Book of Numbers: A Novel (64 page)
Read Book of Numbers: A Novel Online
Authors: Joshua Cohen
Tags: #Fiction, #Literary, #Retail, #Technological, #Thrillers
I am [present tense?] the 14th richest man in America and the 18th richest man in the world and my sole possession is a begging bowl.
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All distractions, diversions—fidgeting, smoking, drinking, jerking to memories eidetic, echoic, Arabic/Semitic but fading like drunkenness, fading like smoke, until as empty as my Glenlivet and Jameson bottles and my last carton of Camel Lights.
I went reading through my old .docs for old inspiration and techniques (which voice to use for this, whether active or passive?), and I moved around (which tense, if not the present?), moving myself, the furniture, alternating nights between rooms, dragging the Tetbook’s charger wire between my legs limp until finally settling—the past, the past was unavoidable, not as deep as the void, but proximal, basically, as like.
I forced myself to stay seated, at screen—no wifi bars to stick my nose through, with any other barrier just selfimposed—and then, after a day or two sleepless, I got into it, I grew into the writing and so found myself growing up too, alongside Principal, taking his life and making it mine or half his and half mine and so going through all that childhood pap and school crap again, maturing, or aging, but also, simultaneously, getting younger. Whatever, don’t pay any attention, just get the words down on the page. Point is, that feeling was returning. That etherealizing feeling I’d assumed I’d lost forever of just losing yourself, myself, in another. Letting everything else just go slack. Hitting wordcounts, hitting Return.
The sky outside was a cloud, a metaphor or simile, a repository of all worldly files but mine. All the windows were on the same channel. Oscillating rain. Let lightning describe itself, and let thunder be its dialogue.
I had this superstition—never sit directly under the chandelier. No walls would ever be white again, next to or behind the whiteness of blank .docs. No silence would ever be as silent as the sibilance between .recs. It’s bizarre that this flat doesn’t have a fireplace, but I might’ve noted that already—
pressing Ctrl+F would find that out, I keep pressing my sinuses instead.
If you think this is procrastinating, think again—because I also had the sensation of spyquip, and went about searching its concealments. In the tall thin coiled basketry that reminded me of Rach and the stumpy canopic jarlets that recalled me to Lana. In the sepia clock, the cameras and mics eloigned behind its escapement. In the small little Mongoloid trees, which if they weren’t themselves recording devices were either dead or dying.
Going for a refill of ice, or a light from the burners, trying to block it all out—the kitchen. All that tile and stainless steel was just a rash of prepackaged foodstuffs in and out of prepackaging. The floating task station and chopblock, the handles of the freezer/fridge, the knobs of the range, were flavored with ketchup, mustard, mayo from teethslit packets. The double trough sinks cradled an afterbirth of takeout goulash, backsplashed even to the pot/pan rack. A sponge had been rended, which bothers, because I don’t recall ever doing the dishes. A bite of the sponge was stuck to the wall.
Going to the bathroom was to navigate the McDonald’s takeout sacks I’d intended to take out, börek and wurst wraps, polystyrene bivalves of dumplings, cardboard pails clotted with chiliflecked stirfry. €2 coins have a silver coating, a creamy gold center, €1 coins have a gold coating, a creamy silver center. Both feature maps of borderless Europe. Just desserts. Toiletpaper was wadded with all the laundry I wasn’t doing. Tiny green hemorrhoids of toothpaste were affixed to the mirror and sink. Toothbrush gagging the drain. Thank Christ I’d boosted towels from the Khaleej, the Burj. No extra set of sheets has been provided. I haven’t accounted for the bedroom just yet, that Charlemagne deathbed perfect for rugmunching and with a canopy so high no cumshot would ever reach it.
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I’ve been realizing only lately what I’ve lost. I used to just sit in a chair at a desk and search myself up and suddenly I’d be sitting in a certain type of chair at a certain type of desk, on a certain date, at a certain time, and
at certain coordinates, with a certain weather forecast outside. Those days are over, though, those days and their access I’ve been withdrawing from gradually, groggily, like from an addiction, a relationship. I’ve been realizing only lately the exact precise upholstery of my ignorance. Everything creaks. Especially in the dark, the dark trafficless silence—everything creaks, internally.
How perverse is it that thinking of Rach, with her fly’s memory, consoles me?—how perverse that the only thing that calms me down is thinking of her in the same situation, unable to handle it, going insane? Her pda had this app that by the time I’ll be finished with this job, finished with this thought, will already be outdated, outmoded—by the very thought that it might be, it is. She’d hold her pda out in front of her like a cleaver, and click to camera a pic or vid or to record an audio snippet, and by that alone the app would tell her what it is, or was, which intel she’d then use to preempt me, test me, correct me when she suspected I was guessing, when she suspected I was lying in the hopes of appearing better or smarter or sexier: wondering by the reservoir, “What kind of dog is that, sniffing around?” Click, “A Pomeranian.” Wandering on Riverside Drive, “What kind of cat is that, grooming in the window?” Click, “A Siamese.” That woman ironing is
La repasseuse
by Picasso, and that’s a Morandi, I told her at the Guggenheim, at MoMA, and I was correct, but then later I called a Dix a Grosz or a Grosz a Dix and she checked and was irate—I told her the cab radio was playing
September Song,
composed by Kurt Weill, lyrics by (but everyone forgets lyricists), and she checked and yelled that it was James Brown, but then I yelled how it was a cover version, and though the app agreed she never apologized: “I wouldn’t have to do this,” she said, “if your confidence wasn’t such bullshit.”
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A memory, unsubstantiated, inherently “unsubstantiatable” (is that a word? what site can prove it’s not?). The first time Rach dragged me to psych, to Dr. Meany’s office, I spent the entire sessh inspecting the office, telling myself that its decoration would tell me everything I needed to know about him or perhaps would tell me nothing I needed to know
because he too must have had this thought and decorated accordingly, which, were that the case, would tell me everything. I’d get the same intelligence from his wearables. His wordchoices.
Another memory. Once I arrived early, or late, on a Monday but the appointment was for Friday—rather it wasn’t an appointment with Meany but with one of the fertility doctors, though he was out, his receptionist was out, and I was all alone amid the indirect tracklighting and minimal tulips, and snooped. Or I tried to. The cabinets wouldn’t budge—they were all childproofed, or adultproofed, they were proofed against adults who wanted children, proofed against adults who were acting like the children they didn’t want to have (the greatest breakthrough I’ve ever had).
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I’d forgotten just how much of myself I’d outsourced, offshored, externalized. To Rach and Lana, to Moms. Externalized online. I’ve become so reliant.
It’s as if I’d presumed there would always be some woman or mother around, if not then some dusty storeroom in Ridgewood or even just a Jersey of unlimited storage that would hold everything for me, that would safekeep and recall me, so that no matter how far I’d go or how long I’d be gone, and no matter how many people I’d ghost, my own being or inborn self, who I was supposed to be, not who I was, would always be secure, if only in another’s sense of how they’ve been frustrated, disappointed, or betrayed by me.
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From: [email protected]
Fri, Sept 30, 2011, 10:24 AM
RidgeWood
We’ve been indated with rehearsals and gym and to have to deal with this I’m insensed but also pity you. Still we have had no response besides your agency’s assistant, Daniel Maleksen, finally reaching out to me to state (in writing) (email) that because he hasn’t been able to contact you if we were serious on the office front he’d have to hold onto your computer, though it’s Rach’s computer, but being over four years old it might as well be dead to her.
We are working to meet up.
You’re lucky that tomorrow 10/1 is a Saturday—Shabbos Shuvah, or Atonement—and that today I had no time to deal with this or Bob Onders granted us the last—the last—extension.
So if you have any interest whatsoever in salvaging your office on terms that are your own you must get in touch now immediately.
We have also had to take issue with the Amex. This is either between us or between our laywers and you and the fraud department unless you can admit it and be absolutely honest. Rach’s Amex has had a number of interesting charges recently that have only recently come to our attention, which none of the charges we have made. Rach does not remember ever having given you this card (copy of your own) and her own card she has in her wallet. But the fraud department has stupulated that a card for that account HERS WAS ISSUED IN YOUR NAME on 4/29/11 and
mailed to you not at the billing address I’m writing from but to you c/o your office. I was activated on 5/4/11 for a charge so negible we must have missed the statement at the time, which would be June, for Amazon.com, who would not conform or deny or eithr turn over an account or shipping destination unless the charge was contested in which case they would but directly to Amex. We are guessing books. And you. And this is unconsciousable that you would commit fraud like this but we are “hoping for the best” even after a period of no activity besides Rach’s own legitimate purchases how it was lately brought to our attention (the account has since been canceled).
Namely (you might have had it stolen, or in loo of robbery had lost it, or the worst of the scenarios: you had it all this time and only now are using it impunitly): because now we received an irregular activity fraud alert for charges in excess of $4,482.62 from Baby Phat, Chanel, Dior, and “ASAQ” outlets, Abu Dhabi, United Arab Emirates. I tetrated ASAQ and got that it was “Abdul Samad Al Qurashi.” Then again about a week or so after that attack of 9/12, the card was used at “Kaufhaus des Westens,” Berlin, and throughout the month at Karstadt, Edeka, all Berlin, all tetrating as groceries, and then again repeated attempts at cash withdrawal including one just 9/ Monday that was rejected, according to the shah of the fraud alert team, “Teri” Lakshmi, for multiple wrong PINs, which you must have if it was you forgot. The Monday location was a Deutsche Bank AG, Kurf_rstendamm 182, and then a Sparkasse, Friedrichstra_e 148. We found this out only by luck because the primary number Amex calls to alert to fraud is our landline, which we just reinstalled after a full kitchen renovation (chelseakitchenry.com, maison-de-fantaisie-nyc.com), and the secondary number they are supposed to call with no response to the first is the cell, Rach’s old work cell, which she had paid for you on her plan, and attempted to obtain back verbally by leaving a msg on it that was never returned and neither was the cell relinquenched. This msg would have been left, Rach’s guesstimation, way back around 6/10. The cancellation of that phone from her
plan was 6/24, but she is very angry with herself that she didn’t switch in her own cell as backup emergency with Amex, and you are cognizent I would hope of how it traumatizes Rach and gets her ticked to neglect something to neglect something.
Are you in Berlin? And in the Dhabi? If so, why? If not, why was Rach’s Amex? And beyond that how can you justify doing that to her again, that extra insult of taking out another card for the account at the time you did,
in case you went broke alone and decided she’d underwrite you forever My character costarring in “The Pryers” (Lincoln Center) is about an “experienced,” which is how I describe any character described as “old,” “gentleman” who worked all his life in the pits of Virginia or West Virginia so he would be able to give his son the best, education, opportunities, and the son who’s my costar is a major respected congressional leader, a friend of the poor and downtrodden like his father, which everyone is after to run for president, the son, but he won’t run, the son, or won’t decide not to until the accusations emerge of sexual improperties with a missing intern, and the media surrounds, and then fiscal improperties relating to the sexual and the media becomes unbearable. His wife has left him and taken the children just as he resigns at the press conference. Then with everyone trespassing his home in the capitol he has only once place to go, back home to the coal pits and father, and all throughout he has been unflappable but now he is flappable because he has to confront his father, which he intends will refuse to forgive him. He doesn’t care about the constitutionts or about his fellow congress, just his father because his mother is dead. I am working like him on the forgiveness. You have to work on getting in touch about your office tomorrow (Sat) or at the very latest after tomorrow (Sun), because I have already getting varying quotes from different trash removers and DON’T DO NOT INTEND to make two trips. The voice of Pixar’s “The Fireplace” I’ve created is an impersonation of Rach’s impersonation of you. “Coming next spring to a theater near you.” Rach does you like a vary enthic “nutty” “professor” liar who talks to everyone like talking to himself and the fireplace doesn’t need logs,
it doesn’t need kindling, it burns on its own. I’m going to do that with the stutter you had, which time we met in the park.
Yours during this holiday season that absolves us from sins,
shanah tovah,
Adam
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From: [email protected]
Mon, Oct 3
Re: RidgeWood, 9:36 PM
Besides you know what (you KNOW), the main contention Rach ever counted against you was your lack of a job and now that you’re through living off her sponsorship and have to get one let me recommend to you the trash business. It’s a wracket whose worse aspect is that if the customer has any decency I can’t help but help out, I’m too sensitive having had such jobs before, even though I’m paying through the nose not to. I couldn’t restrain myself and lifted. I wish either of us could feel my spine.
You fouled up and today was the consequence. Fouled! Up! With Rach too emotionally busy to deal with this, because I would do anything to allevate her suffering. Today they and I (Bob Onders from Vanderende, management, and the assistant from your agency, Daniel Maleksen) were scheduled to meet at 10 to let me in, the Refuseniks—which I found online on the recommendaton of theater props and set design friends and for which I should now instead of this should be writing a testimonial to get a rebate—would come at 12, giving me ample time to go through your possessions before the Reuseniks would come, in case there was anything of Rach’s property strictly. YOU CANNOT BE SVADE FROM YOURSELF!1!1 Having never been there before so how could I have known that the time was not ample, in fact, I could not have. Rach printed me a list of what she knew would be
hers and have made an exhausting list of your own items also that struck me and will retain them as collaterals (both attached, items to be disposed of pending what the courts will now determine).
(final reciept attached too)
I’m trying to write this in your style …
Or I’ll be honest, truthful’s not your style: besides the airports and an event at the botanical gardens and I think another event on the QM2 at the cruise terminal I don’t think I’dhave been to an outerborough since 1968, the very year I left my parent’s house, which was only according to the tetmap about 2 miles from where you office. Still I’m Brooklyn and you’re Queens I suppose, as if all that out of the way and distitute zoning laws or mileage still matter. I’ll admit to the tepidaton I felt about the neighborhood. My parents moved down to Ocala (Florida) soon after I left and died soon after I hadn’t been back but you recall the 60s through the Koch administration, or you don’t because you’re too young or to quote myself “inexperienced” from Jersey. (“Not from the “neighborhood.”) Anyway it was a good place to live when my parents moved in but became bad when the—I was going to—but I guess it’s a matter of educatin and opportunitie.s
The subway was off for the weekend. “they” always called it the BMT. The 10, the 16, Canarsie Line, Jamaica Line, I remember our phone number began with EV, Evergreen, then ST, which, don’t get me started, and everyone was Jewish not like in books. Most not just small businesspeople like my parents but big strong men like barrels who used to labor in breweries, the women stuffed sausages. Germans toward you but Polish and Yiddish toward us, all Jews. But nowadays I had to get off seven stops out of Manhattan but the subway stopped at five and so I had to take a bus, because of a disruption in service. Everyone on the train was either “inexperienced” and white or “experienced” and not white and you didn’t even have to look at them to tell which you just had to hear who do you supposed was grumbling at the service disruption announcement? the whites!! If it is a matter of education and oppoptunities that make priviledged “the gentrifiers,” then no thank you. Originally “hipster” just meant anyone who
was exempt from fighting the Nazis, the psychological and gay. We got out of the station and they handed us free transfers to the bus. Free? But we paid for it already! (when you expect service and when you don’t get the service you expected and so are offer an alternative they can’t call it “free” but whats stopping them).
News to me subway service is always off on weekends. But the bus was a bus bus not a shuttle bus so the stops it made were in between the stations. Though without a display the driver didn’t announce any stops so I went to check but he pretended ignore me. This is the status of public servants nowadays except I’m convinced the MtA is private, like once on a bus from a director’s house in Monticello, NY, which will remain nameless broke down and the driver wouldn’t let us off as we waited for a new bus because of liability issues, and also on the subway every time no one gets up for the PREGNANT! A Mex lady with a full cart between her legs got off at the next stop and the driver drove away before she’d gotten off fully. But this would all have been entertaining if it was research for a role. I’m not sure who to contact about the driver, whether the city or his union.
I had because it was not a shuttle to keep track of the subway and I tried to find and count the stops out the window but lost them and we turned and got found them again and I knew it was my stop. I pressed the strip. I was sure I wouldn’t recognize it but then I did and it was like the experience you know of finding a woman with another man, which I don’t mean to be cheap about it but both of us can be direct that you are happier now. That happened even to me once, Barrow Street, a girlfriend “making out” with Ian Johnson who to me will always be Isaac Jacoby, his parents were on the last Yiddish radio, WARD, WBBC, which despite the broadcasts being over by our age got him “connections,” for showing his paintings and strumming mandolin and doing antiwar pantomime blackbox down in the Village. He went on to host TV gameshows but only after he got his heartattack did they get married, Sonya Tubalsky, the girlfriend, which they inherited her paren’ts SROs and moved out to the Hamptons. I have never been married but would like to change, Josh. You are a bad person but
if you too would like “to make a change,” unless the more bad you are makes you the more happier and if that’s the case, go ahead.
No one got off with me and walked to my building. We were middle of the block. I walked into a dream sequence. The groundfloor used to be a grocer’s then a stationary store then if you know what this is a notions shop, used broken clocks that customers paid for the repair and got the watch free, or paid for the watch and got the repair free, but now it’s a locksmith but closed, I don’t know whether closed permanently or if it also did a business in Our Lady of Guadalupe or else it had just a lot of plaster virgins and glass votives in its window behind the shutter and the window was shuttered. “Back when I was growing up” the owner of a business all they ever hoped to do was own the building so that downstairs was where they worked and upstairs was where they lived above it but our unit didn’t appear to beinhabited. My father, not Shale but Shulinsky, was a failed grocer then a failed stationary store and notions shop owner then he rented the floor below to my mother’s brother, who was my uncle to run “his junkyard,” from money he had from an injury settlement from constructing the Goethals Bridge. Uncle Sruly who always played the sportsbook went to Aqueduct one Rosh Hashana and didn’t come back not even for Yom Kipper. For my mother this was tough. He won too much or lost too much but they didn’t find the body until I forget until. After. Washed up and leaking through his wounds the Gowanus.
I was standing outside recollecting my flashback from the sidewalk before realizing that someone was behind me on the sidewalk. I don’t want to accuse and say this someone was Hispanic or Latino if there’s a distinction because I couldn’t tell and didn’t want to turn around to tell, because he, I’m just guessing he was he, I could just feel his weight, he was very close to me. I decided to walk. A block. I walk fast and faster and if I was cold before now I was warm and though it was only 20 blocks but it was forever. The blocks are long are very long because industrial. The Mex was just behind me. It was always just an industrial stretch to avoid between the cemeteries of my parents who emmigrated
from Warsaw as babies in the 1920s (emmigrated separately, the Shulinskys and Ratschelds—they were cousins and so Uncle Sruly was also my father’s cousin).
I had the directions from my house in my pocket to your office but couldn’t slow down to reach them but could find my way without them anyway. Linden across the intersection and under the L not running still to busier Gates, straight up, Forest, which I had never been on, Metropolitan, neither I had been on this stretch og it. I have to admit this to me is just a mystery what you do. Not what you do in this neighborhood so cruddy and all the clapboard out of vinyl. The halal laundromats and Polish not Jewish but Polish hair salons and Hindu destints, every dentist named Raj. But what you do with writing or used to do. All the time I was going up Gates north this Mex was following me. He was on my heels but that’s difficult to communicate. It’s very difficult how swift he was run. At leats on the screen there is music and sound effects and editing tricks especially to cover the time of the visuals and motion.
(I could already make out a white guy we would have entitled The Aussie in our youth down the block and waved to him and he waved back to me. I was coming closer. I didn’t think this was Bob Onders from Vanderende because I didn’t know how his appearance. Then I was crossing from Forest and on the corner. He was very white, which I will own up to it encouraged. Metropolitan was slow of traffic. Just the diesel tractortrailers and vans. I waved again to make sure he was “with me,” and he waved again and the Mex must have realized I was “with him,” because he just crossed Metropolitan toward the Carvel and either went inside or didn’t. Your rep Daniel Makelsen couldn’t even notice him.
I hope you are nice to this nice Dan Makelsen. Though isn’t he too slightly old to be an assistant? He is so white but in wonderful shape, very worldly, with that politeness you find only in veterans. But isn’t that a fascinating biography he has coming from Russia and not Sydney at all? He was giving me tips on postwalk postrun limbering out on the curb waited to be let in. He has the charm to be an actor so it’s a pity how his neck’s deformed. I told him that
about the charm only and about my concept for a book series for children about the adventures of Dabb the lizard from that Dabb franchise I was did and he urged me to put together a proposal and then delinated how to put together a proposal. And we will work together hopfully.
And then in a flawless Chrysler Imperial Bob Onders arrived.
Bob Onders who shook hands with me and Dan Makelsen is bald with limited sharp blonde stubble and his head is red, and the rest is eminently freckled. It is either a tan from working outdoors or hypertension, his head. He dons thick black plastic glasses and a gray jacket that says Vanderende Management, under which he dons an Islanders tshirt and careworn light blue jeans by Levi. His boots are Timberland. He chews tobacco and spits into the bottom sliced out of a plasticbottle I’m not sure was for water or soda but also smelled of vodka. He does not come off as the kind of guy who’d spend his cash on water. When he let me in with Dan Makelsen he held the bottle bottom in his mouth to hold the door, took the bottle bottom back in his hand and ushered me up the stairs, it’s a lot of flights but we’re in better shape and at the door to your unit he put the bottom back in his huffing mouth and took a keyring from his pocket and found the key marked with black electrical tape and put it in the lock and turned and turned the knob, held the door and stood around and spit (stage direction).
I can’t believe it, Josh. I can’t believe you put up with a place so unheated and where the light won’t turn off, the light’s always on and makes such a rattling and above all 40 watt. And you have so many books, so many that you by default don’t want, by default. Such a goddamn mess. But then we were also shocked. Dan Makelsen packed up the computer. I have no doubt you won’t be shocked. Because as we poked around I caught myself realizing how absurd this was but I was apologizing to Dan Makelsen, for you. The cartons, the fucking cardboard cartons, of pornography. Disgusting! I don’t want to tell Rach but I’m not sure I have a choice for full disclosure. So much porn you have. The sluttiest! Reels, photos, dittos stripclubs hand out for the whore ads.
Fistfucking, chestshitting, cornholing, pissdrink. True vintage collectibles. Shit only an officionado would own. The labels were W (black) w/ Stallion (black), W (white) w/ Pony (skewbald), M on M cow (costume), M on M on F Dwarf “speakeasy 1929,” which were disgusting for what they were but also for how antique and unlike your other piles organzied by theme, Bestiality, Gangbang, Minstrel, Red Army Sexual Hygiene Instructional Materials. I confess I was emphafically not going to sift this. I enraged at you. I we’d given you a chance. Rach had given you so many chances that I wanted to toss it out. Then I wanted to just take it all and send it to you COD. Send it to you COD destroyed. Take it and fence it immediately, one lot (though Rach’s correct in that we’d get better prices on the other belongings from auction houses that will have to appraise and by putting the other belongings online).
But no, I became calmed down.
I have followed every law and then be courteous like a cherry on top.
Yes also I would know where to send it now. Or at least Rach has a knowledge as to your whereabouts approximately. Because her therapy blog has a stat counter that’s counted traffic from throughout the United Arabic Emirates but also from Palo Alto, California, which neighbors San Francisco. Dhubai. Abu Dhaubi. Daily for a while. Consistent with Amex conditions.
Makes sense you are retreating us. All will be transmitted to Eisen our laywers.
Besides the porn the autographed editions of Wiesel, Bellow, Roth, Bernard Malamud. I.B. Singer, personalized inscription. Encyclopedia Judaicas, which can’t be carried. Once a reference set is on the shelves the room can never be left, my parents called that “Jewish wallpaper.” Basquiat napkin, laminated. The guitar pick of Slash from the rock band Guns & Roses, that’s what’s signed in sharpie on the ziploc. All will be authenticated. Brownpaper in plastic of magazines hoarded but the explanation as I went through them wasn’t how into celebrity profiles you were but that your writing was in them, always in the back, always
reviews of books, and Makelsen who read through them also said you were “a very thorough reviewer.” But he wouldn’t take them with. Makelsen said he had copies of everything at the office his agency office already except for the files that were his intellcetual property in the computer so that’s why he was taking the computer and everything else was your ordeal. I’m don’t know what you did to anger a guy like that. Such a together guy except for the scalded throat thing that would barely be noticeable if he wore a tie, which for what we did together was inappropriate.
