Witz полностью

It’s that violation all over again, older than ancient, the rendering of a sacrifice impure, marking it as illegitimate, a sanctuary defiled, Jerusalem forsaken and the Temple in ruins: her ovum being a Holy of Holies…and, inside her, tailspun moments after, she’s slumped, elbowkneed on the honeymoon suite’s tremendous toilet, he’s sprawled already halfway to the somatic Edenic, that’s when the encounter occurred, the illicit approach, solicitation repine, wormy rape: a burrowing, a burial if only of hope; when the sperm, always lazy, fat, and most probably Polish in origin, meets the smart, moral, and altogether perfect perfectionist egg. How it happens, hymn…he knocks on her door, of the house she’d lived in as a girl, this someone he’s selling something and she doesn’t know from what how would she, innocent as she is, she’s not even home, she’s away with her parents down the Shore, themepark Florida, or Jerusalem; or maybe she is home, and there locked in her room — a fantastic instance that most assuredly must remain Apocryphal — and she’s unable to move, to react, as this who does he think he is, whoever the gehenna, however he was raised — and it’s most definitely a he, she knows by how he knocks paw, then tries the bell, the key under the mat he thinks for once and for once the schmuck’s right, the knob, he lets himself in, and this putz, he makes himself mamzer at home: feet up on the furniture, drinking wholemilk, from where, not in my house, straight from the gallon, the sofatuber, he watches the screen until late, later than her parents ever let her watch, and unspeakable shows she’d never been allowed to know existed; and then what does he do, he stays, and she in her locked room can’t help it, she falls asleep, how long, 12:00blink12:00blinkclockradioalarm then the frontdoor, slam, wakes her up, someone’s leaving but it’s not the same someone expected; no, it’s someone else, someone who looks, acts, talks, and thinks, and everything else — though she has no way of knowing this — exactly halfway between the first someone and herself, and there’s this Thing, this odd weirdness between us, like what’s the weight, the word that it weighs on your tongue, guilt: she admits, confesses, begs…has done something wrong, realizes, a sin unmitigatingly mortal, she let something happen, the same as having made something happen, having remained silent, she’s responsible any way it’s minced to finish and the frontdoor, it’s locked eternally now from the outside, she’s helpless, absolutely goddamned helpless and shrieking for succor, You’re mine, you’re mine, you’remine — and the entire house’s settling in its foundations as if it’s laughing gut, for twenty, thirty, forty years until it’s all paid off, a divorce from the mortgage, a life agonizingly amortized of sin, having aged unattractively and unable to flirt anymore if ever she was she’s still sitting, here on the couch and drinking a from the mix Bloody Mary, talking her new nose to a throwpillow: I didn’t make a mistake, I loved him, that was all that mattered, wasn’t it, we’d planned it out beforehand, went to therapy diligently something like three times a week, four in the summer, isn’t that enough, that two people love one another, mature, it’s not like we ever futzed around on each other, or anything — to throw that pillow across the room set with sectionals, and resume her harangue to the pillow underneath, enumerating all her misses, her nears: I should’ve married Gary, Harry, Larry, he was always, we once, I ever tell you about the time he took me to supper and a show in New York, night he stole his parent’s…and eventually say three or so, with the light of the screen givingout the lachrymal evangel, its pledgedrive to benefit only those with love but none of her homes, clothes, without food or drink, she manages and with a swizzlestick stuck obscenely to passout, a life and even its dreaming — preempted…with storyhour over, unprayered, it’s time to go to sleep, Benjamin, will you?

Tell us another story, just one more.

You want another, sighing phlegmish pudding, an urge to smoke — don’t you know they’re all the same?

PopPop, Grandpaw Senior, whoever you are, one more…

Alright, then you sleep, just one last:

This Is The Story, says PopPop in a yuck yuck yabber, impersonating a foreign voice, as if that of Benjamin’s grandfather, His other whom neither of them knew, Hanna’s father Senior who’d died so long ago, of which war’s cancer forgotten — with MomMom’s crucifix swaying from his neck on a chain of seaweed, him the already caricature consanguine doing this goofy goy impression (perfected against the imagined model of all his late wife’s late forefathers), applauding his hands in mock frothy excitement, as he says, Of The Lumbering Dumb Sperm, & The Intelligent Petite Ovum: