DISPATCH: Okefenokee Swamp, Georgia
SUBJECT: Remmy Rothstein, “The Cajun Jew”
DATE: August 11, 2012
ATTEMPTED RECORD: Longest Tongue in the World (man)
WEATHER: 99 degrees with 89% humidity
ADJUDICATOR: Mindy Patel (badge #683290)
Dear Robert:
Again, I’d like to thank you for this assignment and your continued faith in me after the domino debacle. Not many Adjudicators would be able to survive the fallout (too soon?) from such a scandal, and your advocacy on my behalf is much appreciated. I promise you I’ll do everything I can to earn my Senior Adjudicator badge back—no matter what it takes.
Now, as to my report:
I’m writing to you from the bottom right-hand quadrant of the state of Georgia, which offers a bucolic setting with the most delicate, birdlike mosquitoes. The swamp is a pleasant locale filled with many interesting characters, including the landlord of my B&B, Alexander Wooten (who looks remarkably like Delbert Jebediah Long1). Wooten is seemingly at my beck and call. Just last night, I woke to find him standing over my bed asking me if I needed a drink of water. You don’t find service like that in New York City! Robert, thank you again for sending me to such a warm and welcoming place.
In fact, Wooten is not the exception to these friendly swamp people, but the rule. I’m not sure if I told you that I lost my bracelet on the drive down from Atlanta’s Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport.2 You can imagine my relief when a nice local boy found it under the driver’s seat of my truck. I could hardly complain about the gas tank being empty after that! And I’m sure the scratches in the paint will be covered by my Amex card. Who wouldn’t want a Confederate flag carved into their driver’s-side door? Not this Punjabi! It’s practically a sin not to show your pride down here. And the food is exquisite—I’ve never tasted blackened crawdads before. Yum! Thank you, again, for this wonderful opportunity. The World Record Adjudicator’s first love has always been adventure.
Yours,
Mindy
PS: Just a note: I saw Kaitlyn on the Today Show this morning with Matt Lauer certifying the fewest pogo-stick jumps in under a minute. (Sorry, Biff!3) She looked fantastic—I wish I had her looming height. Lauer was like a dwarf next to her (though certainly no Gul Mohammed4). Please tell Kaitlyn I said she looked fantastic in that plaid suit. She hardly looked overweight at all.
DISPATCH: Okefenokee Swamp, Georgia
SUBJECT: Remmy Rothstein, “The Cajun Jew”
DATE: August 12, 2012
ATTEMPTED RECORD: Longest Tongue in the World (man)
WEATHER: 101 degrees with 99% humidity
ADJUDICATOR: Mindy Patel (badge #683290)
Dear Robert:
As per the Manual of Adjudicator Conduct on the Road (rev), Rule #14, I spent more of the day getting a lay of the land and talking to people who might know Mr. Rothstein, our possible World Record Holder for Longest Tongue (man).
The Okefenokee Swamp, as you know, is the largest in North America; it is over 6,500 years old and formed on the edge of an ancient Atlantic coastal terrace. The name itself comes from the Cherokee word for “Land of the Trembling Earth,” an obvious reference to the unstable peat “islands” that pass for land in the black waters. The swamp is approximately 438,000 acres and is home to many wading birds, amphibians, carnivorous plants, and American alligators (full list of native species and wildlife attached). The Honey Prairie Wildfire, which started in April of last year, has still only reached 65% containment and has left a swath of barren land in its wake. Amazingly, the wildlife seems to have thrived under these conditions, especially the mosquitoes. It’s the burden of the Adjudicator to be extra wary of these flying beasts,5 though of course the locals find it hilarious when I swat at these creatures, which are capable of pinning down small animals. I wish I was exaggerating, but no one was laughing when that cat was taken away. Poor Squeamy.
Not many people appear to know Mr. Rothstein, though he seems to have lived in the area all of his life. On the Application for World Record Form 29(E), he listed his occupation as “certified VCR repairman” (a surprisingly popular occupation among our Record Holders [male]). Where locals seem reticent to discuss Mr. Rothstein, the subject of his mother is easily bandied about. By all accounts, she is a strong woman who raised two sons on her own during a time when these things were not done. For many years, the family seems to have held itself apart from the community, and more than one old-timer has described Mrs. Rothstein as the “Whore of the Oke.” Thankfully, this is not a commonly uttered phrase (even down here, time seems to have inched forward, though one need only refer to the county census data to find that one in every three girls has experienced a pregnancy by the time she turns sixteen). Still, one can assume that the Rothstein family is no stranger to scandal (again, another attribute many of our Applicants [male] and Record Holders [male] share).
Prior to flying down here, my research led me to believe that all residents of the swamp (“Swampers”) had been removed shortly after the cypress mining period initiated by the Hebard family (who could forget Oberlin Elton6?). You can imagine my surprise as I drove around the sandy Swamp Perimeter Road to find many Swampers still living in dilapidated shacks. No running water. No electricity but for the occasional diesel generator. Certainly not a lot of teeth!
It is inside this swamp that Applicant Remmy Rothstein lives with his mother and older brother. By most accounts, Rothstein’s family tree took root around the time of the Suwannee Canal7 boondoggle. Others say the line goes back much farther. Embellishments seem to be a way of life down here, so should we indeed have a Record Breaker, a more firmly oriented timeline will of course have to be established.
Lastly, I understand the science division always has questions when World Records pertain to physical attributes or endurance and have taken a sample of the tannin-stained waters of the Okefenokee (a highly acidic substance that renders the shallow waters sparkling clear). Though I am no scientist, one could surely form a hypothesis that these waters could have led to the development of an elongated tongue. I know research continues on Stephen Taylor’s8 environment, but should Rothstein truly break the record, more research into his background and early diet is definitely indicated. But I’m getting ahead of myself!
The plan is to meet Rothstein at noon tomorrow.
Until then!
Mindy
(attachment: PlantsAnimalsOkefenokee.doc)
DISPATCH: Okefenokee Swamp, Georgia
SUBJECT: Remmy Rothstein, “The Cajun Jew”
DATE: August 13, 2012
ATTEMPTED RECORD: Longest Tongue in the World (man)
WEATHER: 106 degrees with 100% humidity
ADJUDICATOR: Mindy Patel (badge #683290)
I’m really not certain what happened today, but I’ll try to describe it as best I can:
Wooten, the helpful landlord of my B&B, gave me very good directions to Rothstein’s meeting point, and I found it easily enough after a few hours of wandering around in the swamp. Did I mention that the air-conditioner in my rental truck is broken? Funny thing: it was fine on the way down, but after that kid took it for a joyride, it started blowing heat (and smelling, oddly, of boiled peanuts—a local delicacy). I took it to a mechanic (a nice lady who also owns the local restaurant) and was told that it would cost approximately $3,000 to repair.
After a few terse phone calls with the car rental company (note to Travel: it might be best in the future to steer clear of Jimmyz’ Truck and Tractor Rental), it was made clear to me that no repairs were authorized (which I cannot argue with as, according to Jimmyz’ rental agreement, which I had ample time to peruse while on hold, they are not responsible for any peanut-related mechanical failures, up to and including air-conditioning). Of course, all this means to me is that I have been forced to drive around in the heat.
And is it hot! I’m talking Al’ Aziziyah9 hot!
But I can hear your voice reminding me that it’s about the potential Record Holder, not the Adjudicator, and certainly not about the fact that I have lost six pounds since yesterday (please tell Kaitlyn) and that no matter how hard I try to remain hydrated, I am well under my .28 gallons!10
As I said at the top of the report, I set out first thing in the morning, when it was but a balmy 98 degrees, giving myself ample time to make the noon rendezvous with Mr. Rothstein. I brought with me all the tools of verification: two rulers, a measuring tape, video recorder, tape recorder, and camera. I also took the liberty of bringing the Record Holder Certificate signed by Paolo Pergini, our esteemed leader, in case Mr. Rothstein, in fact, had broken the World Record.
As you know, per certification guidelines, Mr. Rothstein submitted via our website the proper paperwork as well as ample documentation of tongue length to be reviewed by our board of assessors in the New York office. Photos showed a metal ruler placed “tip to top” (tip of tongue to top lip) indicating Mr. Rothstein’s tongue measured 3.9", a full .04" past the original world record. Between you and me, Robert, I was also hoping for a double record, as the photos showed what seemed to be an abnormally wide tongue, surely as wide if not wider than Sloot’s.11 I know as Adjudicators we’re not supposed to get involved with our Subjects, but I feel like your knowing the level of my excitement going into this Adjudication will give you a deeper understanding of what happened next.
Thanks to Wooten’s directions (which gave me a lovely side trip into Florida), I pulled up to Rothstein’s dock at approximately 11:52 a.m. This dock was not a typical dock connected to a house, but rather a free-floating wooden structure onto which an airboat was moored. Obviously, one does not become an Adjudicator without a lust for adventure, but even I was a bit wary of this rusty contraption, which more closely resembled a cast-iron bathtub with a box fan strapped onto the back. And I do mean strapped on—we’re talking enough bungee cords to make Alberto Reginni12 nervous. Nevertheless, I strapped myself into one of the wooden chairs (with yet another bungee cord) and resigned myself to a ride deep into the swamplands.
My guide was not Mr. Rothstein, but his older brother, who is named Buell Rabinowitz. It is not just the unshared surname that leads me to believe Mr. Rothstein and Mr. Rabinowitz were sired by different fathers. Though it defies polite company to mention these things in public, I feel I must be completely truthful as an Adjudicator and reveal the facts: I have never seen an albino African American Jew before (possible record to explore for the Assessors’ Office?).
For the most part, Buell spoke in the flowery Victorian parlance of the Swampers (this owing to little outside influence of the changing vernacular), only occasionally dipping into Yiddish and what I will describe as a folksy, backwoods slang. He was dressed in tan pants that were too short for his lanky, long leg (did I mention he only has one leg?) and a shirt that was obviously fashioned from a sack of flour.
Buell informed me that his people have lived in the swamp since July 5, 1742, when the ongoing War of Jenkins’ Ear13 forced them from Congregation Mickve Israel14 in Savannah. I asked him about the Cajun part of the family, to which he answered (I felt sarcastically), “Laissez les bons temps rouler.”15
I asked him again about his brother. “Is Remmy…”
“A colored or a albino?” he finished.
“Well…” I said, but of course that’s exactly what I’d been thinking.
“Nope. Remmy his own kinda special.” He steered the boat away from a resting alligator, then navigated a slight turn through a forked cypress tree. “Do yaself a favor, gal. Don’t say nothin’ ’bout his har.”
“What’s that?” I asked, but he changed the subject, instead regaling me with a story about his great-great-grandpappy, a rabbi who fought in the Civil War.
This was to be a pattern with Buell, whom I found to be quite open about everything having to do with his past and family until I questioned him about his brother Remmy. On all topics Rothstein, Buell declined to answer, instead telling me that he had to be careful around this part of the swamp because “them alligators are meshugganeh.”
Instead of focusing on Buell’s ice-blue eyes, or the word “FLOUR” emblazoned on his narrow back, I found myself staring at the stump of his leg, onto which a poorly wrought, wooden prosthetic had been fashioned. It wasn’t exactly a peg because it had a kind of shoe at the bottom—a badminton racket, really—but I feel that “peg” is the best descriptor as the racket was attached with duct tape. Buell explained to me that the soft ground of peat posed a problem for the peg (much like a high heel, I imagine—did I mention I’ve lost two pairs of shoes since I got here? Invoices attached). The racket seems to act as a snowshoe of sorts, and thanks to the duct tape, could be quickly removed in case he needs to run.
Run from what? you might be thinking. If only I’d considered the same question.
I can’t tell you how long the airboat ride lasted. Frankly, the fumes from the gas engine seemed to be exhausting directly into my face. There was no muffler, per se, just a length of metal pipe with a sock taped onto the end. Watching the sock flop across the water cast something like a hypnotic spell, and I’m ashamed to say that I found myself nodding off. I must admit that I haven’t been sleeping well at night. It was quite a relief knowing that Mr. Wooten would not be gently nudging me awake to offer me a backrub. (And come to think of it, I have the strange feeling that he was wearing a pair of my shoes last night, which is silly, because he’s a size ten at least and he’s told me on more than one occasion that red is not his color.)
As I said, I’m not sure what time it was when I awoke, but we were deep into the swamp, large cypress trees weaving their fingers together in a canopy that blocked most of the light. I tried to look at my watch, but the LED had melted into a puddle that rolled around under the glass like pus in a blister.
I’m sorry to cut this short, Robert, but Mr. Wooten just came out from under my bed. He forgot to tell me that there’s something else wrong with my car. I’ll go ahead and send this off now as it’s required by the Manual of Adjudicator Conduct on the Road (rev), Rule #22, to present a daily log.
More anon—
Mindy
(attachment: ShoeInvoice.pdf)
DISPATCH: Okefenokee Swamp, Georgia
SUBJECT: Remmy Rothstein, “The Cajun Jew”
DATE: August 14, 2012
ATTEMPTED RECORD: Longest Tongue in the World (man)
WEATHER: 104 degrees with 99% humidity
ADJUDICATOR: Mindy Patel (badge #683290)
Dear Robert:
Sorry for the abrupt ending yesterday, but I know what a stickler you are for rules, and you know that I am doing my utmost to be the best Adjudicator I can. As you often say, when life gives you lemons, the good Adjudicator verifies a World Record for Most Lemons in a Twenty-Four-Hour Period!
Regarding the car: I’m afraid it’s another peanut-related incident, so not covered under the rental car agreement warranty. It seems that the transmission (which I noticed was slipping a bit when I made that U-turn in Florida) is gone. How a peanut got into the pistons is beyond me, but as Mr. Wooten says, “Them’s what happens in the Swamp.” Ah, what a character.
In reviewing my report from yesterday, I have to agree with you that it took way too many personal detours. I apologize for this and promise to rectify the situation beginning now.
Buell nudged me awake as the airboat slid up against another wooden dock. This one was attached to a piece of land, the ubiquitous peat, upon which stood a simple one-room shack. The wood was clapboard, browned with weather and age, or perhaps singed from the Honey Prairie Fire. There was a strange glass in all the windows—Coke-bottle green with a round center that bubbled out to the edges. Victorian, I imagine. The first person to come out of the front door (in fact the only door) was an old, stooped woman with quite a long beard (I know what you’re thinking, and no—Vivian Wheeler16 can rest easy). She kept her gnarled hands gripped together as she walked across the peat. I’m not sure if the ground was shaking or she was. She was quite old (though not Valentim17 old) and I had to strain to hear what she said, which was “Welcome, darlin’.”
Robert, you know that as an Adjudicator, I take my work very seriously, but I cannot lie to you and say that I was completely prepared for this case. As I mentioned yesterday, I’d brought all the proper tools needed to measure and document Mr. Rothstein’s tongue, but it is with great shame that I admit I did not bring the one tool that would’ve been most useful in this situation, and that is a flashlight. This thought only occurred to me as I followed the woman into the shack. The green glass that I mentioned served to further filter the light, so that when I entered the room, I could barely make out my surroundings.
As my eyes adjusted, I took in several things rather quickly. There was a small bedstead pushed into one corner, a quilt laid over a bare straw mattress. An otherwise clean fireplace was set with wood but, thankfully, there was no fire. Metal implements adorned the walls: pitchforks and axes serving as objets d’art. Strangely, there was a large—I would say at least 60"—plasma-screen television taking up one wall. The old woman patted the set as if it were a familiar, telling me, “A gift from Remmy.”
And that is when I realized the other thing missing from the room: Mr. Rothstein.
“Is he here?” I asked.
“Give ’em time,” she told me, pulling out a wooden stool I’d not noticed before. It was a three-legged stool, the other leg being currently used by Buell Rabinowitz, who at that moment clomped into the shack. He carried the badminton racket at his side, a piece of duct tape dragging the ground like a tail.
“Remmy always late,” Buell said. He leaned against the fireplace. I noticed the ropey muscle underneath his homespun shirt. He glared openly at his mother.
The old woman carefully balanced herself against the wall to make up for the missing leg. She teetered a bit, glaring back at Buell as if this was his fault, before finally settling down.
And then there was silence.
Well, you don’t send Adjudicators to Mrs. Dalton’s School of Manners and Social Conversation for nothing!
I cleared my throat a few times, then politely asked, “Where is Mr. Rothstein?”
“Don’t worry, gal,” Buell told me. And then, thank God for my work certifying the World Record for the Most Yiddish Puns Told in a One-Hour Period,18 because I completely understood him when he said, “A falsheh matba’ieh farliert men nit.”19
The old woman reared up like an angry possum. “Don’t you derogatory my Remmy!” she snapped. “You ungrateful fagala.”20
“Ku fartzer,”21 he shot back. (I blushed.)
“Gai kukken afen yam.”22 She waved him away like swatting a fly. Or maybe she was really swatting a fly. There were hundreds in the shack. I’d swallowed at least five since I walked in.
Buell could barely look me in the eye, but he apologized. “Sorry, Mama ain’t never liked me much.”
“Can you blame an old woman?” She ignored her son, kindly showing me a row of gums. “You a pretty girl. You married?”
I deflected that as easily as I did with my own mother. “You must be proud of Remmy for going after the World Record.”
“Remmy my pride,” the old woman told me. “Boychik over der”—she nodded toward Buell—“not so much.”
Buell’s fists clenched. The sprinkling of freckles showed under the sweat on his knuckles. The old woman tilted up her chin, dared him to come after her.
A chill went through me, and I gritted my teeth against the whimper that wanted to come out. Robert, you know I’m the daughter of Indian immigrants. The worst they ever did to me was tell me they were very disappointed I did not become a doctor like my two brothers or even a lawyer like my sister. This exchange between mother and son was shocking, like nothing I’d ever witnessed. And the language! Even during the great Domino Debacle, the worst Jimmy Butler managed to call me was a psycho bitch fuck. Granted, he was only nine years old at the time and hadn’t slept for four days because he was setting up his domino display to try to achieve the record (believe me, to this day I still have nightmares about bumping into that table), but the point I am trying to make is that the hatred between the two people in that swamp shack was so thick I could’ve easily certified it as the Thickest Hatred in the World. And you know an Adjudicator never exaggerates about World Records.
Again, the old woman teetered on the stool as she settled the three legs back onto the floor. Buell flinched as she stood with a sweeping, almost threatening, motion. She went over to the fireplace and placed her hand on a wooden box I hadn’t noticed before. It was quite lovely—cherrywood rubbed into a warm red, and small enough to fit in two hands.
Buell nervously eyed the box. “Mama, please. We got comp’ny.”
She patted the box, and I could tell she took a dark delight in its contents. She told me, “Remmy a good boy. He never do know it, though. Always tryin’ for things, never gettin’ ’em. Bless his heart.”
For just a moment, I felt a shock of panic. Was she telling me that Remmy was in the box? Had he passed away before I could verify his World Record?
And—I have to admit, there was another, more startling thought: had they killed him?
I know it’s silly to have these dramatic, dark ideas, but Robert, you must understand that in this kind of setting, one cannot help but conjure up Deliverance-like atrocities. Indeed, for the first time since I landed in Atlanta and drove down to this backwater swamp, I felt the sweat dry on my skin. Dry? Nay, freeze. And then it crystallized to dry ice when next the old woman stabbed her finger into Buell’s chest and said—
“You.”
Buell flinched from the hard jabs.
“You’s done got on my bad side today, ya freak.”
His lips trembled. He begged, “Mama, please.”
And she said
I’m sorry, Robert. Mr. Wooten has just come out from behind the shower curtain. He forgot to tell me that the sheriff wanted to talk to me.
Def. more tomorrow—
M.
DISPATCH: Waycross, Georgia
SUBJECT: Remmy Rothstein, “The Cajun Jew”
DATE: August 15, 2012
ATTEMPTED RECORD: Longest Tongue in the World (man)
WEATHER: 104 degrees with 98% humidity
ADJUDICATOR: Mindy Patel (badge #683290)
Dear Robert:
Greetings from jail! Please don’t panic—it’s just a misunderstanding about the car. Apparently, Jimmyz’ filed a bench warrant over the truck. No big deal—really! There is absolutely no stigma here about being in jail (haha, the locals say if they’re not in church, jail is where you can find them) and I’ve had many kind visitors. Until they found him in the storage closet, Mr. Wooten even kept me company. My God, that man has a lovely singing voice. I have to tell you, Robert, living in New York, you forget what a community is all about. But as to the jail thing—it’s fine. Really. Of all the Adjudicators you have to worry about, I am not one of them!
So let me continue telling you the story of what happened the other day. Three days ago! I can’t believe it’s been that long since I’ve had a shower. Honestly, now that I’ve had air-conditioning and water on a consistent basis, I’m thinking much more clearly. It just goes to show you how hearty these Swampers really are.
As I was saying, the old woman was taunting Buell. There was a level of hatred coming off her like none I ever experienced in my life. She truly and unremorsefully seemed to despise him. I half expected her to take one of the axes off the wall and do something about it.
She said, “Today gone be the day, you don’t watchit.”
Then she put her hand on that cherrywood box. Now, macabre thoughts aside, it was a beautiful box, and probably very old (though not that23old). The carving was incredibly ornate, and certainly you could not fit the ashes of a grown man inside the thing.
She said, “You wanna see ’em, boychik?”
Obviously, something awful was inside, because Buell had backed away the moment the old woman took the box off the mantel. I felt a little trepidation myself as she stuck her thumbnail into the catch and started to open it.
But then there was a clatter outside, feet shuffling across boards. I looked out the front door and there stood on the front porch the ugliest man I have ever seen. I know that the internal debate over whether to certify ugliness has been going on in the Assessors’ Office for years, but one look at this man would tell you there is not an uglier creature walking the face of the earth.
So ugly was this man that even now I cannot find the words to describe him. Was he unclean? Remarkably so. Was he hideous? Without a doubt. Was he hairy? Yes—but only to a point.
His face was remarkably clean-shaven, not even showing a trace of a beard. In fact, the hairline was almost completely receded, though his dirty, kinky braid ran from the back of his head to his waist. Shirtless, he presented a bare chest. His back, on the other hand, showed a carpet of hair that glistened with sweat. Tendrils poked up from the waist of his pants, a trail of fur touching the center of his belly button and shooting out like rays from the sun. His legs were hairy. His arms were hairy. His ears were hairy. My fingers itched to grab my ruler, my camera, my notebook. Justin Shaw,24 Anthony Victor,25 Toshie Kawakami26—for the love of God, Douglas Williams!27—why was this man bothering with his tongue? He was magnificently hirsute, a textbook study in localized hypertrichosis!
But his face. My God, his face. Everyone knows that symmetry equates with beauty—a certain distance between the eyes, a straight, perfectly aligned nose, a pair of sculptured lips: these are the gifts that God gives beautiful people.
God gave this man nothing.
His nose was squarely out of joint, zigging and zagging down his shovel of a face. His eyes were too far apart on his head, giving him the look of a perplexed minnow. And his mouth. It was as if the awfulness had drained down, settling into his lips, giving them the twisted, wet look of two broken hot dogs resting atop the dirty bun of his cleft chin.
The old woman beamed at him as if he were a god. “Dis my Remmy,” she said, chest puffed out, hands proudly tucked into her hips.
Remmy seemed embarrassed by his mother’s obvious affection. “Afternoon, cher,” he told me, extending a long-fingered hand my way.
Har, I thought. Buell said not to say anything about his har.
I forced myself to shake Remmy’s hand, to ignore the soft feel of hair on his palms, the feral odor coming off his hairy body. Robert, have I ever told you about the time my father took us camping? We left soon after setting up the tent because there was a bear in the area. We never saw the creature, but we could smell him—rotted meat, sweat, and dirty feet all rolled into a motley scent that made his presence known for miles.
That bear had nothing on Remmy Rothstein.
And with them both, I should’ve seen it coming.
DISPATCH: Atlanta Penitentiary, Georgia
SUBJECT: Remmy Rothstein, “The Cajun Jew”
DATE: August 16, 2012
ATTEMPTED RECORD: Longest Tongue in the World (man)
WEATHER: 106 degrees with 100% humidity
ADJUDICATOR: Mindy Patel (badge #683290)
Dear Robert:
Sorry for the abrupt ending to yesterday’s email. There was a bit of a riot. I say a bit because it was only four of us, but you’d better believe that shiv came in handy. Lord, those country girls are strong!
Back to Remmy.
For all his unnatural odor, there was something sweet about Remmy Rothstein. Was it his eyes, which were dark and piercing, like staring into the muzzle of a Glock 19? Being honest, the touch of his hand sent a cha-chunk into my heart, and I swear it was like a shotgun being pumped. (Sorry for all the gun metaphors; this is how you talk in prison. Did I mention we’re in prison now? The jail burned down.) Robert, I just have to tell you, if you didn’t look at Remmy’s face, or feel the prickly hair jutting out from his eyebrows, you’d swear to God he was George Clooney.
And the mouth on him! No, I’m not talking about the silky, soft hair on his tongue (though we’ll get to that later). He was the sweetest talker I’ve ever met in my life. He said I was beautiful. He said I was dainty. He said those moles on my ass look like the face of God. God, Robert! Not balloon animals (though I understand given our Adjudication that day why balloon animals were on your mind).
Was it all true? Am I beautiful? Am I dainty? Who knows? Let’s just say Remmy Rothstein made good use of his 57,78228 times.
But I was not there to fall in love. I was there to Adjudicate a World Record, so I set about telling Mr. Rothstein the procedures for verifying his claim. He told me he understood the process, and we agreed that we would proceed. The proper paperwork was signed (attached) and both Buell and his mother acted as witness.
While he went down to the water to shave his tongue, I used an alcohol wipe to clean the two metal rulers, as well as the measuring tape. I put these all out on a cloth napkin, as instructed in the Manual of Adjudicator Conduct (rev), then tested the batteries in my camera and video recorder.
Mind you, we had to do all this outside in the daylight, but that was fine. I was beginning to enjoy the outdoors by now, and such was the sweat on my skin that the mosquitoes could no longer find purchase. Lemons/lemonade!
Rebekkah joined me outside the cabin, the box in her hand. (Did I mention the old woman’s name is Rebekkah? Thankfully, she’s my cellmate. All those years on the three-legged stool have given her thighs of steel. Combine that with the beard and there is no end to what the ladies will do for her. I haven’t had to wash my own laundry since I got here!)
Rebekkah stood by quietly, her eyes nervously going from me to Buell and back again. He leaned against the shack as he strapped back on his badminton racket, giving her equally beady looks. I kept hearing her earlier warning that he had gotten on her bad side today, but worrying about these two wasn’t in my job description, so I let it go.
Big mistake.
By the time I had tested everything and taken out a fresh pen to write in my notebook, Remmy was back. The sun was peering behind him, and I could see the wifty loops of hair off his shoulders. He rubbed his hands together as he approached. Up close, I recognized the features from the photos he sent in to the Assessors’ Office. The round, red lips. The gouge of the philtrum between his nose and mouth.
Buell hobbled over, unsteady on the peat. Rebekkah stood beside me.
I said, “All right, Mr. Rothstein. Show me your tongue.”
Fuck me. Another riot. More later.
(attachment: Rothstein-Remmy.zip)
DISPATCH: Atlanta Penitentiary, Georgia
SUBJECT: Remmy Rothstein, “The Cajun Jew”
DATE: August 18, 2012
ATTEMPTED RECORD: Longest Tongue in the World (man)
WEATHER: HOT
ADJUDICATOR: Mindy Patel (inmate #4290-6632)
Dear Robert:
I can’t say I was happy to see Rebekkah taken out of my cell. She’s become quite a confidante over the last few days. Thankfully, it was after Shabbat. Did I tell you she’s been teaching me the Kiddush? Anyway, it’s only a week in solitary. I’m sure it’ll go by fast.
As you now know from my earlier attachment, Mr. Rothstein’s tongue was nowhere near the 3.9" to meet the standard for World’s Longest Tongue. In fact, even the width was barely more than the 2.1" average. I couldn’t fucking believe it. Three days in that hellhole of a swamp! Two nights of being shocked out of my sleep by some pervy freak leaning over my bed. Thirty-six hours of nonstop sweating. Untold numbers of peanuts shoved up my tailpipe and the fucker had lied the entire time.
I’m sorry for my language, Robert, but prison makes you hard.
And, I have to say, I let Remmy’s lies get to me. I know Potential World Record Holders lie all the time. I know they fake photos and try to get one over on us. I know it’s the Adjudicator’s job to just simply say, “Thank you for trying,” as they head out of town, but I screamed the biggest “WHAT THE FUCK?” ever heard in that swamp. We’re talking Silbo Gomero29 loud. I’m surprised you didn’t hear it all the way up in New York (though I’m sure you were busy watching Diane Sawyer interview Kaitlyn about the Most Dogs in Fancy Dress30 record. Really, Ms. Sawyer? This is news?).
But—Remmy. Poor Remmy of the average tongue. He was crestfallen, though surely he knew when he Photoshopped those pictures that there was no way his tongue was long enough. Did he think we’d just give it to him? Did he think that a record as important as the Longest Tongue in the World was something we would just rubber-stamp through the Assessors’ Office? There are standards and practices. There are ethics. What was I supposed to do—give him the second-longest tongue? There’s a girl in California31 who might have a word or two to say about that!
I remember my first day of Adjudicator Academy when we were told that our integrity was on the line every day, that people depended on us to report the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. We’re certifying World Records! We’re telling one individual that he or she, above anyone else, is the best, the brightest, the gnarliest, the most pierced, the fattest, the oldest, the fartiest, the most reckless—of any other human being in the world. Our motto isn’t just on our badges; it’s on our hearts. This is what the Adjudicator takes on the road with him or her every single day: “For every record you give someone, there’s another person who loses a record.” Could I take away what might be Ms. Tapper’s biggest claim to fame for the sake of a downtrodden Cajun Jew living in a South Georgia swamp?
Could I do that? COULD I?!?!
No, really—I’m asking, because he keeps calling me every day.
DISPATCH: Atlanta Penitentiary, Georgia
SUBJECT: Remmy Rothstein, “The Cajun Jew”
DATE: August 19, 2012
ATTEMPTED RECORD: Longest Tongue in the World (man) DENIED
WEATHER: Look at the date. Look at the location. WTF do you think?
ADJUDICATOR: Mindy Patel (inmate #4290-6632)
Dear Robert:
Sorry. Lights out really does mean lights out here, and my lawyer says after the stabbing (long story) I need to be on my best behavior.
Re: our last—
I know what you’re thinking. It’s not the tongue, stupid. It’s the integrity of the organization. It’s honoring the Adjudicators before me, the ones after me. It’s about the truth.
I believe this. I really do. Which is why I had to be honest with Remmy standing there in that swamp.
“It’s not long enough.”
That’s all I said. It was like watching the air leave a balloon. His shoulders slumped. His head dropped. Even the hair on his arms lost some of its bouffantness. I have seen many a grown man cry, but never have I seen one so broken. My heart felt as if it was crumbling in my chest. I could practically feel his desolation, his loneliness. What did this man have other than his awful mother and freakish older brother? Sure, he was her pride and joy, but that’s like being Hitler’s favorite dog. At the end of the day, what does it really mean? What lasting impression has Remmy Rothstein left on the world other than the strands of hair he leaves in his wake?
I looked at Buell. I could tell he was thinking what I was thinking. He shook his head, but I couldn’t heed his warning. Tentatively, I asked, “Mr. Rothstein, is there another record you might be interested in?”
Remmy was too devastated to understand the question. His voice cracked. “No, cher. I got nothin’.”
Was there ever a bigger elephant in the room?
I looked at Buell again, thinking surely he would call attention to the fact that Remmy’s back looked like a wall in Elvis’s music room. Then I looked at Rebekkah, but she only sneered at me in the threatening way she’d sneered at Buell.
And I know what you’re thinking—a good Adjudicator finds a Record no matter what—but you tell me this, Robert Putrovnik: how do you say to a guy, “No, your tongue isn’t long enough, but Jesus Christ, let me smack a ruler against that nipple hair”? I was really at a loss standing there on that peat mound. There’s nothing in the Adjudicator’s Manual of Conduct on the Road (rev or otherwise) that tells you how to politely suggest that there might be another record to be had.
Because no one seemed to be even close to suggesting that 75% of Remmy Rothstein’s body is covered with hair.
So I said what I could, which is, “I’m so sorry, Mr. Rothstein. Perhaps another time.”
Rebekkah hissed at me. I’m not going to lie—she’s kind of scary when she wants to be, and those thighs could strangle a python (trust me, if there was more time I’d tell you that story).
Buell was the only one who didn’t seem bothered by this. As I said, he’d been silent at first, but maybe it took some time for him to process exactly what had happened. Remmy had lost. He’d lost big. And something told me that Buell saw Remmy’s loss as his own gain.
A huge grin spread across Buell’s face as this realization dawned. He spat on the ground and said, clear as a bell, “Shyster.”
Now, I told you Rebekkah was old, but that doesn’t mean she wasn’t fast.
She said, “That’s it,” and grabbed an ax off the woodpile.
She bolted after Buell so quickly I could barely process what was happening. Buell saw it coming before I did. He took off, pegging his way across the peat, dropping into the shallow water like a lemming, then popping back up on another mound of peat. Rebekkah kept up fairly easily, dodging the sticks and mounds of dirt he threw back at her. I stood there speechless as I watched her catch up with him. She grabbed him by the back of the shirt and rolled him into the water like a hungry gator.
They both disappeared under the churning water. The last I saw of Buell was his stump sticking up in the air. It really was a stool leg. Some duct tape was still attached to the end. It waved like a flag in the wind.
DISPATCH: Atlanta Penitentiary, Georgia
SUBJECT: Remmy Rothstein, “The Machine”
DATE: August 20, 2012
ATTEMPTED RECORD: Hottest Fuck in the World
WEATHER: Does it matter, bitch? Really?
ADJUDICATOR: Mindy Patel (inmate #4290-6632)
Robert—
Sorry about leaving you hanging like that. I had to get up in a bitch’s grill.
So—!!!
As Rebekkah and Buell disappeared under the water again and again, I looked at Remmy and screamed, “Oh my God, she’s murdering him!”
He just shrugged and said, “She ain’t never forgive him for being born with six toes.”
???
Remmy shrugged. “Ain’t no record,” he told me, as if it wasn’t common knowledge that you can’t throw a rock without hitting a polydactyl.
“Six toes?!” I repeated. “That’s why she hates him?”
“On each foot.” He shook his head sadly. “My three nipples, she ain’t got a problem with, but she been kvetchin’ about them toes long as I ’member.” Remmy gave me a knowing look. “Took off that one foot when he was nine. Been gunnin’ for them others ever since.” He stared out into the thrashing water. “Cain’t pretend like this day ain’t been a long time comin’.”
My mouth opened and closed like a fish gasping on the shore.
THIS was what upset her? Not that her oldest son was an albino of indeterminate ethnic origin? Not that her youngest son had sprouted enough hair to cover at least two standard poodles? She lived in a swamp shack with no running water or electricity and, if I was guessing correctly, did her bathroom duty in a metal bucket whose contents, judging by the trail to the water, were dumped into the swamp every day.
SIX TOES CROSSED THE LINE?
But none of this seemed to matter to Remmy. He was obviously still focused on his World Record loss and not the sound of his mother drowning his brother in the tannin waters of the Okefenokee.
I said, “Shouldn’t we—”
“It’s the way of the swamp, cher.” He shrugged one of his shoulders. The hair stirred in a sudden wind, sending strands into his mouth. He delicately pulled them out between his thumb and finger. His nails were greasy black, like a car mechanic who works nights in a coal mine.
He said, “I’m sorry I brought you all this way, cher. I thought I had a chance.” Tears rolled down his soft cheeks, slid down his chest, then trickled along his happy trail32 like water off a duck’s back.
I couldn’t help it, Robert. I told him, “There are probably other records you can break.”
Only, I was talking about the hair and he thought I was talking about something else. Or maybe I was talking about something else. Who the hell knows? It was so damn hot. I hadn’t slept in days. The exhaust from the boat was still in my lungs. The peanut smell from my car was clinging to me like a spicy Thai roll.
But here’s the other thing, Robert—just to let you know, female Adjudicators have a special kind of hell we go through on the road. I’ll admit it—I get lonely. Sometimes I’ll hook up with a guy at the bar or in a gas station Arby’s or, if I’m really lucky, a Chili’s will have a Ladies’ Night. I’m human, all right? But I never tell them what I do for a living because it invites the inevitable joke: “Bet I just broke some records, darlin’.”
No, they did not. Most of the time, they couldn’t break a two-year-old goat’s hymen (though trust me, I’m sure some of them have tried).
But Remmy… oh, Remmy.
Why was I attracted to this man? He was filthy. Hairy. A genetic anomaly. Going by his Application Packet, he was functionally illiterate.
And yet…
I was drawn to him like a bucket to a well. I dropped down and down and down that dark wet shaft as I took him in—this cool drink of Cajun Jew water.
It’s true (as you well know) that I’ve always had a thing for pathetic, broken men, but there was something more to it than that. When Remmy took off his pants, the coarse burlap sliding over his wavy hips, the hair on his legs parting across thick muscle…
My God, my God. You would not believe this man.
Actually, I’ve attached a photo so you can see for yourself. Let me tell you there are women in here who have paid up to FIFTEEN CIGARETTES to see this image, so consider this my early Christmas gift. And a final explanation as to why I’ve finally moved on from that night we adjudicated Most Modeling Balloon Sculptures Made in One Minute.33 You told me to get over it, Robert. Well, here’s your proof that I have certainly gotten over—and under, and round and round like a merry-go-round.
Next thing I knew, Remmy scooped me up like a fireman rescuing a person who is in a burning building and needs to be rescued. My fingers dug into the fur on his back, got caught in the curly rings growing like Spanish AstroTurf on his ass. I would say the earth moved, but it was the Okefenokee; the earth always moves. I’ve never loved a man so wildly, so passionately, so… frenziedly. My fingers ran madly through his hair. All of his hair. And sometimes my hair. I don’t know where his started and mine began. It was like going to a different planet. A planet of love, or maybe this is what those furry34 people feel like, because my God, I rocked that hairy man. I loved every inch of him. And he loved me. He even said it—
“I love you, cher,” Remmy moaned—over and over. “I love you! I love you!” All the while pounding into me like an extended clip banging home into the butt of a nine-millimeter.
I tell you this with all my heart, Robert:
Remmy was fully loaded, but when he pulled that trigger, I was the one who exploded.
(attachment: Rothstein_GIGANTOR.jpg)
DISPATCH: Atlanta Penitentiary, Georgia
SUBJECT: Remmy Rothstein, “the Shitard”
DATE: August 21, 2012
ATTEMPTED RECORD: World’s Hairiest Liar (man)
WEATHER: Why would you think it changed?
ADJUDICATOR: Mindy Patel (inmate #4290-6632)
Sorry, Robert. Had to put the sheet up over the bars and take some me-time. By now you’ll have downloaded that picture and understand why. Oh, Remmy. You bastard. You machine. I keep going back and forth between hating him and loving him and hating him all over again. I can’t describe my mood, except to say I’m in the right place for it. Half of these bitches are on Prozac and the others stay doped up on lithium most of the time. Maybe I should be charging them more? I don’t know. Decision for another day. Anyway, I have a story to tell:
After making love (four times) Remmy and I emerged from the shack. I was surprised to find that it was still daylight. And that I could walk (you looked at the picture, right?). I knew I needed to get back to the hotel room to file my report (though, as I said, you were the last thing on my mind).
Buell was nowhere to be found and Rebekkah was sitting off in the woods with that small cherry box in her lap (the case is all over the Atlanta news, but I wonder if it’s made it to New York yet? If not, Google “ax” + “six toes” + “Mother”). I waved good-bye to Rebekkah, but I’m pretty sure she didn’t see me. She didn’t seem to see anything. You’d think she was a leprechaun with a pot of gold, the way she was clutching onto that box.
Remmy took me back to my truck in the airboat. He gently kissed my hand, then helped me up to the dock and then steadied me as I got used to firmer ground. He promised me that he would call. He promised me that we would see each other again. He made lots of promises, but I knew nothing would ever come of it. He wanted me for my Adjudication. I see that now. All the phone calls. All the letters. They’re always about that damn World Record.
Tongue! Of all things, why did he pick the tongue? He could walk into any World Hair Record, easy-peasy. His ears alone are riddled with pokey, curly strands like pubic hair. And as for his pubic hair—hello, New Category! Trust me, I’m still pulling long hairs from places you don’t even want to know about. That man is a shedder. And he could have ten World Records if he would just admit—
But no, it’ll never happen. The only record Remmy Rothstein’s tongue could break (at least one we could write about) is Most Lies Told in a Three-Hour Period. He lied about the length of his tongue. He lied about the width. He lied to get me out to the swamp and then he lied about loving me.
I tell you this with a heavy heart, Robert. The bastard isn’t even Jewish.
DISPATCH: Atlanta Penitentiary, Georgia
SUBJECT: Remmy Rothstein, “Fuckwad”
DATE: August 22, 2012
ATTEMPTED RECORD: Shittiest Asshole
WEATHER: Seriously? Are you an idiot?
ADJUDICATOR: Mindy Patel (inmate #4290-6632)
What a crazy day! I met with my lawyer all morning. He thinks the best route vis-à-vis the stabbing charge (it wasn’t me) is to get something on Rebekkah. She’s getting out of solitary today, so I have to be quick about it.
I feel really bad about this because I think of Rebekkah as a friend. Well, as friend-like as you can get on the inside. We all know that the two rules of prison are (1) Don’t run from the Po-Po and (2) Don’t tell anybody anything you wouldn’t tell the judge. I think being out of the swamp has made Rebekkah soften a bit. Not that she wouldn’t have my back in a knife fight (thank God!), but she’s so out of her element that she’s clinging to the familiar, and in this case, that familiar is me. Let’s face it—you don’t find many Indian or Jewish cliques in prison (mostly because we’re all in medical school. Haha).
But let’s go back to Rebekkah, who I really do feel sorry for. She’s been very depressed without Remmy (Buell—not so much). I finally got her to come clean about the whole World Record thing. It’s as I suspected. Rebekkah used her Veterans Benefits to help Remmy get the tongue picture professionally Photoshopped (she fought in the Korean War—that’s where she met Buell’s father, “a goyim with the right amount of toes”). She and Remmy never in a million years thought that you’d send an actual Adjudicator to the deep, dark swamplands.
Frankly, neither did I, but that’s a conversation for another day.
The thing is: remember I told you about that cherry box? The one that was on the mantel that Rebekkah was about to open in front of Buell? And then she had it in her lap after she (allegedly) chopped off his leg with an ax and (allegedly) drowned him?
Well, since I told the lawyer the same story as I’m telling you, he’s thinking that there must be something in that box that Buell didn’t want to see. If I can find out what’s in there, then I can testify against Rebekkah in exchange for a get-out-of-jail-free card. Because, let’s be honest, there are tons of snitches in jail—death row would be empty without them!—but if I could get that BOX and tell the judge and whoever would listen that Rebekkah showed it to me, that she trusted and confided in me… well, you see where this is going.
Your wife is a lawyer, right? She knows how these things work. Right?
The only thing is the box was returned to Remmy (Buell’s closest relative who didn’t [allegedly] kill him), and while Remmy loves his mama, there’s only one thing that is more important to him than she is.
We see this every day in the field, Robert—people so desperate to be something, to have One Thing that they are Certifiably Better At than anyone else on the entire planet. They need that accomplishment. And we need them to succeed. Adjudicators are people, too. We need to know that there are Record Holders out there enjoying life to the fullest each and every day—and who gives them that magic, that life-altering designation that makes them somebody?
We do.
And we love them for it. We take pride in giving it to them. We mourn the loss when they lose it. I know you felt the same pain as I did when we heard that Lee Redmond35 was in that accident. The loss wasn’t just hers—it belonged to all of us. Remember it was me who saw you crying in the bathroom. It was me who helped comfort you during that awful time of need. Remember how much you laughed when I put that balloon animal on you? Oh, the smile on your face was worthy of a photograph. Several photographs. And because of that time we had together, I know you understand what it’s like to want some poor soul who’s been a loser all of their life to be a Winner.
So here’s the thing, Robert: I need you to certify Remmy Rothstein as having the Longest Tongue in the World (man). As you know, my badge is suspended pending trial or I’d do it myself. I know this is a stretch to ask you, but I need to let you know, Robert, that I’ve been thinking about turning these correspondences into a book. My lawyer has already gotten me an agent (trust me, between the two of them, I’m not going to have that much money left) and she thinks she can get me a book deal in the mid–seven figures. And it can or cannot include the bit about our balloon animal sexcapades, and before you say no, please look at the attached picture, which I’ve also shared with my lawyer.
Peace,
Mindy
PS: We need to talk about Kaitlyn.
(attachment: Robert_BalloonOnPenis.jpg)
FROM THE NEW YORK HEADQUARTERS OF THE WORLD RECORD HOLDERS’ OFFICE OF ASSESSORS
Dear Mr. Rothstein:
Congratulations! You have been certified as having the Longest Tongue in the World (man)! From tip to top, your measurement of 3.9" has been Adjudicated as the World Record; thus, you may from here on out, or until the record is broken, call yourself a World Record Holder.
Holding a World Record is an Awesome Responsibility, Mr. Rothstein, and please be sure that your information, as well as supporting documentation, is contained in the World Record Holders’ Assessors’ Office vault in New York City. This information will be kept for your lifetime and will continue to stand so long as the Record is held.
Congratulations again, sir. You are literally One-Of-A-Kind!
Paolo Pergini
President
World Record Holders Association, Corp.
DISPATCH: Two Egg, Florida
SUBJECT: Carol McGubberson
DATE: July 6, 2013
ATTEMPTED RECORD: Largest Nostril Opening (female)
WEATHER: 103 degrees, 100% humidity
ADJUDICATOR: Kaitlyn Poole (badge #363941)
Hi, Robert—
Two Egg is really lovely this time of year. People keep saying it’s hot, but I say it’s a wet heat. Makes all the difference. Woke up to 98 degrees but it feels like 110 and it’s not even noon yet! No need to even take a shower! Saves lots of time!
As you know, I’m here to Adjudicate Mrs. McGubberson’s Nostril, but I wanted to let you know that I saw Mindy’s book at the airport bookstore. Not just the one in New York, but in Chicago, Fargo, Seattle, and finally Sarasota—every single airport where I had a layover on my flight to Florida. How crazy is that? Our Mindy a New York Times bestseller! Hello, Ms. Steel!36
I have to admit that I actually bought a copy. I just couldn’t resist. How many books has Elizabeth Gilbert37 said she wished she’d written? Everyone on every plane seemed to be reading it, and I have to admit Mindy has been really good in all those television interviews. Though I never realized she’s as short as Matt Lauer!
Seriously, though, I’m glad that she’s doing so well. And you were so heartbroken that night in Knoxville when you found out she was leaving the firm. I’m so glad I was there to comfort you. And to do with you all the other magical things we did. Oh, don’t worry, Robert, I’m not going to bring that up again! I’m moving on! Honest!
Anyhoo, long day tomorrow—Mrs. Gubberson lives six hours from the motel—so I should tuck myself into bed. Definitely the kind of place where you sleep with all your clothes on! I’m starting Mindy’s book tonight and will let you know how it goes.
I have to say the title has me a little puzzled—TWELVE TOES IN A BOX?
I don’t get it.
Kaitlyn