Infinite Jest (118 page)

The man in the hall at the door was handicapped, challenged, in a wheelchair, looking
up at him from well below peephole-range, bushy-haired and mostly nose and looking
up into the swell of Orin’s pectorals, making no attempt to see around him into the
room. One of the disabled. Orin looked down and felt both let down and almost touched.
The little fellow’s wheelchair shiny and his lap blanketed and his string tie half-hidden
by the clipboard he held to his chest with a curled and motherly arm.

‘Survey,’ the man said, nothing else, joggling the clipboard a little like an infant,
presenting it as evidence.

Orin imagined the terrified Subject lying there hidden and trying to hear, and despite
a sort of mild disappointment he felt touched at whatever this shy ruse of an excuse
for proximity to his leg and autograph might be. He felt for the Subject the sort
of clinical contempt you feel for an insect you’ve looked down and seen and know you’re
going to torture for a while. From the way she smoked and performed certain other
manual operations, Orin’d noted she was left-handed.

He said to the man in the wheelchair, ‘Goody.’

‘Plus or minus three percent sample.’

‘Eager to cooperate in any way.’

The man cocked his head in that way people in wheelchairs do. ‘Scholarly academic
study.’

‘Pisser.’ Leaning against the jamb with arms crossed, watching the man try to process
the dissimilarity in the size of his limbs. No shins or extremities, however withery,
extended below the wheelchair’s blanket’s hem. The guy was like totally legless. Orin’s
rising heart went out.

‘Chamber of Commerce survey. Concerned veterans’ group systematic inquiry. Consumer
advocacy polling operation. Three percentage points error on either of two sides of
the issue.’

‘Bully.’

‘Consumer-advocacy group opinion sweep. Very little time involved. Government study.
Ad council demographic assessment. Sweeps. Random anonymity. Minimum in terms of time
or trouble.’

‘I’m clearing my mind to be of maximum help.’

When the man had taken out his pen with a flourish and looked down at his board Orin
got a look at the yarmulke of skin in the center of the seated man’s hair. There was
something almost unbearably touching about a bald spot on a handicapped man.

‘What do you miss, please?’

Orin smiled coolly. ‘Very little, I like to think.’

‘Backtrack. U.S.A. citizen?’

‘Yes.’

‘You have how many years?’

‘Age?’

‘You have which age?’

‘Age is twenty-six.’

‘Over twenty-five?’

‘That’d follow.’ Orin was waiting for the ruse involving the pen that’d get him to
sign something so the very shy fan club’d get their autograph. He tried to remember
from Mario’s childhood how long under blankets before it got unbearably hot and you
started to smother and thrash.

The man pretended to notate. ‘Employed, self-employed, unemployed?’

Orin smiled. ‘The first.’

‘Please list what you miss.’

The whisper of the vent, hush of the wine-colored hallway, vaguest whisper of rustling
sheets behind, imagining the growing bubble of CO
²
under the sheets.

‘Please list lifestyle elements of your U.S.A. lifetime you recall, and/or at present
lack, and miss.’

‘I’m not sure I follow.’

The man flipped a page over to check. ‘Pine, yearn, winsome, nostalgia. Lump of throat.’
Flipping one more sheet. ‘Wistful, as well.’

‘You mean childhood memories. You mean like cocoa with half-melted marshmallows floating
on top in a checker-tiled kitchen warmed by an enamel gas range, that sort of thing.
Or omnissent doors at airports and Star Markets that somehow knew you were there and
slid open. Before they disappeared. Where did those doors go?’

‘
Enamel
is with the
e
?’

‘And then some.’

Orin’s gaze now was up at the ceiling’s acoustic tile, the little blinking disk of
the hall’s smoke detector, as if memories were always lighter than air. The seated
man stared blandly up at the throb of Orin’s internal jugular vein. Orin’s face changed
a little. Behind him, under the blankets, the non-Swiss woman lay very calmly and
patiently on her side, breathing silently into the portable O
₂
-mask w/ canister from the purse beside her, one hand in the purse on the Schmeisser
GBF miniature machine pistol.

‘I miss TV,’ Orin said, looking back down. He no longer smiled coolly.

‘The former television of commercial broadcast.’

‘I do.’

‘Reason in several words or less, please, for the box after
REASON,
’ displaying the board.

‘Oh, man.’ Orin looked back up and away at what seemed to be nothing, feeling at his
jaw around the retromandibular’s much tinier and more vulnerable throb. ‘Some of this
may sound stupid. I miss commercials that were louder than the programs. I miss the
phrases “Order before midnight tonight” and “Save up to fifty percent and more.” I
miss being told things were filmed before a live studio audience. I miss late-night
anthems and shots of flags and fighter jets and leathery-faced Indian chiefs crying
at litter. I miss “Sermonette” and “Evensong” and test patterns and being told how
many megahertz something’s transmitter was broadcasting at.’ He felt his face. ‘I
miss sneering at something I love. How we used to love to gather in the checker-tiled
kitchen in front of the old boxy cathode-ray Sony whose reception was sensitive to
airplanes and sneer at the commercial vapidity of broadcast stuff.’

‘Vapid ditty,’ pretending to notate.

‘I miss stuff so low-denominator I could watch and know in advance what people were
going to say.’

‘Emotions of mastery and control and superiority. And pleasure.’

‘You can say that again, boy. I miss summer reruns. I miss reruns hastily inserted
to fill the intervals of writers’ strikes, Actors’ Guild strikes. I miss Jeannie,
Samantha, Sam and Diane, Gilligan, Hawkeye, Hazel, Jed, all the syndicated airwave-haunters.
You know? I miss seeing the same things over and over again.’

There were two muffled sneezes from the bed behind him that the handicapped man didn’t
even acknowledge, pretending to write, brushing his string tie’s dangle away again
and again as he wrote. Orin tried not to imagine the topography of the sheets the
Subject’d sneezed into. He no longer cared about the ruse. He did feel tender, somehow,
toward him.

The man tended to look up at him like people with legs look up at buildings and planes.
‘You can of course view entertainments again and again without surcease on TelEntertainment
disks of storage and retrieval.’

Orin’s way of looking up as he remembered was nothing like the seated guy’s way of
looking up. ‘But not the same. The choice, see. It ruins it somehow. With television
you were
subjected
to repetition. The familiarity was inflicted. Different now.’

‘Inflicted.’

‘I don’t think I exactly know,’ Orin said, suddenly dimly stunned and sad inside.
The terrible sense as in dreams of something vital you’ve forgotten to do. The inclined
head’s bald spot was freckled and tan. ‘Is there a next item?’

‘Things to tell me you do not miss.’

‘For symmetry.’

‘Balance of opinion.’

Orin smiled. ‘Plus or minus.’

‘Just so,’ the man said.

Orin resisted an urge to lay his hand tenderly over the arc of the disabled man’s
skull. ‘Well how much time do we have here?’

The skyscraper-gawking aspect was only when the man’s gaze went higher than Orin’s
neck. They were not shy or indirect or even the eyes of someone in any way disabled,
was what struck Orin later as odd—besides the Swiss accent, the absence of a signature-ruse,
the Subject’s patience with the wait and the absence of gasping when O. pulled the
covers abruptly back, later. The man had looked up at Orin and flicked his eyes slightly
past him, at the room behind with pantyless floor and humped covers. Orin was meant
to see the glance past him. ‘Can return at later time which we specify. You are,
comme on dit,
engaged?’

Orin’s smile wasn’t as cool as he thought as he told the seated figure that that was
a matter of opinion.

As at all D.S.A.S.-certified halfway facilities, Ennet House’s resident curfew is
2330h. From 2300 to 2330, the Staffer on night-duty has to do head-counts and sit
around like somebody’s mom waiting for different residents to come in. There’s always
ones that always like to cut it close and play with the idea of getting Discharged
for something picayune so it won’t be their fault. Tonight Clenette H. and the deeply
whacked-out Yolanda W. come back in from Footprints
²⁴⁶
around 2315 in purple skirts and purple lipstick and ironed hair, tottering on heels
and telling each other what a wicked time they just had. Hester Thrale undulates in
in a false fox jacket at 2320 as usual even though she has to be up at like 0430 for
the breakfast-shift at the Provident Nursing Home and sometimes eats breakfast with
Gately, both of their faces nodding down perilously close to their Frosted Flakes.
Chandler Foss and the spectrally thin April Cortelyu come in from someplace with postures
and expressions that arouse comments and force Gately to Log a possible issue about
an in-House relationship. Gately has to bid goodnight to two craggy-faced brunette
ex-residents who’ve been planted on the couch all night talking cults. Emil Minty
and Nell Gunther and sometimes Gavin Diehl (who Gately did three weeks of a municipal
bit with, once, at Concord Farm) make a nightly point of going to smoke outside on
the front porch and coming in only after Gately says twice he’s got to lock the door,
just as some limp rebellious gesture. Tonight they’re closely followed by a mustacheless
Lenz, who sort of oozes through the door just as Gately’s going through his keys to
get the key to lock it, and kind of brushes by and goes up to the 3-Man without a
word, which he’s been doing a lot lately, which Gately has to Log, plus the fact that
it’s now after 2330 and he can’t account for either the semi-new girl Amy J. or—more
upsetting—Bruce Green. Then Green knocks at the front door at 2336—Gately has to Log
the exact time and then it’s his call whether to unlock the door. After curfew Staff
doesn’t have to unlock the door. Many a bad-news resident gets effectively bounced
this way. Gately lets him in. Green’s never come close to missing curfew before and
looks godawful, skin potato-white and eyes vacant. And a big quiet kid is one thing,
but Green looks at the floor of Pat’s office like it’s a loved one while Gately gives
him the required ass-chewing; and Green takes the standard dreaded week’s Full House
Restriction
²⁴⁷
in such a vacantly hangdog way, and is so lamely vague when Gately asks does he want
to tell him where he’s been at and why he couldn’t make 2330 and whether there’s anything
that’s an issue that he might want to share with Staff, so unresponsive that Gately
feels like he has no choice but to pull an immediate spot-urine on Green, which Gately
hates doing not only because he plays cribbage with Green and feels like he’s taken
Green under the old Gately wing and is probably the closest thing to a sponsor the
kid’s got but also because urine samples taken after Unit #2’s clinic’s closed
²⁴⁸
have to be stored overnight in the little Staff miniature fridgelette in Don Gately’s
basement room—the only fridge in the House that no resident could conceivably dicky
into—and Gately hates to have a warm blue-lidded cup of somebody’s goddamn urine in
his fridgelette with his pears and Polar seltzer, etc. Green submits to Gately’s cross-armed
presence in the men’s head as Green produces a urine so efficiently and with so little
bullshit that Gately is able to take the lidded cup between gloved thumb and finger
and get it downstairs and tagged and Logged and down in the fridgelette in time to
not be late for getting the residents’ cars moved, the night-shift’s biggest pain
in the ass; but then his final head-count at 2345 reminds Gately that Amy J. isn’t
back, and she hasn’t called, and Pat has told him the decision to Discharge after
a missed curfew is his call, and at 2350 Gately makes the decision, and has to get
Treat and Belbin to go up into the 5-Woman room and pack the girl’s stuff up in the
same Irish Luggage she’d brought it in Monday, and Gately has to put the trashbags
on the front porch with a quick note explaining the Discharge and wishing the girl
good luck, and has to call Pat’s answering device down in Milton and leave word of
a mandatory Curfew-Discharge at 2350h., so Pat can hear about it first thing in the
A.M.
and schedule interviews to fill the available bed ASAP, and then with a hissed curse
Gately remembers the anti-big-hanging-gut situps he’s sworn to himself to do every
night before 0000, and it’s 2356, and he has time to do only 20 with his huge discolored
sneakers wedged under the frame of the office’s black vinyl couch before it’s unavoidably
time to supervise moving the residents’ cars around.

Gately’s predecessor as male live-in Staff, a designer-narcotics man who’s now (via
Mass Rehab) learning to repair jet engines at East Coast AeroTech, once described
residents’ vehicles to Gately as a continuing boil on the ass of night Staff. Ennet
House lets any resident with a legally registered vehicle and insurance keep their
car at the House, if they want, during residency, to use for work and nightly meetings,
etc., and the Enfield Marine Public Health Hospital goes along, except they put authorized
parking for all the Units’ clients out in the little street right outside the House.
And since metro Boston’s serious fiscal troubles in the third year of Subsidized Time
there’s been this hellish municipal deal where only one side of any street is legal
for parking, and the legal side switches abruptly at 0000h., and cruisers and municipal
tow trucks prowl the streets from 0001h. on, writing $95.00 tickets and/or towing
suddenly-illegally-parked vehicles to a region of the South End so blasted and dangerous
no cabbie with anything to live for will even go there. So the interval 2355h.–0005h.
in Boston is a time of total but not very spiritual community, with guys in skivvies
and ladies in mud-masks staggering out yawning into the crowded midnight streets and
disabling their alarms and revving and all trying to pull out and do a U and find
a parallel-parking place facing the other way. There’s nothing very mysterious about
the fact that metro Boston’s battery- and homicide-rates during this ten-minute interval
are the highest per diem, so that ambulances and paddy wagons are especially aprowl
at this hour, too, adding to the general clot and snarl.