Hokey doke, says Sure, then on a scale of one to five, no, better make it one to ten, how urgent is it? With one being forget about it, and ten being my God is on fire. Ask him that, he says as if in challenge, a coldweather throw-down…tousles dry his hair, jumps in a regimen such as was once recommended to Rabbi Hillel, up on one foot then down on the other to unclog the ears as the Kush he goes and asks what he asks, on a scale of one to ten, sir, exactly how urgent is this?
A moment more of this loudly staccato and the Kush says, it’s urgent, sir, very — the party would have to rank it high in the millions.
Jesus H…. okay, collecting himself, haven’t had one of those before. But one last question, just to be sure: is it more important than urgent, or is it more urgent than, don’t worry, you get it and a raise…and so the Kush asks again, is the matter more urgent, and then he stops with the questioning answers before he’s finished to say, it’s both, sir, equally both, the Kush says the party says, all of them and more’s why he’s calling — consider this serious, a most plus.
Wowzer! in dialogue from roles their names reruns forgotten while their lines, they live on — quit your wasting the dude’s time, says Sure, and give the unit here…and the servant, what does he do, he goes and hangs up the telephone to wheel its cart over to his employer and before he has it rolling, nu, the ring goes ringing again, the Kush answers it and they, hymn, you know, having been conditioned to the rest, the spiel, it’s said, the speak softly but carry a big shtick routine, clocked calendrical almost, the ballagone whole — go through the very same ritual, and then and only then, only after Sure’s once more and for the last fully vetted this interruption following up, his delighting peevishness manifest in the swell of his neck, the tension of his temples, too, and that of his trademark chin bottomed like the tush of a newborn (kid or idea — clefted half his, half whose), does the Kush finally place the receiver this time upended atop the cart, rolls it over with plenty of corddistance, picks up the empty rosette plate that hosts only the residual grease of the meat of the pig and the pareve of the eggwhites and the silverware, which he places atop the plate in a cross, bows slightly to Master and Mistress as he’s paid to address them and heads on inside, through the patio and its glass doors, as Sure picks up the phone, cups with a pruned palm the business while nodding demeaningly to his wife to shuffle off to decorate the interior, to belittle herself with trifles: selfmedication at needlepoint, xword puzzles that’re the hidden study of Scripture (being the clue for 12 Across), mystery that ensures, too, her puckered pout and this, her shriveled slinking — then sits down at the landscaped edge of his mesa, his shivering legs to idle amid the emptiness, air, kicking feet through the sky shot through with cloudbursts: Sure speaking, he says, who’s this, whaddya want?
Lee, says a familiar voice, Billy Brove, STOP, long distance from parts east.
Brove, you old son of a bitch — why didn’t you say it was you? examining his pedicure over the drop, how the hell you doing out there?
Drop the formalities, STOP, the goy he talks like a telegram that refuses to sing, big news on this end, STOP, we found Him, STOP, Ben, STOP, now you want to hear I’m doing just fine, thank you, STOP, how’s the wife?
Israelien? Sure says, if I had a nickel, this is the tenth time today…you with your stops, pull’em out, ain’t no time to push me around: we’re lying low for the summer…anyway, I’ve got a houseful of unemployed producers with their consultant boyfriends telling me they’ve got masseuses with dreams, who’ve received visions, visitations, gotten tips, new information — let’s get down to it, how much you want from me, how much you need?
It’s legit, Lee. STOP. Take your hat off your ears.
Bill, you’re my friend but…
Buttinsky.
