Infinite Jest (172 page)

Kenkle hawked and hit a small strip of dust at the crease of baseboard and floor that
the mop’s arc had missed. ‘For I am a missionary man, Brandt, is what I am—Brandt—as
in give me the straight-forward venereal in-terface of missionary congress or give
me nihil and zilch—You know what I am saying?—Give me your best thoughts on alter-native
positions, Brandt—Brandt—For me, for my part at least, I say nix and nihil on the
rear-entry or you might hear it termed Dog- or Canine-Style in-terface so favored
in huts, blue car-tridges, Tan-tric etchings—Brandt, it’s animal-istic—Why?—Why you
say?—Brandt, it is an ess-entially
hunched
way to have interface—She hunches, you hunch over her—Inordi
nate
ly too much hunching, to my own way of—’

It was Brandt who heard me as I came up behind them in socks, trying to keep to the
drier patches. I almost slipped twice. It was still coming down hard outside the east
window.

‘Otto Brandt here!’ Brandt called to me, extending a hand, though I was still several
meters away.

Kenkle’s dreadlocks protruded from under a plaid hat. He turned with Brandt and raised
his hand Indianishly in greeting. ‘Good prince Hal. Up and dressed in dawn’s ear-a-ly.’

‘Let me introduce myself,’ Brandt said. I shook his hand.

‘In his socks and toothbrush. E.T.A.’s athe-ling, Brandt, whom I will wager rar-e-ly
hunches.’

‘The Darkness needs you guys upstairs ASAP,’ I said, trying to dry a sock against
a pant-leg. ‘Dark’s face is stuck to the window and he’s in terrible pain and we couldn’t
pull it off and it’s going to take hot water, but not too hot.’ I indicated the bucket
at Kenkle’s feet. I noticed Kenkle’s shoes didn’t match.

‘What may we ask is so amusing, then?’ Kenkle asked.

‘Name’s Brandt and pleased to meet you,’ Brandt said, out with the hand again. He
dropped the mop where Kenkle pointed.

‘Troeltsch is with him now, but he’s in a bad way,’ I said, shaking Brandt’s hand.

‘We are in route,’ Kenkle said, ‘but why the hilarity?’

‘What hilarity?’

Kenkle looked from me to Brandt to me. ‘What hilarity he says. Your face is a hilarity-face.
It’s working hilariously. At first it merely looked
a
-mused. Now it is openly
cach
-inated. You are almost doubled over. You can barely get your words out. You’re all
but slapping your knee.
That
hilarity, good Prince atheling Hal. I thought all you players were compadre-mundos
in civilian life.’

Brandt beamed as he backed down the hall. Kenkle pushed his plaid cap back to scratch
at some sort of eruption at the hairline. I drew myself up to full height and consciously
composed my face into something deadly-somber. ‘How about now?’

Brandt had the custodial closet unlocked. There was the sound of a metal bucket being
filled at the closet’s industrial tap.

Kenkle brought his cap back forward and narrowed his eyes at me. He came up close.
His eyelashes were clotted with small crisp yellow flakes. There were Struck-like
facial cysts in various stages of development. Kenkle’s breath always smelled vaguely
of egg salad. He felt at his mouth speculatively for a moment and said ‘Somewheres
now between amused and cach-inated. Mirth-ful, perhaps. The crinkled eyes. The dimples
of mirth. The exposed gums. We can bounce this off Brandt’s best thinking as well,
if—’

From directly overhead came a ceiling-rattling ‘GYAAAAAAA’ from Stice. I was feeling
at my face. Some doors opened along the hall, heads protruding. Brandt had a full
metal bucket and was trying to run to the stairwell, the weight of the bucket canting
his shoulder and steaming water sloshing onto the clean floor. He stopped with his
hand on the stairwell door and looked back over his shoulder at us, reluctant to proceed
without Kenkle.

‘I elect to go with
mirthful,
’ Kenkle said, giving my shoulder a little squeeze as he stepped past. I heard him
saying different things to the heads in the doorways all the way down the hall.

‘Jesus,’ I said. Socks or no, I went forward into the really wet mopped area and tried
to make out my face’s expression in the east window. It was now too light, though,
outside, off all the snow. I looked sketchy and faint to myself, tentative and ghostly
against all that blazing white.

PARTIAL TRANSCRIPT OF WEATHER-DELAYED MEETING BETWEEN:

(1) MR. RODNEY TINE SR., CHIEF OF UNSPECIFIED SERVICES & WHITE HOUSE ADVISER ON INTERDEPENDENT
RELATIONS; (2) MS. MAUREEN HOOLEY, VICE-PRESIDENT FOR CHILDREN’S ENTERTAINMENT, INTERLACE
TELENTERTAINMENT, INC.; (3) MR. CARL E. (‘BUSTER’) YEE, DIRECTOR OF MARKETING AND
PRODUCT-PERCEPTION, GLAD FLACCID RECEPTACLE CORPORATION; (4) MR. R. TINE JR., DEPUTY
REGIONAL COORDINATOR, U.S. OFFICE OF UNSPECIFIED SERVICES; AND (5) MR. P. TOM VEALS,
VINEY AND VEALS ADVERTISING, UNLTD. 8TH FLOOR STATE HOUSE ANNEX BOSTON MA, U.S.A 20
NOVEMBER—YEAR OF THE DEPEND ADULT UNDERGARMENT

M
R.
T
INE
S
R.
: Tom. Buster. Mo.

M
R.
V
EALS
: R. the G.

M
R.
Y
EE
: Rod.

M
R.
T
INE
S
R.
: Guys.

M
R.
T
INE
J
R.
: Afternoon, Chief!

M
R.
T
INE
S
R.
: Mmmph.

M
S.
H
OOLEY
: Glad you could finally get in, Rod. May I say we’re all extremely excited, on our
end.

M
R.
T
INE
S
R.
: Never seen snow like this. Any of you ever seen snow remotely approaching anything
like this?

M
R.
V
EALS
: [Sneezes.] Fucking town.

M
R.
Y
EE
: Like an extra dimension out there. Less an element than its own dimension.

S
OMEONE
: [Shoe makes a squelching noise under the table.]

M
R.
Y
EE
: With its own rules, laws. Awe-inspiring. Fearsome.

M
R.
V
EALS
: Cold. Wet. Deep. Slippery. More like.

M
R.
T
INE
J
R.
: [Tapping the edge of a ruler against the tabletop.] Their limo in from Logan did
a 180 on Storrow. Mr. Yee was just telling—

M
R.
T
INE
S
R.
: [Tapping a telescoping weatherman’s pointer against the edge of the tabletop.] So
what’s the poop. The skinny. What are we talking.

M
S.
H
OOLEY
: Spot ready for previewing. We need your go. I’m in from Phoenix via New New York.

M
R.
Y
EE
: I’m in from Ohio. Choppered up from NNY with Mo here.

M
S.
H
OOLEY
: Spot’s master’s in the post-production lab down at V&V. All ready except for some
final bugs with the matteing.

M
R.
V
EALS
: Maureen says we need you and Buster’s green light to disseminate.

M
S.
H
OOLEY
: You and the titular sponsor here green-light it, we can have disseminatable product
by the end of the weekend.

M
R.
V
EALS
: [Sneezes.] Assuming this fucking snow doesn’t shut down our power.

M
R.
T
INE
S
R.
: [Motioning with weatherman’s pointer to U.S.O. stenographer to transcribe verbatim.]
Seen it yet, Buster?

M
R.
Y
EE
: Negative, Rod. Just in with these folks here. Kennedy completely socked in. Mo had
to charter a chopper. I’m sitting here cherry.

M
R.
T
INE
J
R.
: [Tapping edge of ruler on tabletop.] How’d you fare getting up here, Sir, if I may?

M
R.
T
INE
S
R.
: Mountain comes to Mohammed, eh Tom?

M
R.
V
EALS
: How come I only came two clicks down here and I’m the one with a fucking cold?

M
R.
T
INE
J
R.
: I’ve been here in Boston as well.

M
R.
V
EALS
: [Checking connections on Infernatron 210-Y Digital Player and Viewer System.] So
shall we?

M
R.
T
INE
S
R.
: OK, for the record. Mo. Demographic target?

M
S.
H
OOLEY
: Ages six to ten, with marginally reduced efficacy four to six and ten to thirteen.
Let’s say target’s four to twelve, white, native English-speaking, median income and
above, capacity on Kruger Abstraction Scale three or above. [Refers to notes.] Advertable
attention-span of sixteen seconds with a geometric fall-off commencing at thirteen
seconds.

M
R.
T
INE
S
R.
: Spot-length?

M
S.
H
OOLEY
: Thirty seconds with a traumatic graphic at fourteen seconds.

M
R.
V
EALS
: [Hawks phlegm.]

M
R.
Y
EE
: Proposed insertion-vehicle, Mo?

M
S.
H
OOLEY
: The ‘Mr. Bouncety-Bounce Show,’ spontaneous dissemination at 1600 M to F. 1500 Central
and Mountain. Cream of the crop. 82 Share on spontaneous receptions for the slot.

M
R.
Y
EE
: Any data on what percentage of total viewing in the slot is Spontaneous versus Recorded
cartridge?

M
S.
H
OOLEY
: We had 47% plus or minus two as of Year of the Yushityu 2007. That’s the last year
the data’s firmed up for.

M
R.
T
INE
S
R.
: So say 40% of total viewing for the spot.

M
R.
Y
EE
: Give or take. Impressive.

M
R.
T
INE
S
R.
: So check, check, check. We got rough costs?

M
R.
Y
EE
: Production just over half a meg. Post-production—

M
R.
V
EALS
: Bupkus. 150K before matteing.

M
R.
Y
EE
: I might add that Tom’s pro-bonoing his part of the production.

M
R.
V
EALS
: So you all ready to eyeball this or what?

M
S.
H
OOLEY
: Since ‘Mr. B-B’ ’s contracted as a no-public-service-spot vehicle, dissemination
charge’ll come out around 180K per slot.

M
R.
Y
EE
: Which we’re still of the position this seems a bit steep.

M
R.
T
INE
J
R.
: The upcoming year’s Glad’s year, Buster. You wanted the year. You want the Year
of Glad to be the year half the nation stopped doing anything but staring bug-eyed
at some sinister cartridge while little whorls went around in their eyes until they
died of starvation in the middle of their own exc—?

M
R.
T
INE
S
R.
: Shut up, Rodney. And quit with the ruler-tapping. Buster I’m sure knows the incredible
good will that’s even now accruing from their proud sponsorship of probably the most
important public-service spots ever conceived, given the potential threat here.

M
R.
V
EALS
: [Sneezes twice in abrupt succession.] [Comment unintelligible.]

M
R.
T
INE
S
R.
: [Taps telescoping weatherman’s pointer on edge of tabletop.] Righto then. The spot
itself, then. The spokesfigure icon thing. Still the singing Kleenex?

M
R.
Y
EE
: The what-was-it, Frankie the No-Thankee Hankie, warning kids to say No Thankee to
unlabelled or suspicious cartridges?

M
S.
H
OOLEY
: [Clears throat.] Tom?

M
R.
T
INE
J
R.
: [Taps ruler on edge of tabletop.]

M
R.
V
EALS
: [Hawks.] No. Had to shit-can the dancing Kleenex after the response groups’ test
data were analyzed. Various problems. The phrase ‘No Thankee’ itself perceived as
archaic. Uncool. Crotchety-adult. Too New England or something. Summoned images of
a leathery-faced old guy in overalls. Took attention away from what they’re supposed
to say No Thanks to. Plus phrase-recognition data was way under minimum slogan-parameters.

M
S.
H
OOLEY
: Problems with the icon itself.

M
R.
V
EALS
: [Blowing nose one nostril at a time.] Kids hated Frankie the Hankie. We’re talking
levels past ambivalence. Associated the hankie with snot, basically. The word
booger
kept coming up. The singing didn’t help.

M
S.
H
OOLEY
: Which is why in this case thank God for response-group testing.

M
R.
Y
EE
: This business’ll make you old.

M
R.
V
EALS
: Had to go back and completely reboot at square one.

M
R.
Y
EE
: Does anyone else smell a peculiar citrusy floral odor?

M
S.
H
OOLEY
: Tom’s boys’ve been at it twenty-four/seven. We’re extremely excited at the result.