked; accompanying other Israelienish treasures and trinkets and charms, making Him blush if not galling: His family Kiddush set, or a model thereof, their silver box for besamim perhaps a reproduction, too, alongside an intricately upbraided — in its labeled, libelous description — Havdalah candle of His mother’s she’d never used because it was too beautiful, she’d always say, how to burn it, whose birthday present it’d been from relatives, hers, flown in from Safed once of Palestein (and then stored underground, inside the vault, an ironclad canopic containment of models purposemade to accompany us to the afterlife, a midgetized Eden of the temporal above: minivaults stuffed with miniaturized gelt, dimunitive chip and coin, minigolfcarts and minislots, minibuffet tables smally laden with tiny roasts and flecks of sushi, little harlot idols with claybound breasts laid atop the minibeds, the minipillows, the miniminibars, minipayperview available in every room, maybe) — then, deep into the innermost sanctum of the pyramid, a room known as the King’s Tomb: a limitless capacity ballroom doneup in a lively approximation of rastered sepia, with bunting and crepe streamers hung in black & white, to host the suitably bannered, what’s it again…1st Annual Meeting of Israelien Impersonators, held this inaugural year, amazing — O what a Cohencidence! such cohenesthesia! smack dab in the middle here of this frozen desert, amongst the holdings of displaced Ibn Ezra and Ha Levi’s latterdays. Maybe it’s the prospect of the wedding, or just that of the group rates that would follow it in a discounted procession, veiled in clipped coupons and diaphanous deals, trained to please, but all are in attendance, Bennies from every continent converting. He hadn’t been briefed — untold many of Him working the room, networking below and they hadn’t; futz the Garden’s Pharaohlording, their locklipped secrets, their pokerfaced withhold or hit, just His luck, but maybe there’s a why this’s been hushed. He’s folding, we’ll call. There’s no better place to lose your self than among yourselves, as who would find Him, Him as Him, here, amongst all these Hims, who’d even think it to look. How could anyone tell the real deal’s the spiel, only God knows, only God cares, and maybe that’s it — to let the world stand your security, to stay safe by exposing everyone else to the danger you’re in; and then, to convince them they’re every one of them doing it for themselves, now that’s business.
An ingathering of seemingly every freak who’d ever stuffed a pillow down his pants, then gave that pantsed pillow a secret name they’d tell anyone who’d never ask after only one lchaim of schnapps too many and so perhaps those many names or that Name aren’t so secret, it’s usually Help: windchapped and undermoisturized faces listing toward eczema; dark dangles of meshmade ties lazily shadowing immense purchases of paunch, belts of leather thongs braided hidden around girth, under gut — dressed for this westerly freeze just like their easterly mothers would’ve insisted, in multiple layers and, hymn, maybe that’s all they are, all there’s to it: people draped fat in infinite layers for warmth, layer after layer nylon to woolen and yadda on down to their stained cotton briefs; at night in their own rooms to peel downily away to the unnamable kept hot and heart with within — a molten unknowable nothingness, a core boiling barren of Him — sleeping in beds tossed by the blue light of screens, to become their very own nobodies themselves. This being the very first annual meeting of any orientation Ben would ever attend, and He’ll attend it all wrong, unofficially, uninvited, no blame. His parents, or so He’s gathered from an albumed stash of official linnerdance portraitphotographs, from the trove of souvenir programs, kept from going starrily yellow by the careful preservation of experts lately involved with a forthcoming museum to be housed in His house at the Garden (its projected opening date, this upcoming Rosh Hashana — the first week of the newest New Year), had been much more proficient in attending such meetings and gatherings, pitchstrategy sessions and infotainment plenaries to be focused on PR message discipline and trial technique, training camps and miscellaneous congress: as laymembers, they were never caught lying down; as board members, never bored, always attentive, and in good standing: during speeches, they’d sleep on their feet; they were even officers, at least Israel had been, Hanna maybe just a Hadassah or Sisterhood corresponding secretary or else, with Edy an event cochair, her husband presiding over an immemorial annualization of bar association brunches, inns of court functions, and other purposeless conferences held toward the winter what with Joysey’s Teachers’ Convention break flown south to greater Orlando (though in relative youth, with their portfolio barren earth, how the family would install its members in a chain hotel fanned above the swamp that is neighboring Kissimmee). And so this feeling for meetings maybe isn’t so genetic. Still, how hard can it be to be Ben-as-yourself, especially if it’s just long enough to help your feigned to food and drink for what’s gratis. Not to be Himself, only one of His selves, a mere tear oozed to this ocean, the giddy, overheated shvitz of the five, sixthousand strong here who if not Him or even of Him then have at least all been doneup alike, padded to pop, aping devolved His every mannerism, making an attempt to be accurate even to Him and His mortification to the last mindless gesture holding as public reaction (Him made mindful and foremost, aware, withholding that that’s being manifested by all) — this summit of gesticulators signifying familiarly similar, simianly familial, as Ben enters the room disappointment in disastrous unison.