In preparation, with per diem schlock slung over one shoulder (the change of costume, the false beard, the spare pair of propprescriptive glasses), Ben’s slungshot around the city, necessary to keep His steps ahead of any pursuit, whether terrestrial or Other: the paparazzi imported from overseas and kept salaried by whom, the Pope, President Shade, Der himself, each of them credentialflashed, carded paranoiac without the knowledge of the others…the hebraized hebephrenia of being followed, too, by assigned hangerson, wholigans, boosters and Bens, Bennies or Bennys, whatever they’re called in whatever rag you’ve been wiping with of late at early toilet, midnight snack, decoys, nearlookalikes (because who could be that huge, normally’s, the suspect), always lumbering near, tripping Him up, stepping on His toes. If He’s a False Messiah, then they’re false False Messiahs, saviors twiceremoved, Redeemers-inlaw shadowing Him from event to affair, from symposium to party, from fundraised to lower underground — in the tunnels of the abandoned subway and there in their own private cars, boroughing irresistibly, until an emergence upon the dawning platform of the El: following Ben shikerred on bronfn, minibar mashke, puffing bummed cigarettes they’re slurry; themselves tailed frayed and splayed in a hot seething animal mass by an assorted host of actresses, latest models and miscellaneous It-maydels, behind whom shade yet another thirtysix, these not standins, nor stunted doubles, but His bodyguards, protection — making their ways down the street of heldover, hungover, morning oneway, at the Downtownmost and further deadend of whichever there’s, finally, shush, inexorable shtum: schlafing it off in whichever luxury hotelroom shining huge under the recommendation of five stars, in whatever glittery metropolis these afternoons early of sleep might hallow Him undead — bedbugged deserts of dream, turneddown oases of however relative ease.
Things, always scheduled as Things unspecificed due to security, being so busy, so crazily scheduled, so hectic and profitable, too, Ben’s being worked now on the Sabbath, hard and kept moving — not that it would matter to Him to desecrate the day we’re reminded to keep holy above six others, just that He doesn’t want to work period, never did whenever, and with who He is, why should He’s the liberating thought. There’s no secret it’s a day of rest. My public takes a holiday, why shouldn’t I? More should be expected of me? Please, no thanks your toil. I’ve paid my dues, completed covenants. Garden, Inc., though, maintains again it’s all for His own safety — believe me, Der’s saying to Him in the limo motorcaded a stretch up the West Side, all this Law merely hampers my ability to protect you, son, ties the old hands. Sidelocks and beard knots and tassle fringe come off it. I don’t understand, it’s ridiculous, especially whatwith…but what weight do I have, what say in the matter. Make light His mission, make money their humorless goal. And not just your mundane kept moving, the gossipy run of the gristmill — He’s On the schmoove: a salty slip of His misspoken live to the networks, duly resurrected as slang for immediate release to the press; Ben baumming around: a newest nature holed up in a tree is the image they’re getting, Parkside if imaginary, Edenic, highswaying above enormity, Him casting down left leaves to float slowly, widening out into headlines grained in green envy, ribs into folds, veins a slopping of copy — His wedding announcement, Israelien — Shade, the cancellation of next baseball season, the rising price of pork — going soggy toward the gutter, the sewering Hudson.
