B approaches the desk, standing it feels to both a floor tall above the seated lawyers, staring out through the extensive glass behind them, with its view to Mitteltown’s rushhour…at the snow falling in a whitewashing squall (as if provender to livestock), at the sacrificial animals specied to servile dray: the mules, donkeys, oxen, horses hamed; the carts certified push, pull, and peddling, then those of the milkmenschs, too, the trundling delivery boychicks, the streetside prophets and the unrelieved, allrevealed schnorrers, the roiling moil of forms clad in daily black…and as the skinny he’s saying, nu, so drop them, a clattering comes dull from just behind — one of the two menschs standing amid the gusts of the doorway has let go of his pistol, and holds up his hands in defense; the other, however, ignores the order and the response of his partner, ranges his aim wildly around the room at the lawyers then at the tushy mensch between them with His hands on His corrugated belt, as if about to let loose with whipping…hymn, Hymies, they have to be — at least operative under an Affiliate acronym. As the first one who’s the second in command, he thinks, his partner’s assured him, backs himself from the room slowly with his hands still raised bearing too much white mortifying the cuff of his shirt against the suit’s black, dynastically classic and official as hell…the other’s still yelling at them all to get down, mutterfutzer, don’t move, freeze — it’s already frozen, makes no sense, this fall yourselves down upon your face, humble, scrape prostrate already shoeless, they’re stood on hopeless ground…and so the two lawyers lie themselves flat on the carpet unvaccuumed, their hands held behind their backs, the two of them yelling at the other two whichever variant of We gave at the office. Shut the futz up, which one of you’s which. B doesn’t lie down or even turn around, rollover, and this despite their orders armed with aim. Rather, He cradles His blackboard as if it’s His newborn, and then with head bowed down to chest as if to deference its breasty idols, vaults up and almost over the desk doored before Him but goes through the thing instead and flying, only to shatter Himself, too, stumbled through the window amid a nimbose explosion of glass, to fall through the air then down a floor giving way to floors after floors down through the weather and its own floating fall — to land unharmed atop a snowdrift, within it as an oversized flake foundered upon a swaddle soft and loosely packed. B to rise up gevalt the knees amid slateshards, the window’s wood and glass scattered across the walk, to leave His broken board, His bitten chalk, and huddle disappeared — seethed into Park Avenue and its heedless herds, the Mitteltowning swarm.
Though many think, all are right. And though many know, all are wrong. To think through His disappearance, to ask amid everything questioning else where He disappears to, when He does, and how exactly might He do it — that is, to create. It follows thusly — to purport to know Why? is only to destroy. To answer, therein lies the sin, unequivocal. Here, we’re creating a canon of our own, at the very least updating the one we’ve been born with, were born into, and so giving it life, a future if only in His death. Let there be a negative tradition. An inheritance owed. And it was, and still is. A living life against. Be not discouraged, though; interpretation’s acceptable to any question asked, is actually encouraged, rewarded in its own time, even if it be posthumous, praise be to He, Hallelujah…however, answers are still forbidden: they shall be destroyed, scorched by the sun of days, left in the valley to blacken the beaks of our vultures.
