And then there are twelve, as it’s announced loudly to sound above the civic mass mourning, Wall Street north to Union Square and furthered Manhattan, the outtagrave boroughs…a proclamation accompanied by a great galvanic gnashing of teeth, Tweisswhitened (because they’ll do that, too, anything) — Mada and Hamm fresh from supervising the rending of hundreds no thousands of garments, shrinkwrapped blue & white warehoused shrouds (extra blankets from a defunct Palesteinian aeroline, it’s said), intended for those who’d died too quickly to be scheduled into the ritual of burial, no time for the fitting and so, abandoned. Robbed of a hole. As for Der, he’s mostly kept from the statistics — preventing him from tearing out what hair he has left, which isn’t much around the ears and nose, slight brows bowed above the mouthoff, dreckdead eyes; instead, he’s focusing himself on the aftermath, what’s next; how to spend the money that’ll revert, how to exploit a survivor if any. Different commissions, Shadesponsored from out of the Library’s welfared minions, he has to do something, show some signs of interest, governance, I’m on top of it shtick are hauled in hebdomadally, arranged up on old YMHA daises, nameplated, glasses of water to soothe the throat, their microphones antennæ topped with huge foaming tumors. Independent experts anything but either of those epithets, they have their questions to ask: survivors are seated with nervous feet, numbed in hardbacked chairs, after having been interrogated earlier, individually, before this event that’s open to all media, in windowless reportedly subterranean rooms mauve halls off the taupe hall, the main passageway underneath the Great Hall, whitewashed cells soon bespattered, scuffed and bled and bare, if only on the initiative of those voluntarily sequestered there against their better counsel, physicians’ sought advice: again if chambers of torture then torture of a neurotic, indifferent kind, its survivors ignobly, though unintentionally, deprived of hot food and that icewater infused with lemon for whole quarterhours, barkeddown by overtimed detectives losing their faces, goys with no minds to spare; frowsed in cheap black suits and loosened doubleknit neckwear, they’re pacing the floors, with their coffee concussions and donut guts, ash on their pants, their sleeves rolled up to raw elbows, they’re screaming at the assembled under bare bulbs of extreme wattage. Not just them, though, it’s the public, too, that wants to know, needs to, demanding it, especially as they’ve been forbidden, regrettably, by decree both official and ostensibly divine, from the selection of personal survivors, those or One Whom they’d like to have emerge from this mess, a chosen representation, a symbol to call their very own; if not made for them then at least of them, by them for Shabbos, a known. And so as much to identify as to bide time their profiles are commissioned, interviews come on the heels of debriefings: who exactly are the twelve, being the question?
Are they selfappointed evangelists, selfevangelized appointees, selfanointed anointers, anointed selfanointers, apostate apostles, apostle apostates, pathologically agnostic, atheists or just lazy? Are they eating, we all want to know, and/or are they feeling well, please, eating and/or feeling enough is it, just; were they overmothered and underfathered, or maybe it’s the other way around; how do they like their odds; have any regrets; who are your heroes; favorite book, color, or food…do they like their crusts sliced just right and how, are they given or refused milk, do they want it or no; answer me, goddamn it; what occurred prior to their permanent records; you’re gonna answer me; if you survive, what are your plans, your platform; one of us is gonna leave here with a mild headache, and it ain’t gonna be me, friend; what marks them save nothing special; what makes you think you have what it takes; you suffering from a bad case of silence, son, tardiloquence and yadda; what do you think of the President, what do you think of your fame…every outlet officially conceivable, from national radio to periodicals of record and note and of none or both, wiring in their requests, tap tap tactlessly tapping wanting to know who, needling we’re on deadline here; priests possible, to-be’s in-training; datelining the GARDEN (Rooters), you wanna talk deadline…
