Infinite Jest (168 page)

To amuse him she says ‘
And Lo
’ several times. Gately makes his chest go up and down rapidly to signify amusement.
He declines either to moo or mew at her, out of embarrassment. Her veil this morning
has a springy light-purple around the border, and the hair framing the veil seems
a darker red, duskier, than when she’d first come into the House and refused meat.
Gately hadn’t been much into WYYY or Madame Psychosis, but he’d sometimes run into
people who were—Organics men, mostly, opium and brown heroin, terrible mulled wine—and
he feels on top of the febrile pain and the creepiness of the amphetaminic-wraith-
and Winston-Churchill-face-Joelle-and angelic-maternal-Death-Joelle-dreams an odd
vividness in himself at being swabbed and maybe even generally admired by someone
who’s an underground local intellectual-dash-art-type celebrity. He doesn’t know how
to explain it, like as if the fact that she’s a public personage makes him feel somehow
physically actuated, like more
there
-feeling, conscious of the way he’s holding his face, hesitant to make his barnyard
sounds, even breathing through his nose so she won’t smell his unbrushed teeth. He
feels self-conscious with her, Joelle can tell, but what’s admirable is he has no
idea how heroic or even romantic he looks, unshaven and intubated, huge and helpless,
wounded in service to somebody who did not deserve service, half out of his tree from
pain and refusing narcotics. The last and pretty much only man Joelle ever let herself
admire in a romantic way had left and wouldn’t even face up to why, instead erecting
for himself a pathetic jealous fantasy about Joelle and his own poor father, whose
only interest in Joelle had been first aesthetic and then anti-aesthetic.

Joelle doesn’t know that newly sober people are awfully vulnerable to the delusion
that people with more sober time than them are romantic and heroic, instead of clueless
and terrified and just muddling through day-by-day like everybody else in AA is (except
maybe the fucking Crocodiles).

Joelle says she can’t stay long this time: all nonworking residents have to report
for the House’s
A.M.
daily-meditation meeting, as Gately knows only too well. He isn’t sure what she means
by ‘this time.’ She describes the newest male resident’s weird limbo-injury posture,
and the way Johnette Foltz has to cut up this Dave guy’s supper and drop it into his
open mouth bit by bit like a bird with a chick. Lifting her face to the ceiling makes
the linen veil conform to the features of the face below, mouth open wide in imitation
of a chick. The crewneckish hulpil makes her hair’s loose curls look dark and her
wrists and hands look pale. Her hands’s skin is taut and freckled and treed with veins.
His bed’s metal bars keep Gately’s rolling eyes from seeing anything much south of
her thorax until Joelle finishes with the washcloth and retreats to the edge of the
other bed, which at some point has become empty and the crying guy’s chart removed,
and its crib-railings folded down, and she sits on the edge of the bed and crosses
her legs, supporting one huarache’s heel on the railing’s joint, revealing she’s got
on white socks under flesh-colored huaraches and ancient baggy old birch-colored sweatpants
with B.U.M. down one leg, which Gately’s pretty sure he’s seen at the Sunday
A.M.
Big Book meeting on Ken Erdedy, and belong to Erdedy, and he feels a flash of something
unpleasant that she’d be wearing the upscale kid’s pants. The
A.M.
light outside has gone from sunny yellow-white to now a kind of old-dime gray, with
what looks like serious wind.

Joelle eats the cream-cheese brownies Gately can’t eat and works at pulling a kind
of big notebookish thing out of her broad cloth purse. She talks about last night’s
St. Columbkill’s
³⁴⁸
Meeting, where they’d all gone unsupervised because Johnette F. had to stay and keep
an eye on Glynn who was sick and on Henderson and Willis, who were under legal quarantine
upstairs. Gately racks his RAM for which fucking night St. Columbkill’s is. Joelle
says how last night’s was St. Collie’s once-a-month format where instead of a Commitment
they had that round-robin discussion where somebody in the hall spoke for five minutes
and then picked the next speaker out of the hall’s crowd. There’d been a Kentuckian
there, which Gately might recall she was from Kentucky? A Kentucky newcomer there,
Wayne something, a real damaged-looking boy who hailed from the good old Blue Grass
State but of late resided in a disconnected drainage pipe off a watershed facility
down in the Allston Spur, he’d said. This guy, she said, said he was nineteen or thereabout,
looked 40-some+, had clothes that looked to be decomposing on him even as he stood
at the podium, had a ripe odor of drainage about him that produced hankies as far
back as the fourth row, which he explained the odor by admitting his residential drainage
pipe was in fact ‘mostly’ disconnected, like as in little-used. Joelle’s voice is
nothing like the hollow resonant radio-voice and she uses her hands a lot to talk,
trying to recreate the whole thing for Gately. Trying to give him a little bit of
a meeting, Gately realizes, with a slight tight smile of disbelief that he can’t dredge
up a mental meeting schedule so he’ll know what day this is.

Some of the St. Columbkillers were saying it was the longest single blackout they’d
ever heard of. This Wayne fellow’d said he had no idea when, why or how he’d ended
up so far up north as metro Boston ten years after his last memory. Most compelling,
visually, Wayne had had a deep diagonal furrow in his face, extending from right eyebrow
to left lip-corner—Joelle traces the length and angle with a ragged-nailed finger
across her veil—splaying his nose and upper lip and rendering him so violently cross-eyed
he seemed to address both corners of the front row at the same time. This old Wayne
boy’d sketched how the facial dent—what Wayne had called ‘the Flaw,’ pointing at it
like people might need help seeing what he was talking about—derived from his very
own personal hard-drinking alcoholic & chicken-farmer Daddy, in the grip of the post-binge
Horrors and seeing subjective pests in a big way, one day, up and hitting Wayne at
age nine smack in the face with a hatchet one time when Wayne couldn’t tell him where
a certain Ball jar of distilled spirits had been hidden the day before, against the
possibility of the Horrors. It had been just him and his Daddy and his Maw—‘ “that
was feeble” ’—and 7.7 acres of chicken farm, Wayne had said. Wayne said the Flaw had
just about healed up fine with fresh air and plenty of exercise when his Daddy, trying
one Monday
P.M.
to get outside a late lunch of mush and syrup, up and clutched his skull, turned
red and then blue and then purple, and died. Little Wayne had reportedly wiped the
face clean of mush, dragged the dead body under the farmhouse porch, wrapped it in
Purina Chicken-Chow sacks, and told his feeble Maw his Daddy had gone off to lay up
drunk. The diagonal-dented kid had apparently then gone off to school as usual, done
some discreet w.o.m. advertising, and had brought home with him a different set of
boys each day for almost a week, charging them a fiveski a head to crawl under the
porch and eyeball a bona fried dead man. Late Friday
P.M.
, he recollected, he’d set off with hard currency to the billiard establishment where
the niggers
³⁴⁹
that sold distilled Ball jars to his late Daddy was at, getting set to ‘ “lay up
drunk as a cock on jimson.” ’ The next thing this Wayne boy says he knows, he wakes
up in the partially disconnected NNE pipe, one millennial decade older and with some
‘ “right nasty” ’ medical issues the timer’s bell prevents him from sharing in detail.

And this old Wayne boy had up and pointed to Joelle to come speak next. ‘Almost as
if he knew. As if he gut-intuited some sort of kinship, affinity of origin.’

Gately grunted softly to himself. He figured guys with ten-year blackouts who live
in pipes probably didn’t have too much to go on besides your gut-type intuitions.
He knew he needed to be reminded that this strange girl was only about three weeks
clean and still leaching Substances out of her tissues and still utterly clueless,
but he felt like he resented it whenever he got reminded. Joelle had the big flat
book in her lap and was looking down at her thumb and flexing it, watching it flex.
What was disconcerting was that when her head was down the veil hung loose at the
same vertical angle as when her head was up, only now it was perfectly smooth and
untextured, a smooth white screen with nothing behind it. A loudspeaker down the hall
gave those xylophone dings that meant God knows what all the time.

When Joelle’s head came back up, the reassuring little hills and valleys of veiled
features reappeared behind the screen. ‘I’m going to have to take off here in a second,’
she said. ‘I could come on back after, if you want. I can bring anything you think
you’d like.’

Gately hiked an eyebrow at her, to get her to smile.

‘Hopefully since your fever went down they said they’ll decide you’re out of the woods
and take that out, finally,’ Joelle said, looking at Gately’s mouth. ‘It’s got to
hurt, and Pat said you’ll feel better when you can start quote sharing what you’re
feeling.’

Gately hiked both eyebrows.

‘And you can tell me what you’d like brought. Who you’d want to have come. Whom.’

Moving his left arm north along his chest and throat to get the left hand up to feel
at his mouth made the whole right side sing with pain. A skin-warmed plastic tube
led in from the right side and was taped to his right cheek and went into his mouth
and went down his throat past where his fingers could feel at the back of his mouth.
He hadn’t been able to feel it in his mouth or going down the back of his throat to
he didn’t want to know where, or even the tape on his cheek. He’d had like this like
tube in his throat the whole time and hadn’t even known it. It had been in there so
long by the time he came up for air he’d gotten like unconsciously used to it and
hadn’t even known it was there. Maybe it was a feeding tube. The tube was probably
why he could only mew and grunt. He probably didn’t have permanent voice damage. Thank
God. He made his thoughts capitalized and Thanked God several times. He pictured himself
at a lavish Commitment podium, like at an AA convention, off-handedly saying something
that got an enormous laugh.

Either Joelle had some sort of problem with her thumb or she’d just got really interested
in watching the thumb flex and twiddle. She was saying ‘It’s strange, not knowing
it’s coming, then standing up there to speak. Folks you don’t know. Things I don’t
realize I think til I say them. On the show I was used to knowing quite well what
I thought before I spoke. This isn’t like that.’ She seemed to be addressing herself
to the thumb. ‘I took a page from your manual and shared my complaint about the “But
For the Grace of God,” and you were right, they just laughed. But I also… I hadn’t
realized til I found myself telling them that I’d stopped seeing the “One Day at a
Time” and “Keep It in the Day” as trite clichés. Patronizing.’ Gately noticed she
still talks about Recovery-issues in a stiff proper intellectualish way she doesn’t
talk about other stuff with. Her way of still keeping it all at arm’s length a little.
A mental thumb to pretend to look at while she talks. It was all right; Gately’s own
way of keeping it at arm’s length at the start had involved an actual arm. He pictured
her laughing as he tells her that, the veil billowing mightily in and out. He smiled
around the tube, which Joelle saw as encouragement. She said ‘And why Pat in counselling
keeps telling me just to build a wall around each individual 24-hour period and not
look over or back. And not to count days. Even when you get a chip for 14 days or
30 days, not to add them up. In counselling I’d just smile and nod. Being polite.
But standing up there last night, I didn’t even share it aloud, but I realized suddenly
that this was why I’d never been able to stay off the stuff for more than a couple
weeks. I’d always break down, go back. Freebase.’ She looks up at him. ‘I ’based,
you know. You knew that. You all see the Intake forms.’

Gately smiles.

She said ‘This was why I couldn’t get off and stay off. Just as the cliché warns.
I literally wasn’t keeping it in the day. I was adding the clean days up in my head.’
She cocked her head at him. ‘Did you ever hear of this fellow Evel Knievel? This motorcycle-jumper?’

Gately nods slightly, being careful of a tube he now feels. This is why his throat
had had that raped feeling in it. The tube. He actually has an old cutout action picture
of the historical Evel Knievel, from an old
Life
magazine, in a white leather Elvisish suit, in the air, aloft, haloed in spotlights,
upright on a bike, a row of well-waxed trucks below.

‘At St. Collie only the Crocodiles’d heard of him. My own Daddy’d followed him, cut
out pictures, as a boy.’ Gately can tell she’s smiling under there. ‘But what I used
to do, I’d throw away the pipe and shake my fist at the sky and say
As God is my fucking witness NEVER AGAIN, as of this minute right here I QUIT FOR
ALL TIME
.’ She also has this habit of absently patting the top of her head when she talks,
where little barrettes and spongy clamps hold the veil in place. ‘And I’d bunker up
all white-knuckled and stay straight. And count the days. I was proud of each day
I stayed off. Each day seemed evidence of something, and I counted them. I’d add them
up. Line them up end to end. You know?’ Gately knows very well but doesn’t nod, lets
her do this on just her own steam. She says ‘And soon it would get… improbable. As
if each day was a car Knievel had to clear. One car, two cars. By the time I’d get
up to say like maybe about 14 cars, it would begin to seem like this staggering number.
Jumping over 14 cars. And the rest of the year, looking ahead, hundreds and hundreds
of cars, me in the air trying to clear them.’ She left her head alone and cocked it.
‘Who could do it? How did I ever think anyone could do it that way?’