Amputation, p.5
Amputation, page 5
hahahahah AI could raise Jesus but not Lechuga btw subreddit said he died 7 yrs ago that’s the ony thing I could find there is Literally Nothing About Him on the Entrie Fucking Web wtf
‘praise jesus L’ (said castro &lee harvey sswald in Hell)
its fucked UP/// when they divorced lechuga had 3 (!!!) more rugrats (NOT with a dyke) who bAsshole’s supposed to be superclose to/// (they Campaignd for her) but Zero Info on babyfactory wifey Either – & one of em sed bassinet was in delivery room when they were born? Wha?!?!?!?
Cretin Smileycunt Lechoochoo train needs to be tortured and lit on by trans 1st responders (((Transponders?!hahahahahah))) Make Sure Them Hydrants Fulla Monkey Semen When They Spigot in Her Commie bAssperger Bunghole
She switched over to Abc on her iPad.
David Muir was talking about her favorite, Stephen Colbert. Like so many, she was shocked to learn the national treasure had been crushed by a fallen tree in the Palisades. They didn’t find him for two days! It was as disturbing as it was miraculous. Nothing but the Lord could have kept him alive.
During Covid, while Chair of the Congressional Black Caucus, Karen was a guest on Late Night. (He was doing the show from home, so it was remote.) As she spoke of George Floyd and Tamir Rice—and her plan to 43create a national database of problematic police officers—he listened with such warmth and compassion, yet still managed to be brilliant, funny, and wise. Muir was saying that he’d been found on Maria Shriver’s property where he was staying as a houseguest. She decided to send Stephen a note, then had a strong urge to reach out to Maria Shriver as well. Maria was a cheerleader for her opponent, Rick Caruso, during the campaign but Karen knew she’d be gracious and that their differences would instantly melt away.
The mayor texted Shonda Rhimes, asking for Ms. Shriver’s personal email. If she didn’t hear back, an aide would reach out to Spielberg or Ari Emanuel or JJ Abrams. Writing to them about Maria would be a nice way of reconnecting with old friends and donors.
* * *
Esther
She missed Rocky but wasn’t ready for a reunion. He kept calling, pestering her to evacuate. She finally said she was at the beach house in Carpinteria. ‘So stop noodging me.’ That chilled him out.
Why would she leave anyway? Why would she leave her favorite home, the place she loved most? Like her brothers and sisters, she would never give ground.
A sudden revelation crystallized her decision: The fires of Gaza are not from bombs and rockets. The fires are the Jews themselves. They had become the Shedim—shapeshifting demons of boiling air. They had become mal’ake h.abbala, child-killing angels of extermination. During her bat mitzvah studies, Esther became obsessed with those whom the Talmud said had been created on the sixth day, but whose bodies were never finished because God rested when the Sabbath came. So they had souls but no bodies; they walked among us but lived in fire and water.
44 She googled the quote from the Deuteronomy, the fifth book of the Torah:
Moses said, ‘Every abominable act which the Lord hates they have done for their gods; for they even burn their sons and daughters in the fire to their gods.’
Her phone pinged—a friend sent an Amazon link for Anti-Zionist Toilet Paper. The flag of Israel was printed on each square. Esther laughed out loud when she read, ‘3-ply with safe ink and virgin wood pulp making it strong and comfortable for all human skin.’ She immediately texted Debra Winger a screenshot and wrote TD!!! just ordered a Shitload. Then: sending a twelve-pack to Dad rn!!! . Which she did (ten cartons to the house in San Marino, ten to the house in Henderson, ten to his lawyer).
Yesterday, when she saw that Morty left a voicemail, it spooked her. She was bothered that the old man still had that kind of power over her. She almost deleted it; no doubt it would be something vile because that was his thing. An hour later, out of morbid curiosity, she shrugged it off and put it on speaker because her father’s voice pressed to her ear would be too intimate, too traitorous to her own beliefs. He sounded weak. Esther knew he’d become increasingly frail—one of his attorneys was compelled to give her occasional bulletins on his failing health—but she read something else between the lines of the wavering voice. As if he was fighting each affectless, obligatory word that came out of his mouth, fighting against the near-dead parental instincts that commanded him to override his murderous hatred of the one he regretfully brought into the world.
‘Esther, have you evacuated yet? People have told me you’re in a Red Flag area and it’s dangerous. Okay, let me know, if you will.’ People have told me. That was so … him. She pictured Morty in short sleeves and sandals, pacing as he left word. (She wondered if one of his rabbi friends put him up to it.) There was no way she would call him back.
45 She gave it some thought and sent an email instead, as he probably didn’t check those too often. His alter cocker friends weren’t emailers, they were talkers, with diarrhea of the mouth. She was surprised to get a quick response. She told him the same thing she told Rocky, that she was safe in Carpinteria. She felt a little dirty because it was actually nice to have a short exchange without him invoking the two Nazis, Shmuley Boteach and Alan Dershowitz. (A few months ago, Morty swatted her house with 100 signed copies of The Ten Big Anti-Israel Lies and How to Refute Them with Truth—hence her impish idea to send toilet paper.) It was nice to not hear him rail about how ‘deeply sick and truly dangerous’ she’d become. Right. I’m the dangerous one—worse than the bombs raining down on displaced Gazan children in the Israeli military-designated ‘humanitarian safe zone.’ The last time Esther heard his voice, he screamed, ‘Move to Qatar and organize massacres from The Four Seasons! Text your Hamas pals with tips on how to torture redheaded Jewish kindergartners!’
When she thought about it, she seethed, regretting their recent exchange.
She’d seriously been thinking of converting to Islam. In her darkest hours, she mused, Haven’t we had a long enough run? What would the world look like if Poof we were just … gone? Might it be a better place?
In the end, Esther was told that she was of more value to the resistance as a Jew.
She pivoted from the Book of Moses to the Book of Elisabeth Finch.
One of the online articles about the fraudster said that a few years back, a shooter entered the Tree of Life Synagogue in Pittsburgh shouting, ‘All Jews must die!’ He killed eleven worshippers. A dear friend of Finch’s, a woman she knew from college, was one of the victims so she immediately flew to Squirrel Hill to be of service. In press interviews, Finch said she was given permission—by the FBI, no less—to collect the remains of her bestie’s body from the synagogue floor. ‘It needed to be done quickly,’ she shared. ‘In accordance with Jewish tradition.’
46 Of course, it was all a lie. She had never visited the synagogue, never had a victim friend, never flew to Squirrel Hill …
The chutzpah!
Esther was beginning to admire her.
‘I’m Glinda,’ she whispered. ‘And she’s the the Wicked Bitch of the West.’
The gusts outside got stronger.
The Internet went out.
She got in bed with her Kindle and flipped through the Koran.
Finch’s looney tunes Tree of Life shtick inspired her to seek out a favorite passage (‘Woe unto the defrauders … they will enter the Fire of Hell’), which she read aloud. The sound of her own voice comforted her amid the thundering wind. She could see the fire in the hills through her window and it didn’t look so far away. But she knew it wasn’t nearly as close at it seemed.
She read another poem to settle her nerves. At this hour, she usually turned to Rumi. Instead, she cleaved to the martyred poet Refaat Alareer.
Out loud again, she read
If I must die,
you must live
to tell my story
to sell my things
to buy a piece of cloth
and some strings,
(make it white with a long tail)—
There was the sound of shattering glass.
Was the wind breaking into the living room?
She heard voices then laughter.
47
* * *
Stephen
It lay heavy on him, this implacable captor. In droll, tender submission, like a pilgrim smote upon a cathedral floor, he called it ‘My Tree of Life.’
He asked it to be merciful.
The comedian imagined its trunk as the fuselage of the great bird of Eastern Airlines, the suicidal raptor that carried his father and those perfect handsome boys to untimely death. For years, he wondered what might have happened if he’d been with them on that plane. There were only two possibilities: to join them as ‘the grey rain curtain of this world rolled back, and all turned to silver glass’—or save them.
Perhaps there was yet another way …
His arms began to rise, as if controlled by the brain of his hands.
Grateful to still have movement, he watched the fingers of his right hand reach out to those of his left until the wedding ring was found. Everything was wet but they struggled with it because of the edema. After a minute or so of utter focus, they paused, literally throwing their hands up at the enormity of the task. Then, after a brief siesta, the comedian was surprised to see them reach to the back of his neck and somehow—somehow—unfasten the delicate chain that threaded a medallion of his favorite, St. Paul (after whom his departed brother and living son were named). He cried out when the silvery apostle slid to his chest, then out of sight, forever.
But the hands kept on. They returned to the ring, fussing with it until it was freed. Then somehow—somehow!—attached it to the chain and shut the clasp.
Like Frodo, the ring, now securely around his neck, swelled with power.
He wondered why wearing it all these years hadn’t made him invisible, hadn’t transported him to the Unseen World, and surmised it was due 48to his wife. It was her will and her love that forestalled him from consorting with Wraiths, it was Evie who refused to allow him to become a slave of Sauron. Or was it his love of Christ that prevented it … He was glad (his thoughts toggling from optimism to delirium) that it hadn’t made him invisible—which would have been a bad thing, a very bad thing, when his rescuers made their entrance.
As if they’d been cued, he heard the voices of men.
‘Well, he’s definitely not in the house,’ said Guttenberg.
‘When did you talk to Maria?’ asked Rod.
‘An hour ago.’
‘Where is she?’
‘In Italy.’
‘Sweet.’
‘She went to see the Pope.’
The voices were on his right side. He strained to listen through his microsial, Elvish ear, the one that a childhood surgery had rendered half-deaf. They didn’t sound like Gandalf or Aragorn. They sounded young … might it—could it be Frodo and Samwise Gamgee? The comedian struggled to announce his presence yet only the words from the Black Speech came to his throat, in the language of Mordor, which he dare not, could not speak:
Ash nazg thrakatulûk agh burzum-ishi krimpatul …
‘There’s no car in the driveway.’
‘Do we know if he was renting?’
‘I’m assuming.’
‘I think he’s gone,’ said Rod confidently. ‘If he had a car, it’s probably down there in the bulldozed pile and he ubered to the airport.’
Guttenberg shook his head. ‘Someone would have heard from him by now.’
‘Wow!’ said Rod, looking toward the gully. ‘Check out the tree! How strong would the winds have had to be to do that.’
49 As they walked toward the fallen pine, Guttenberg said, ‘The chief told me there were straight-line gusts up here that went to a hundred.’ The sound of approaching boots crushing the debris sounded hoarse, then tinny, like audio feedback. ‘Well—I’ll call Maria. It’s just weird no one’s heard from the guy.’
‘I’ll take one more look in the house,’ said Rod. ‘Maybe there’s another attic.’
‘Okay.’
‘Hey, how’s she related to Bobby Kennedy again?’
‘They’re cousins.’
‘Oh, right. Man, she fuckin hates him!’ laughed Rod. ‘Her brother, Whatshisname Shriver, loves Bobby but Maria hates him—and Bobby’s cool. He’s always in the Village, you’ve seen him, right? Excellent athlete. We always say hello at AA, at the Methodist church. On Via de la Paz. He goes when he’s in town. Walks right in without secret service. Super humble. Very cool fucking dude.’
‘Yeah, well,’ said Guttenberg. ‘Whatever.’
Their politics were different.
‘There’s an amazing YouTube video where Bobby talks about pain being the bedrock of spiritual life. You should check it out.’
Their footfalls and voices grew dim then disappeared.
The comedian drifted again, his thoughts returning to Dad …
A few years before he was born, James William Colbert Jr, an immunologist, became the fiscal manager of grants to the NIAID, Anthony Fauci’s half-century bailiwick. Stephen hated RFKJ because he’d monstrously defamed Dad’s and Fauci’s legacy with his voodoo science and creepy, nefarious bullshit. Maria was brave and right to support her cousin Caroline when she said it was no accident that Bobby kept birds of prey for pets because he himself was a dangerous predator who, like Saruman, took pleasure in leading friends and family members to addiction, perdition, and death. Stephen had a pleasure of his own: lacerating him on Late 50Night. (‘America needs RFK Junior like his uncle needed a headwound.’) Arguably, he became more fixated on RFKJ than Trump—he was doing it for Father, a real scientist, not a vain, womanizing, corrupted Balrog blockhead.
And yet, in his numb, paradoxical, hallucinatory state, he was battered by microbursts of mercy. Why did he hate this man so much? He thought of Father Francis, who taught Tolkien about charity and forgiveness, the qualities of which the comedian’s father tried to impart to his own sons. Compassion and brotherly love … Besides, were not he and Bobby alike in so many uncanny ways? Both had ten siblings; both families were devoutly Catholic; both lost their dads and two brothers to unimaginable, violent acts. After the tragedy, ten-year-old Stephen became disassociated and depressed, leading to a Xanax addiction in young adulthood. Fourteen-year-old Bobby became a heroin addict.
Were they not, then, Cain and Abel, conceived beneath the Tree of Life? And was he not Cain, punished by God to wander like a fugitive in the Unseen World because of the offerings of Hate that he made in his insult-monologues, offerings that inevitably would have found their way to his father? He took savage, delirious joy in horsewhipping his enemies but all he spoke about in humblebrag, sanctimonious interviews was Love—love!—not just for Christ but all humankind. Would not his father, the great, good doctor, be terribly ashamed? Father Francis certainly would …
In speaking of his deep subscription to Love, the comedian told Anderson Cooper, ‘That might be why you don’t see me as someone angry and working out my demons onstage’—when that was all he did, snidely reveling in the blows he inflicted. He told Cooper that Christ’s teachings had forced him ‘to love the thing I most wish had not happened’—the deaths of his father and the boys. ‘What punishments of God’s are not gifts?’
‘Do you really believe that?’ asked Cooper, awed.
51 ‘Yes,’ he said piously. ‘What do you get from loss? An awareness of other people’s loss. Which allows you to connect with that other person and allows you to love more deeply—and however imperfectly, to acknowledge the suffering of others and to connect with that suffering. In my tradition, that’s the great gift of the sacrifice of Christ. You’re really not alone. God suffers too; His Son was crucified.’
So, why was he not his brother’s keeper?
Why couldn’t he be grateful to Bobby?
Why couldn’t he love him?
* * *
Roderick
Some of the mobile homes in Tahitian Terrace went for two million but Sonata inherited hers when her grandmother died. She had an eight-year-old girl, an anomaly at the park, because most tenants were over sixty. Sienna was the mascot. There was even a celebrity or two—that’s how you knew it was LA. Sonata was friendly with Barbara Corcoran from Shark Tank, who paid well over asking price for her trailer. The seller was crazy about the Terrace and told her she didn’t want to move. But the shark said that she could stay in her old place rent-free whenever Barbara was away (which was most of the year); that clinched the deal. Rod said it was ‘a totally sharky move.’ Jennifer Grey lived there too. Rod actually worked her with when he was fight coordinator on a Hulu show called Dollface.
Sonata and Sienna lived next door to an eccentric old lady named Betty who used to run a movie theater in Malibu. Sonata said it closed about ten years ago. Betty never went much farther than her front porch but one time he saw her in the clubhouse. She loved baking brownies for Sienna. When the fire came, she slammed the door on the manager of 52the park who was telling everyone about the mandatory evacuation. They found her on the porch a few hours later with fourth-degree burns but she was still conscious. It took her three weeks to die and the doctors couldn’t believe she lasted that long.
Out of respect, Rod visited her at the Burn Center in Torrance. She was in an induced coma. Her body was black and the eyelids were gone. A peppy intern told him they burred through her skull ‘to induce soft pink granulation tissue for grafting.’ He pointed out that Betty’s fingers and toes were ‘carbonized.’
‘See?’ he said excitedly. ‘Just like burned branches. Not even my attending ever saw something this bad. And she’s 95! My attending let me do all the debriding, even an escharectomy. Which was amazing. Just an amazing opportunity. He even let me scrub in on the transfem and assist—’
