David Wallace - Infinite jest
‘But you forgave yourself.’
‘I absolved myself with seven minutes left in the session right there in full approving view of the grief-therapist. He was ecstatic. By the end I swear his side of the desk was half a meter off the floor, at my grief-therapist-textbook breakdown into genuine affect and trauma and guilt and textbook earsplit-ting grief, then absolution.’
‘Christ on a jet-ski, Hallie.’
‘…’
‘But you got through it. You really did grieve, and you can tell me what it was like, so I can say something generic but convincing about loss and grief for Helen for Moment.’
‘But I’d omitted that somehow the single most nightmarishly compelling thing about this top grief-therapist was that his hands were never visible. The dreadfulness of the whole six weeks somehow coalesced around the issue of the guy’s hands. His hands never emerged from underneath his desk. It was as if his arms terminated at the elbow. Besides mustache-material-analysis, I also spent large blocks of each hour trying to imagine the configurations and activities of those hands under there.’
‘Hallie, let me just ask and then I’ll never bring it back up again. You implied before that what was especially traumatic was that Himself’s head had popped like an uncut spud.’
‘Then on what turned out to be the last day of the therapy, the last day before the A squads were picked for Indianapolis, after I’d finally delivered the goods and my traumatic grief was professionally pronounced uncovered and countenanced and processed, when I put on my sweatshirt and got set to take my leave, and came up to the desk and put out my hand in a trembly grateful way he couldn’t possibly have refused, and he stood and brought out the hand and shook my hand, I finally understood.’
‘His hands were disfigured or something.’
‘His hands were no bigger than a four-year-old girl’s. It was surreal. This massive authoritative figure, with a huge red meaty face and thick walrus mustache and dewlaps and a neck that spilled over the rim of his shirt-collar, and his hands were tiny and pink and hairless and butt-soft, delicate as shells. The hands were the capper. I barely made it out of the office before it started.’
‘The cathartic post-traumatic-like-reexperience hysteria. You reeled out of there.’
‘I barely made it to the men’s room down the hall. I was laughing so hysterically I was afraid all the periodontists and C.P.A.s on either side of the men’s room would hear. I sat in a stall with my hands over my mouth, stamping my feet and beating my head against first one side of the stall and then the other in hysterical mirth. If you could have seen those hands.’
‘But you got through it all, and you can thumbnail-sketch the overall feeling for me.’
‘What I feel is myself gathering my resources for the right foot, finally. That magic feeling’s back. I’m not lining up the vectors for the wastebasket or anything. I’m not even thinking. I’m trusting the feeling. It’s like that celluloid moment when Luke removes his high-tech targeting helmet.’
‘What helmet?’
‘You know, of course, that human nails are the vestiges of talons and horns. That they’re atavistic, like coccyges and hair. That they develop in-utero long before the cerebral cortex.’
‘What’s the matter?’
‘That at some point in the first trimester we lose our gills but are now still now little more than a bladdery sac of spinal fluid and a rudimentary tail and hair-follicles and little microchips of vestigial talon and horn.’
Ts this to make me feel bad? Did this fuck you up, me probing for details after all this time? Did it reactivate the grief?’
‘Just one more confirmation. The trailer’s interior. There was some object or contiguous trio of objects with the following color scheme: brown, lavender, and either mint-green or jonquil-yellow.’
‘I can call back when you’re more yourself. The leg’s starting to prune a bit from the whirlpool anyway.’
Til be right here. I’ve got a whole foot to yield to the magic with. I’m not going to alter the smallest particular. I’m just about ready to bear down on the clippers. It’s going to feel right, I know.’
‘A throw. Like an afghan throw, on the chintz sofa. The yellow was more fluorescent than jonquil.’
‘And the word is asphyxiated. Kick some egg-shaped balls for all of us, O. The next sound you hear will be unpleasant,’ Hal said, holding the phone down right next to the foot, his expression terrifically intense.
6 NOVEMBER YEAR OF THE DEPEND ADULT UNDERGARMENT
White halogen off the green of the composite surface, the light out on the indoor courts at the Port Washington Tennis Academy is the color of sour apples. To the spectators at the gallery’s glass, the duos of players arrayed and moving down below have a reptilian tinge to their skin, a kind of seasick-type pallor. This annual meet is mammoth: both academies’ A and B teams for both Boys and Girls, both singles and doubles, in 14 and Unders, 16 and Unders, 18 and Unders. Thirty-six courts stretch out down away from one end’s gallery under a fancy tri-domed system of permanent all-weather Lung.
A jr. tennis team has six people on it, with the highest-ranked playing # 1 singles against the other team’s best guy, the next-highest-ranked playing #2, and on down the line to #6. After the six singles matches there are three doubles, with a team’s best two singles players usually turning around and also playing #l doubles — with occasional exceptions, e.g. the Vaught twins, or the fact that Schacht and Troeltsch, way down on the B squad in 18’s singles, play #2 doubles on E.T.A.’s 18’s A team, because they’ve been a doubles team since they were incontinent toddlers back in Philly, and they’re so experienced and smooth together they can wipe surfaces with the 18’s A team’s #3 and #4 singles guys, Coyle and Axford, who prefer to skip doubles altogether. It all tends to get complicated, and probably not all that interesting — unless you play.
But so a normal meet between two junior teams is the best out of nine matches, whereas this mammoth annual early-November thing between E.T.A. and P.W.T.A. will try to be the best out of 108. A 54-match-all conclusion is extremely unlikely — odds being 1 in 227 — and has never happened in nine years. The meet’s always down on Long Island because P.W.T.A. has indoor courts out the bazoo. Each year the academy that loses the meet has to get up on tables at the buffet supper afterward and sing a really silly song. An even more embarrassing transaction is supposed to take place in private between the two schools’ Headmasters, but nobody knows quite what. Last year Enfield lost 57–51 and Charles Tavis didn’t say one word on the bus-ride home and used the lavatory several times.
But last year E.T.A. didn’t have John Wayne, and last year H. J. Incan-denza hadn’t yet exploded, competitively. John Wayne, formerly of Mont-cerf, Quebec — an asbestos-mining town ten clicks or so from the infamously rupture-prone Mercier Dam — formerly the top-ranked junior male in Canada at sixteen as well as #5 overall in the Organization of North American Nations Tennis Association computerized rankings, was finally successfully recruited by Gerhardt Schtitt and Aubrey deLint last spring via the argument that two gratis years at an American academy would maybe let Wayne bypass the usual couple seasons of top college tennis and go pro immediately at nineteen with more than enough competitive tempering. This reasoning was not unsound, since the top four U.S. tennis academies’ tournament schedules closely resemble the A.T.P. tour in terms of numbing travel and continual stress. John Wayne is currently ranked #3 in the O.N.A.N.T.A.’s Boys’ 18’s and *2 in the U.S.T.A. (Canada, under Provincial pressure, has disowned him as an emigrant) and has in this Year of the Depend Adult Undergarment reached the semis of both the Junior French and Junior U.S. Opens, and has lost to exactly nobody American in seven meets and a dozen major tournaments. He trails the #l American kid, an Independent[85] down in Florida, Veach, by only a couple U.S.T.A. computer points, and they haven’t yet met in sanctioned play this year, and the kid is well known to be hiding out from Wayne, avoiding him, staying down in Pompano Beach, allegedly nursing a like four-month groin-pull, sitting on his ranking. He’s supposed to show at the WhataBurger Invitational in AZ in a couple weeks, this Veach, having won the 18’s at age seventeen there last year, but he’s got to know Wayne’s coming down, and speculation is rife and complex. O.N.A.N.T.A.-wise, there’s an Argentine kid that Mexico’s Academia de Vera Cruz has got rat-holed away who’s #1 and not about to lose to anybody, having this year taken three out of four legs of the Junior Grand Slam, the first time anybody’s done that since a sepulchral Czech kid named Lendl, who retired from the Show and suicided well before the advent of Subsidized Time. But so there’s Wayne at #l.
And it’s been established that Hal Incandenza, last year a respectable but by no means to-write-home-about 43rd nationally and bouncing between #4 and #5 on the Academy’s A team in Boys’ 16’s singles, has made a kind of quantumish competitive plateaux-hop such that this year — the one nearly done, Kimberly-Clark Corp.’s Depend Absorbent Products Division soon to give way to the highest corporate bidder for rights to the New Year — Incandenza, mind you this year just seventeen, is 4th in the nation and #6 on the O.N.A.N.T.A. computer and playing A-#2 for E.T.A. in Boys’ 18’s. These competitive explosions happen sometimes. Nobody at the Academy talks to Hal much about the explosion, sort of the way you avoid a pitcher who’s got a no-hitter going. Hal’s delicate and spinny, rather cerebral game hasn’t altered, but this year it seems to have grown a beak. No longer fragile or abstracted-looking on court, he seems now almost to hit the corners without thinking about it. His Unforced-Error stats look like a decimal-error.
Hal’s game involves attrition. He’ll probe, pecking, until some angle opens up. Until then he’ll probe. He’d rather run his man ragged, wear him down. Three different opponents this past summer had to go to oxygen during breaks.[86] His serve yanks across at people as if on a hidden diagonal string. His serve, now, suddenly, after four summers of thousand-a-day serves to no one at dawn, is suddenly supposed to be one of the best left-handed kick serves the junior circuit has ever seen. Schtitt calls Hal Incandenza his ‘revenant,’ now, and sometimes points his pointer at him in an affectionate way from his observation crow’s nest in the transom, during drills.
Most of the singles’ A matches are under way. Coyle and his man on 3 are in an endless butterfly-shaped rally. Hal’s muscular but unquick opponent is bent over trying to get his breath while Hal stands there and futzes with his strings. Tall Paul Shaw on 6 bounces the ball eight times before he serves. Never seven or nine.
And John Wayne’s without question the best male player to appear at Enfield Academy in several years. He’d been spotted first by the late Dr. James Incandenza at age six, eleven summers back, when Incandenza was doing an early and coldly conceptual Super-8 on people named John Wayne who were not the real thespio-historical John Wayne, a film Wayne’s not-to-be-fucked-with papa eventually litigated the kid’s segment out of because the film had the word Homo in the title.[87]
On 1, with John Wayne up at net, Port Washington’s best boy throws up a lob. It’s a beauty: the ball soars slowly up, just skirts the indoor courts’ system of beams and lamps, and floats back down gentle as lint: a lovely quad-function of fluorescent green, seams whirling. John Wayne backpedals and flies back after it. You can tell — if you play seriously — you can tell just by the way the ball comes off a guy’s strings whether the lob is going to land fair. There’s surprisingly little thought. Coaches tell serious players what to do so often it gets automatic. John Wayne’s game could be described as having a kind of automatic beauty. When the lob first went up he’d backpedaled from the net, keeping the ball in sight until it reached the top of its flight and its curve broke, casting many shadows in the tray of lights hung from the ceiling’s insulation; then Wayne turned his back to the ball and sprinted flat-out for the spot where it will land fair. Would land. He doesn’t have to locate the ball again until it’s hit the green court just inside the baseline. By now he’s come around the side of the bounced ball’s flight, still sprinting. He looks mean in a kind of distant way. He comes around the side of the bounced ball’s second ascent the way you come up around the side of somebody you’re going to hurt, and he has to leave his feet and half-pirouette to get his side to the ball and whip his big right arm through it, catching it on the rise and slapping it down the line past the Port Washington boy, who’s played the percentages and followed a beauty of a lob up to net. The Port Washington kid applauds with the heel of his hand against his strings in acknowledgment of a really nice get, even as he looks up at Port Washington’s coaching staff in the gallery. The spectators’ glass panel is at ground level, and the players play below it on courts that have been carved out of a kind of pit, dug long ago: some northeast clubs favor courts below ground, because earth insulates and keeps utility bills daunting instead of prohibitive, once the Lungs go up. The gallery panel stretches overhead behind Courts 1 through 6, but there’s a decided spectatorial clumping at the part of the gallery that looks out over the Show Courts, Boys’ 18’s #1 and #2, Wayne and Hal and P.W.T.A.’s two best. Now after Wayne’s balletic winner there’s the sad sound of a small crowd behind glass’s applause; on the courts the applause is muffled and compromised by on-court sounds, and sounds like the trapped survivors of something tapping for help at a great depth. The panel is like an aquarium’s glass, thick and clean, and traps noise behind it, and to the gallery it seems that 72 well-muscled children are arrayed and competing in total silence in the pit. Almost everyone in the gallery is wearing tennis clothes and bright nylon warm-ups; some even wear wristbands, the tennis equivalent of a football fan’s pennant and raccoon coat.
John Wayne’s post-pirouette backward inertia has carried him into the heavy black tarpaulin that hangs several meters behind both sides of the 36 courts on a system of rods and rings not unlike a very ambitious shower-curtain, the tarps hiding from view the waterstained walls of puffy white-wrapped insulation and creating a narrow passage for players to get to their courts without crossing open court and interrupting play. Wayne hits the heavy tarp and kind of bounces off, producing a boom that resounds. The sounds on court in an indoor venue are huge and complex; everything echoes and the echoes then meld. In the gallery, Tavis and Nwangi bite their knuckles and deLint squashes his nose flat against the glass in anxiety as everyone else politely applauds. Schtitt calmly taps his pointer against the top of his boot at times of high stress. Wayne isn’t hurt, though. Everybody goes into the tarp sometimes. That’s what it’s there for. It always sounds worse than it is.
