You left your nametag in your room, maybe, one woman says (her name’s Elaine), no need to run up and fetch it, says the other (Explain), we just wanted to get you another…you know, Elaine says as Explain picks up as if dust from her unfashionable, also unironed, lapel, before you forgot who you were, Elaine laughs, then Explain, and then the both of them together and how — one would laugh just a giggle longer than the other and so all the timing would be off and the effect would be ruined; it’s terrible: they’d get separate motelrooms to stay in and wouldn’t talk to each other for days.
No problem, He says. Me, I want to forget.
It’s an act, if still in development — until they can afford to quit this job, then their Mondays and Wednesdays dayshifting a diner opened to service the eating days of a local yeshiva: Elaine would say, I feel bloated, and Explain would say, this is how it must look to feel bloated. Explain would say, I have cramps, I feel terrible, and then, get this — Elaine would say, you look great, never been better…
Nu? says Elaine, meaning name, and guess who explains. Ben says what it is, Ben, and how everyone laughs altogether, doubles now doubledover, folded for the packing or stack like napkins or sheets, amused He thinks at mine this amateur impersonation, my rank this hobbyhack, sad. They’re slapping knees, drizzling tears like shpritzes of lemonlime squeezed, a pinch sprinkling salt over the shoulder. Bin Eden, known to most though as Fats, Head of Q’asino Food & Beverage, he approaches to ask if everything’s alright, Mister…in a capacity competently official, solicitous in its sincere swiftness, with his silent bows and craft of cunning obeisance in lipspittle, nosedrool, and swallow, and how the Bens gathered together shriek His Israelien name, then laugh even harder, heaving their tongues against teeth, a howl massed from their mouths almost vomiting up on the floor and its latterly vacuumed carpet a morningafter cholent, of sorts, slowly warmed in the gut, bussed from buffets, earlybirded especially greasy, but just as He begins to serve voice and register protest, bin Eden’s already moved on to his next guest: got to pass on the love — hand to crossed fingers, them old meet ’n’ greets — at least a false sense of feely importance, clapping impersonators on the back, hugging them and cheekily kissing and saying incredulously I almost didn’t recognize you, hahaha his sharpie brows and his slitty eyes and the scrawny, bent humble hunch of his frame on his way zigzagging down the welcome-line only of Hims, how’ve you been doing, baruch hashem, the wife and the kinder, enjoying yourself, have a great stay.
Their nametags, also, say obviously enough Benjamin Israelien, but underneath that writ expected are their real first olden names they’re given over to slowly forgetting, from which they’re changing, converting; what used to be referred to as their appelations Xtian, Unaffiliated, and then the names of their goyish hometowns; example: Harry,
My name, He says, is Jacobson, hymn, Jacobson, Esq., why not, from where or, more perfectly, from whom He gets it and what else (name, life — nomen est roaming, perhaps), He doesn’t know — and then there’s the touchy issue of quote His accreditation end quote; Jacobson, Esq. just once overheard and now, underspoken — the name, it’s been said, of His father the lawyer’s old lawyer of his own according to the will Israel’d left they’ve since scrapped. Elaine falls for it, asks Him to spell it all out for her: and He tries, capital-J-AC-O-B-S-O-N comma space capital-E-S-Q period.
And where am I from — Wishniak Hill, maybe you’ve heard of it, it’s in Joysey, where else should it be? and Explain shrugs, goes and pens it onto His tag.
