The help, they exist only in occasion, every day after night into morning’s cleanup and bagging detail, every sweeping function, life as event, as tidying up after those honored, never them. They’re tired, destroyed, just trying to save up enough to continue college, to pay off debts, loans and lovers; why not leave a tip: waiters, waitresses, tenders, and ushers who five nights a week observe only the happinesses of others, party strangers, are often even asked to participate, in saddening lieu of family or friends; they’re in all the period footage, with their hands heatscarred, with the same shiny knees and ragged cuffs and tarnished buckles, their upsets everfading, with the same listless, spent expressions for this woman in a purple minidress and pink mink stole her husband stole, how she seems to be invited everywhere, her husband not so much: an immodest neckline, her shoulders social out the ears, and, too, with an evident heft on heels so high her knees can’t breathe, a wisp of pearls she strangles with one stocky, shortfingered hand manicured in squoval, the other mauls a plate of miniaturized maize in a singularly nauseating glaze of sweet & sour…I shouldn’t, she mouths to a friend, I really shouldn’t, then crowding the tiered cake iced in her saliva: she’s on her diet again, for the love of a mensch across the hall not her husband but his brother who he holds a tumbler of water in his left, one of vodka in his right, or it’s the other way around, even he doesn’t know; they gesture lust to one another, the mating ritual of the properly insured, the sacred dance of the wellsalaried, choreographed just a step ahead of casting: all plates, knives, forks and spoons down to do the dance of the dividend, the propitiatory gesture of the seasonally bonused, yearended, quartered, the rump moves creditlined, lit and smoked with the mortgage burnt at candlelighting — them surging to the gathering of the now fed, drunk, cigarettebreaked orchestra after yet another set by the DJ whose idea was it to hire him, whose recommended references supplied…they’re playing our song, and, nu — have you heard the one about the Davidsons in B 
? them liningup with their requests, fountainpenned on the napkins, linen and so costly, they’ll show up on the bill; the emcee finds a tambourine under a heap of fractured maracas; the hired dancer pulls a ham-string treyf; the plumed horses prance, knock knees, saddles slip to become leathern udders at which the magician’s bunnies suckle, they trip over each other to crash atop the impersonator and the caricaturist; the midget on stilts falls into the Vienna Table, rises to mime his survival. A glare passes over people shaking it to the silence ensuing: Hanna again, recognizable in reproduction, an embodiment of the eveningwear hangered off the rack in front of them at the front of this lesser hall — she’s busied tying a heliumed balloon within a balloon within a balloon to the back of her chair, while at the same time talking schools and teachers, standardized testing and homework tutors to her neighbor with the nose and portfolio, with the eyes observant, an orient of detail rumored, talented with such unkind acuity of gaze that could feel any face up and identify work, ID plastic surgery of what type and by which doctor at three counties’ remove.
A wide veer into the fray again, the throng: amongst menschs dancing with menschs, this we’ve seen, but now unscreened, with the partition fallen, irreparably, a flimsy, heelholed Oriental divider, it’s also women dancing with women and with menschs, too, at first their sons, then their husbands and then their husbands’ friends and partners, dancing together to silence as if a reproach to all that’s mutual and forbidden; to effect a congaline, an enactment of an earlier reenacted hat dance and chicken dance and grind, encored by a sliding of the body electric, more chairs and most glasses raised, as the toast’s roasted, burnt, there’s smoke from the kitchen and outside the chefs stand and bum cigarettes from the dishwashers and accountants. The elderly sit still, aloof, they dab at their eyes and disapprove, check their reflections in the blades of their knives, test the sharpnesses upon their thinning wrists and throats. An obstructed view, a hollow column faux Hellenistic draped in the colors of the evening, weathered with crepe streamery, the slow snow of confetti thrown, cast banished, fallen from heaven. At the periphery of this the final shot, an ice sculpture of a swan melts slowly: people slip, trip, and fall, doctors are summoned, everyone’s a doctor, everyone’s always a doctor or is always married to one, or else knows someone who is and is a lawyer, too; the rabbi soon enters, to sermonize an argument with the help arguing with the rabbi, who rudely interrupts himself only to nod to the bride’s father who hands him an envelope the rabbi weighs for a moment then pockets, turns himself around and stoops to say a blessing over the slipped, tripped, and fallen body there, the puddled mother of the bride; the bride herself now, it has to be jilting a jolt up to her father, her lips to marry his ear and whisper pained, confide, beseech, help me, save me, I’m a little girl again…she touches his wrist, he withdraws it quickly, looks at his watch, holds it to one ear, looks at it, holds it to his other whispered then looks again, shakes his hand in a frenzy, then shakes hands all around. The film flaps through, reels out onto the floor, and the woman, the one here in this hall and dressed in the clothes Hanna would change into, maybe, tomorrow morning or upon arrival home past worried, handheld twelve, too late for her and with indigestion also, decaf dessert heartburn and its hearthlike, protective warmth for the kinder with the older sisters tonight entrusted instead of Wanda or the regular sitter, unmarried, who’d been invited to this wedding, too, along with her parents who were cousins, don’t ask her how — the matron hurls herself forward as if vomiting, to heap it all in her lap, the memory, vain tradition’s lit command: to consecrate time and space and image if only to their own furtherance, even if it’s just for purposes as obscure as hers, as this…as dark, as evil; the wall beyond is washed in white, deloused into a purity, annulled.
Too early for morning, too late for regret, the air veined in lightning, the sun a clouded clot. Thunder. Gods are being born in the sky.
This is why we left the Garden and moved out to Siburbia, as we’re always explaining, most of all to ourselves.
My boy, look around you, listen, sniff the air and taste the bread your mother bought, you’re sure to understand: this is why we lit out, bringing only the candlesticks with us — why this dispersal to plot, this diaspora of the subdivision, such limitation of the eternal Development.