In Miami, everything exists for Him, even PopPop, who calls Benjamin accordingly: King, the address if he’s angry; more usually he’ll go with your Majesty, in a mocking, patronizing lisp: as in, would your Majesty like to eat now or in an hour, then a smirk, it’s time for your Majesty’s shower or bath, has your Majesty finished His chores, cleaning, sweeping, rag and sponge, time for linner your Majesty, time for your dunch, has your Majesty yet scrubbed His teeth, flossed with the mouthwash, did you forget, it’s your Majesty’s bedtime — or, hours past, which means they’re still playing, the only activity allowing Him to know late, the midnight quirks of the fridge, the toilet tank gurgitation, what bulbs’ve gone out that PopPop’s never replaced because, don’t worry, he’ll tell you, your move.
What PopPop wants to move against: the way Benjamin dawdles a pawn between thumb and forefinger, padding it around, rolling as if snot, pickypaddyrolly, juvenile habits with His tush poorly wiped, though PopPop’s replaced the toilet tissue after each meal already, and there’ve been many; He’ll pottytrain on His own, don’t expect an old mensch who needs changing himself to change Him. The stick, though, isn’t from the tush, or the incontinent nose, rather from the mouth, muncharrheac, His uninhibited snacking during play, eating from the endtable opposite the table of beginnings, of openings, feints, the defense of offense, laden with all sorts of treats, goodies left untouched for maybe three decades, through no less than six moves in residence, sweet-meats, even those sorry kisses they’ve got infused with liqueur, all trayed there treyf probably and only once in an early spontaneous fit of the domestic by PopPop’s late wife, His MomMom: white piece fructified with wishniak candied brilliant, schmeared in nutty fudge, Shoreside saltwater taffy, glopped with grease mandelbrot macaroon; Him swallowing between thoughts as they PopPop says, Kibitz, kvell, kvetch, and schmooze through their game giving way to games, midmove accusations, recants, recounts, and recriminations, though as if suddenly scrupled PopPop throughout avoids talk of His parents, reserving that, thoughtfully, for the breaks between.
When I first met your MomMom, it was only two weeks before her own father would pass—could’ve been Affiliated for what I knew of him, never met him, I wouldn’t have wanted to, even she’d said it was her meeting me and wanting to marry me that killed him…MomMom Israelien, then, as Unaffiliated as it gets, ScotsIrish Assembly of God trash come down with a bad case of the Christ, infected with the Ozark gene, milked on the water of the Arkansas River, had herself died last year on the first night of Hanukah, of cancer of the heart, angiosarcoma and from there, Israel’s concern — not that any of this saddened PopPop, even mattered to him who’d only married her for her to marry not only him but his hidden self, too, as a front for his true sexual orient, which was that he liked people like him (he would’ve married himself or his mirror were that legal, if that would’ve taxwise made sense); and her, she’d married him only because no one else would, or so she had thought, marry her, what with her hunch and the scrunch of her nose and the balding head and the crows that nested under her eyes that loosed their turds to her tongue, which always hung from her mouth, and panted and reeked. Her, she’d never done chess with him, couldn’t, was too dumb or just said she was, thought the pawns just other sampler yummies in attractive presentation, noshables she’d forgotten she’d put out when and for whom, and so this, so enjoyed — the first game PopPop Israelien’s played against anyone other than himself since the advent of his marriage, not even Arschstrong.
Here, Miami of all places, a revelation upon receded land, tribal Miami that’d emerged from the backwater at this nowhere that’s been called Okeydokey, or maybe Suckywayoungy (something or other surely unpronounceable, how do those feathervoiced natives do it?) — with the true indigenous of this city, of this country entire, vomited up from that river only later named for a saint who’d been the husband of the virgin that she gave birth in the manger; each having to cling to a frond of a palmtree to keep from drowning at the dawn of their time — here, the wine thinned out, came watered down, the beard grew back into the face, the nose was absorbed, the foreskin grew out from the shaft. Prior to the tragedy that’d occurred on the anniversary of the day that that virgin gave birth, many had thought that intermarriage, which is the marrying between different peoples, races, religions, would destroy the Affiliated, diluting the blood with another bodily fluid. But, as our scholars remind us, since the blood of the dead has always been transmitted through the mother, at least according to the Law theirs and ours, it’s in truth impossible to sex us out of our birthright, no longer chosen. Though PopPop, being a firstborn, and so a survivor, had been born Affiliated, he’d married later in life Unaffiliated, and so though their son, His father, Israel, was not born Affiliated, was not even born Israel, it’s said, he’d become converted, perhaps unnecessarily though unforced and so — it’s your move, PopPop says, yours; his paternal grandfather, he cheated often, had bishops up his sleeve, you had to watch him, keep him talking, you took your hand off the piece. His MomMom, PopPop’s wife native to a mother whose preacher’s preacher’s preacher had been exiled out to mission her hometown of Lamed, Kansas — or so hold other scholars among us — she’d never thought why to switch sides; PopPop’d never asked, never wanted to ask or wanted her to, in truth he liked her Unaffiliated, held his own Affiliation over her, that dumb, ignorant, uglyilliterate bitch, I loved her, I didn’t, why should she have converted, even if he’d asked her to, it made him feel more who he was, which felt good, even after their son, their only though he wasn’t born Affiliated and so couldn’t survive as firstborn once converted in at least half his blood, had married out, or married in, and which was it exactly — a topic, Is’ decision, not entirely out in the open with his mother, His MomMom, who’d been disappointed, though she wouldn’t complain when they talked, which was never; anyway, His grandfather didn’t like to remember her, alright, and Whose bed am I sleeping in? Did you ever sleep with her in it? and If you did, did the two of you ever pillowtalk about my father? aren’t questions you ask a mensch as old as PopPop, especially if he’s your only living relative, angry, and naked except for a pink robe, ever loosening, with a sash blue & white trimmed in a bloom of lace thorns. Better to keep quiet, sit straight at the board, chins up and take in your surroundings before you’re beaten, and delivery has to be paid for: PopPop’s unit a shvitzshop with its shades down, the heat turned all the way up against the exterior nip; who knew from winterized, that the heating ever worked here. Interiorly, the carpeting covered with samples of other carpet in clashing colors, walls yellowed with pipesmoke except white in the shape where a crucifix hung until the death of His MomMom, the pale patch seeming like the complexion of a clothed, unexposed body, basking out on the wide holy beach just outside. An uncountenanced emptiness hanging over the table on which they match their play to stalemate. Then, the bell rings, and they ignore it as it might only be their deliveryboychick, returning after his shift for the tip they’d purposefully forgotten.