Surgically enhanced, Continentally trained in impersonation, the Nebbish’s echt making a decent little living for himself a parnassa, a sizable grubstake of remunerative usurpation here — out in Holywood, the leftmost wing of Angels, having been cordially invited the week prior to open for the Kings, to warm up the room for their now quarterly meeting during which they’ll debate for its entire scheduled duration what the first issue on the agenda should be, with Neb (full disclosure, a minority shareholder in the Mattress Kingdom holding of Laz-R-Us, Inc.) doing his fifteen minutes, his shtick wellhoned, how the Envelope King slips him his pay in an irregular surplus model #1B, and only then do they all sit down to their business. Holywood now finally emptied of its Affiliated directors, producers, the kooky komedy writers, neurotic or not smart or witty enough and so nervous, or endearing, your call or both, polite, dark, and hairy and hairily funny — actors and actresses just sitting around, just like always, waiting for the phone to ring role, memorizing themselves: there’s nothing to do, no runways to stalk, no parties to crash with crass flash, only hitting on the hick rube but already Goldberging interns still making coffee for what.
Around this table are the Kings, the newest elders, the heads of a revived operation: eighteen on one side, eighteen on the other’s how many total, each regal on whatever side makes for their more successful profile as surveyed from the head — the money wing and, also, the mind of the allpowerful, allseeing poultry: this quarter’s mascot, a muscled, possibly steroidal, bespectacled fowl, in honor of the president, newly installed, Plosher, formerly Perdue, the Poultry King, who sits squawkily at foot. Appropriate to the sham it must seem like to those who paid for the Studio Tour, this sitdown takes place on a set so stripped of glamour it just has to be real, which is merely the irredeemably fake truly felt: fans to stream screeching names of God down the Hills into Holywood proper, mobbing for a mere glimpse of the action on a lot on a soundstage once used for the production of oldie tworeelers and talkies, since disused, doneup in its storage capacity in an unintentional style called High Kitsch, it might be, fin de stickler for detail warehousing for shtetl scenery not presently in service — coops, two bits of fence, foam-rubber gravestones rubbing up against withered polyurethane trees that instead of backdropping coached guttural wails and travails must now provide the setting for this, an unprecedented (meaning they’d just never gotten around to it before, couldn’t make the time, schedule it in) meeting of the principal thirtysix, heads or designated representatives from entertainment, goods & services, industry light & heavy, all the big macher big money big idea movers & shakes (nu, hope they don’t move or shake too hard: among the thirtysix how there’re only half that many kidneys and, hymn, a quarter that number of lungs). Moguling takes it all out of you. Wheeze the bowel’s bottomline. Roll’s called, checking names off the blacklist, but that’s only its type: everyone who’s everyone, who’s anyone, too, your invitation must’ve gotten lost in the mail, don’t hold it against them, you don’t want to be schmeared, misdenounced — them throwing gavels, yelling, demanding to make their demands, as Plosher finishes taking names but where to: the Apple King, the Aspirin King, the Bathtub King, the Brassiere King, the Candle King, the Coop King who he’s in tight with Plosher, the Diamond King, the Ear King who for Nose & Throat refers to his uncle, the Envelope King, the Fish King, PopPop’s old Miami neighbor Freddie the Fur King still making a fortune since Feivel, no his name it was Faivish he died with the rest, the Glove King, the Hair Replacement Product King, the Iodine King, the Juice King and his seedmoneyed son-inlaw, Fruchtfleisch, the future Pulp King assisting (along with His brother, the Prince of String just here to learn ropes), the King of Kings at the head of the table (presiding in matters of judgment, which matters never arise and so no one knows what he does, if he does anything — not that they’d question), flanked by an Insky, an Outsky, and their muscle, a goy just in from the Pale, calls himself Caldo “Cold” Sorvino, backingup Shimi Bellarosa from Belorussia, the Kipper King the oathed enemy of the Fish King because who can swear anymore and on what flipflopping around get a grip…the Laundry Detergent King with Fabric Softener Included, the LaughTrack King who he’s always got the best lines, the Mattress King, the Microphone King whispering—present, but no one hears him and so he’s marked absent, the (egg) Noodle King, the (pitted) Olive King, the Pillow King you’d better believe it sitting on his own product, Plosher the Poultry King, again, plucking himself up in his seat as if shocked at his saying of his own name, nominally presiding at least in matters of order, the Queensized Fashions King, the Quinine King THE maker of tonicwater being waited on by three of his top distributors, the Retinal Reattachment Surgery King, the Shoe King with two of his foremost athletic Supporters, the Tea King with sugar held between his teeth to prevent him from making a point, the Utilities Regulation King, the Varicose Vein Removal Kream King, the Wishniak King (purveyor of fine flavor to the tastemaching trade), the Xray Machine King, the Yo Yo King his menschs out walking the dog, then the Zipper King with his heat, the Zealous Kid (AKA Maxx Gross) lounging louche into shadow, demonstratively puffing, inhaling his smoke down to the filter, then exhaling winter out into the studiolights.
To begin with, a few questions; junkets come with the job…what’s the occasion for this assemblage here in the midst of deep white, with flights outbound to anywhere delayed, then cancelled? Their meeting. And what’s their meeting about? The occasion. Okay, okay, alright already, nobody knows, nobody’ll admit to not knowing. Tightlipped. Burnttongued. Closed set. What’s that about? It’s about time, again. About time for what? For this. All under the lettered sign on the hill. Who stole the L, what’s it stand for, how much’s the ransom? It’s not stolen. One night, it just flickered away. Lalala. Plosher pounds his head against a gavel pounding, echoes giving way to talk all at once…everyone gossiping, doing deals, making rain check your bill then snow and then hail, selling, buying, trading, bargaining down and, finally — coming to shtum when the Zipper King, he whips his out and one lone hoarse voice remains:
I’m telling you, we owned New Amsterdam, we took New York, we had the whole island, the inners, the outers, the nation, the entire goddamnit world.
Anything was ours for the taking—
We had all the reservations, all the restaurants and tables in town.
You want a house, you got a house.
You want an election, it’s yours.
Jesus God they named streets after us, can you believe, squares and parks. We had the press, the television and the movies, too, we owned the networks and the theaters, the unions and art.
We wrote the books, then we’d close them on anyone who’d presume to oppose.
And then, nu, you know the rest…this is the Laughtrack King talking and, hahahamutterfutzingha as he’s drinking the Tea King’s wild fruits assortment, he spurts it out his nose then back into the cup and then drinking again, spurting and yadda — how we knew everyone, presidents and senators and actors, how we knew the presidentsenators, the senator-actor-artist-&-athletes, all the way down to the shvartze jazzsingers whose contracts we canceled and wages we prorated, held against their habits (here’s a swell, a whistling Dixie) — we were the sitcoms and Broadway, deli and stocks stacked high on rye, the funds hedge and mutual, medicine and law, the military’s authority, the conservative bombs and all the liberalism in the world with which to apologize when we dropped them…they’re talking at once when the Shoe King takes one of his support’s loafers off, pounds the table with it as a secretary emerges, struck from oblivion to shorthand, the Shoe King takes one of his support’s…