PopPop’s Pop had inadvertently immigrated Here while on a research trip organized at the request of an Archduke Tungteufel, to study the skulls of famed jazz musicians up in Harlem, New York, to determine the phrenological similarities amongst shvartzes of various nationalities, to account for any effect on interpretation, and swing: I spent all my time up there on 125th Straße, hanging around the Apollonian Temple, he’d reminisce to no one, handing nothing down from Pop to PopPop, God! you wouldn’t believe how they bopped! Alternative sexuality seemingly in the family, PopPop the Elder, PopPop’s Pop, would become infatuated with a saxophonist with a pate as smooth as his altissimo: one verse/two choruses later, instead of following him west for three onenighters and a recording date, he had an epiphany of guilt as PopPop describes it, left the shvartze at the train station, went back to his own ghetto that was Manhattan’s Downtown and began to court an Affiliatedess, the daughter of an innovative insurance salesmensch who kept office on the first floor of the tenement in which he would room.
Long story short is that this here insurance salesmensch, PopPop’s Pop’s possible, potential father-inlaw, was “one of those people”—Affiliated; one of their prototypical genii as stereotyped in a variety of media you’ll one day become beholden to, PopPop says to Benjamin, such typecast perpetuated through the ever efficient agencies of history, most notable of which a lasting disposition toward oppression of the race, or religion, which has proved to seed only greater generations, and yadda. According to PopPop talking over His head to the wall hung with samplers and framed photographs of himself and his wife with his face scissored out and hers facialhaired with marker, this mensch sold insurance of all kinds: conception insurance, circumcision insurance, spiltmilk insurance, walking insurance, talking insurance, O how that mensch could talk! untied shoelace insurance, cowlick insurance, friendlessness insurance, virginity insurance, spousal insurance, anticonception insurance, mortgage insurance, unemployment insurance, alcohol insurance, sobriety insurance, child insurance, second child insurance, loss of faith in major religion insurance, undercooked linner/dunch insurance, breastcancer insurance, breastcancer remission insurance, secondmortgage insurance, impotence insurance, migraine insurance, ingrowntoenail insurance, grandson insurance, second grandson insurance, forgotten anniversary insurance, un-flattering shade of hairdye insurance (if purchased at selected retailers, as it’s disclaimed), weightgain insurance, weight then heightloss insurance, hairloss insurance, livercancer insurance, kidneyfailure insurance, rabbi’s (inappropriate) eulogy insurance, inexistent afterlife insurance, and don’t forget his most popular — insurance against insurance; making himself a sizable fortune off the weekend Apocalyptics, hypochondriacs, obsessive/compulsives, neurotics, and undifferentiated spastics known even then to inhabit the New York metropolitan area.
But getting back to what I was getting at earlier: PopPop says his Pop had been this insurance salesmensch’s first customer — I’m not just a prospective inlaw, I’m a client…though as such a trifle of the failure, too, as it wasn’t originally for any coverage he’d come. He’d flopped in fishily wet from the peddling, cartconcerned street in the first minute of the first hour of their third grand opening — an easy occasion for bunting, a common scheme of the desperate proprietor — and asked the insurance salesmensch’s wife mensching the register (her husband out selling marital insurance to his sister-in-law), maybe you have a room available, upstairs…to that effect and then, recognizing what he thought was a fellow grant whether immi or emi, asked along the lines of, how long have you been here for, you, I mean, Here? a question that could only perplex PopPop’s Pop’s maybe, could’ve been, mother-inlaw, as the Affiliated of her line had been Here for so very long that they weren’t able to recollect when, exactly, they’d first arrived on these shores, from where and how, forget why: were they Mayflower stowaways? a cabin of Columbus’ Marranos? and how he then, blah blah blah asked her daughter whichever one of them to marry him and they both asked him what did he do, translation: how much money he made, then spit in his eye — she, the first Affiliated he’d tried to be with, the last; he went and bought sexual orientation insurance off the obliging father returned, then a week later met an orphaned I think Sicilian with a suggestive gap in his teeth, he wasn’t so into resistance…
Emigrate, PopPop says, you emigrate if you love it Here.
Immigrate, he says again, you immigrate if you hate it There.
You have to admit, it’s not so bad.
PopPop asks, Who would rather go back? And then you realize, he’s talking about New York.
It’s this. PopPop’s the worst kind of retiree, without kindness: he was of the type who felt they’d earned their retirement, who didn’t have the respect to die just yet, with dignity, without; who didn’t understand that you worked your entire life for this death, not to do nothing, to retire, recede, give up, which you should’ve done to begin with; one of those who felt entitled to something, anything, though they weren’t quite sure what, the world owing him a living, him owing the world nothing much anymore; the author of interminable letters to the editors of major metropolitan newspapers, he’d labor meticulously over petitions, product failure screeds, signing everything Spinoza; filled days in with the regions of service assessment surveys, answered any and all questions invariably nightly and in agonizing detail in telemarketing interviews — that, and Benjamin never knew what to believe: according to PopPop himself, an academic formerly associated with a halfway respectable (small, private, northeastern) university that should remain nameless if we don’t want to get sued, though later little more than an adjunct, a lowly untenured professor, the Administration even refusing him the sanctuary of a department — and that’s only what he told people, especially when they didn’t ask. A mensch of no degree save the Third, he’d purportedly taught a semester of Practical Eugenics (its prerequisite being Sterilization & You 101), and one elective (Antfarming for Fun & Profit), before the deans realized he wasn’t accredited for any of these responsibilities, summarily redirected him to the dept. of Nostalgia, or so one colleague had named the shadow faculty that nonetheless maintained offices on a bench way offcampus. Which was why he’d had to get the artificial toes he’d remove each night after pudding dessert, as one evening up north, locked out of a meeting, locked out of every university building, he’d slept on that bench, then contracted frostbite — that’s what you get for signing a pizza box, without showing it first to a lawyer — the next day his toes had to be amputated; still, he wore his sandals religiously, out of an abject phobia of having his shoelaces tied together: his toeplug of vulcanized rubber, fitted snugly to that pedestrian void, would lie each evening on the nightstand, alongside his dentures in their effervescence, to be scrubbed both immaculately by a spare toothbrush next morning and so, yes, hahafutzingha, and he finds it very funny himself, when he remembers, that he would often get mixed up, senior mistakes, the onset of dementia, mind mumblingly numb — he’d often put his foot in his mouth, but not as much as he’d put his mouth in his foot, chewing Benjamin’s tush for just about everything.