And why are you, answer me this, indulge me…Ben ashes His Schwantz into an attending green nurse’s He thinks it’s its cleavage, a pulsating bust itself interplanetary — why are you so interested, so obsessed, with this lastness?
An obvious question, Doktor Froid says, which it has all the answers…it’s that we have nothing to lose; nothing of ours ever ages, nothing becomes old and so, nothing dies. And if there’s no death, nothing at the end, indeed, no end at all, then, and follow me here, there’s no possibility of our being exceptional; in other words, of this lastness, of being the last, as you say…sof pasuk: which estate we consider either the highest honor or the lowest punishment in a world such as yours, in which everyone’s punished to one severity or another — to tell you the truth, we’re still not quite sure. Understand me, please, and it stubs out all three of its Schwanzs in the rounds of ashtraying suckers — we’re immortaclass="underline" for us, there’s no being born, and then again neither is there any being unborn, any life outside or, better, beyond, our cache. We’re the first people, also the last; the two qualities negate each other, commingle in cancellation, if you will, dialectically anull any ambition, hope or faith; and so we’re obsessed with this mortality, not only with yours but more perfectly — we’re fascinated by the end of it All, with what might be called universal mortality, if that makes any sense, deadline, flatlined timeline, catastrophe with all the fixings, Chaos the first God, Apocalypse’s Greek revelation…with the idea that any world can just — end; this quality of lastness, this idea of singularity, of being unique…we’re talking survival. Genug.
Whoever you are, whoever you would’ve been only if, whatever it is you do and whatever it is you would’ve done — you are it. And I mean, It. You, Ben of my Ben. The past and the future are now. Sit straight, make eye contact, bend me an ear…
To name a thing’s to give it life, that’s your tradition, just trust me on this. It’s like Adam, prothoplastus to ultimaplastus, the Roman, the Latin, you follow…then a negative Adam, an antiAdam, the genetic repository of God’s imaged intention and its debasement by you, I mean them. Ben, you have no culture, but to those left behind you are the culture. No matter what you might want out of life, no matter what you might’ve wanted out of it once, or needed, or else what’d been expected of you or by you, you Ben — liebchen, if I may presume — are chosen, and like you, we, too, have no choice…and Doktor Froid stretches out, slowly, expectantly, crossing tentacles to reveal behind them and underneath squishy, an armchair: plush, loosely jointed, and creaky maybe a century old; emitting in its recline a patter of soft flatulent noise He mistakes for the sounds things like this make when they respire, if they respire — ask it.
Bitte, He says, I’ll bite, I’ll even chomp at the bit and He spits out a loose shred of Schwanz…I’m interested, I won’t deny it. Let’s talk particulars — how does it work? the salary, the hours? Vacations? Benefits? What’s your coverage?
To begin with, we beam you up here and ship you to Zion — I know, I know, we’re thinking about changing the name…
And then?
And then what else do you expect, you exist. But you’ll want motivation, incentive, enticement, a little of the what’s in it for me. Shema, hear and then harken: for you, we’ve broken the rules, violated directives, thrown basic principles to the wind that isn’t in space and so we’ve made it ourselves with rain and with snow and then set it blowing on course, that’s how serious. Your happiness means the world to us; what I mean is — we’re really going out of our way. Especially, we’ve acquired not a last, and neither a first, except as she represents for us a departure, and for you, everything, the universe known and, at the same time, not so well…she has her own distinction, I mean. We have for you a woman named Hanna, though we know this isn’t how she was known to you. She was Mother, Ima, Eve and Lilith, think suckle.
You do? He springs from His seat to stand the unsteady thrust of the ship, gags on His Schwanz, begins choking.
And now we need you…not now, though, later—your later.
And then? He asks, getting breath.
And then we’ll have you, that’s it, and we’ll keep you and well, that should be enough. What else do you need: you want we should probe you, perform experiments, polish off the speculum, speculate deep — anything else you secretly hope against fear we’d do because you’d be disappointed if we didn’t, wouldn’t you? Doktor Froid whacks Ben on the back with a tentacle uncrossed, He hurls His Schwantz out of His mouth to fly across the room wildly butt over cherry, as if with tractoring lock to smack this nurse attending in the tush if it’s tushes they have like orbiting moons; a fit of hurt throat, then a calming of cough, a stifle and soon, amid silence, another of the Doktor’s tentacles exploring His lap in a special direction, leaving across His knees damp trails of suction.
Yes, He admits, recovering, I’d probably be disappointed, usually am.
But don’t disappoint us!
One more thing, though. It’s what’s this? Ben’s asking to move the session along from groping to fate, so as not to run this session overtime and on reserve power at that, the emergency beamblinking, winking, lowlight supply or who would’ve thought engines down — and so, owing additional money He doesn’t have to an alien who probably doesn’t have need for it…if I have no say in the matter, I’m thinking, what’s with this abduction?
Only a reminder, a noodge or a nudge. It’s to say hurry up and expire, enough with this already: get your life together and live out your span, your eternity, or only what you perceive as your eternity, and then, we’ll be back…we’ll return for you on our next pass through this quadrant, you should be honored — you’ll be our only stop in the galaxy. Now, and I mean no disrespect, you’re not the only acquisition on our agenda this time.
What, He wants to know who, who’s more important than me?
If I must, and Doktor Froid strokes its moist staches, its beardy clammed thought. Discretion, divulge. It’s the last of the last, this One. Though we would’ve retrieved Him on our last trip, the logistics wouldn’t work — just didn’t make sense to Accounting, wasn’t they said costeffective, even we have to deal with budgets, deadlines, and crunch: we would’ve been backtracking, would’ve spent half an infinity on inventory and restock alone; this One’s at the end reaches; He doesn’t live where He works, doesn’t bring the office home with Him, no mixing business with pleasure. We need Him before you — but you’ll get to meet Him, don’t worry, and you might even like Him. A wonderful addition to our collection. It’s big, I’m talking a raise, might be in for a promotion, Management’s impressed. What I’m saying is that though for your world He’s the last of the last, it’s not that He’s a nothing to us.
Last what? who?
Though there’s a slight problem: it’s that we can’t quite figure out what He eats, if He eats, if He drinks, sleeps or wakes or whatever, we’re not sure, how could we be and Him, it’s not like He’s telling, keeps a lowprofile lately, silent, and hidden; it’s as if, it’s been said — it’s whispering slurpily — He doesn’t even exist, is maybe already dead, or perhaps never did exist…more like He just seems that way, wants to seem that way, out to prove, make a point: at least appears if imageless, resistant, apprehensive about the whole process, I’m sure, irked, jealous, and vengeful…relatively normal response under the circumstances, can’t say I blame Him, don’t hold it against. He’s not used to being bullied, coopted, told what to do. Not Him, not the last of the Gods — and, would you believe it, the Doktor says brightening, and rising from behind it as if they’ve all along padded its sit atop the decline of the armchair a handful of tentacles each banded around with a hundred fancy schmancy watches clocking their times differently though equally and expensively regular — it’s fifty minutes past an hour of yours; my how sessions fly, and how we should, too. It’s been a pleasure; truly, I’m honored, it’s deep. Don’t worry, we’ll deduct the fee for this session from your first week’s allowance. My office won’t be in touch until it’s too late; we don’t call or send cards. Speaking professionally, you’ll forget all about us. But you might want to get a second opinion. Rest assured, Ben — we’ll meet again soon.