Infinite jest - David Wallace

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 open-ly 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

MR. TINE SR.: Tom. Buster. Mo.

MR. VEALS: R. the G.

MR. YEE: Rod.

MR. TINE SR.: Guys.

MR. TINE JR.: Afternoon, Chief!

MR. TINE SR.: Mmmph.

Ms. Hooley: Glad you could finally get in, Rod. May I say we’re all extremely excited, on our end.

MR. TINE SR.: Never seen snow like this. Any of you ever seen snow remotely approaching anything like this?

MR. VEALS: [Sneezes.] Fucking town.

MR. YEE: Like an extra dimension out there. Less an element than its own dimension.

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

MR. YEE: With its own rules, laws. Awe-inspiring. Fearsome.

MR. VEALS: Cold. Wet. Deep. Slippery. More like.

MR. TINE JR.: [Tapping the edge of a ruler against the tabletop.] Their limo in from Logan did a 180 on Storrow. Mr. Yee was just telling —

MR. TINE SR.: [Tapping a telescoping weatherman’s pointer against the edge of the tabletop.] So what’s the poop. The skinny. What are we talking.

Ms. HOOLEY: Spot ready for previewing. We need your go. I’m in from Phoenix via New New York.

MR. YEE: I’m in from Ohio. Choppered up from NNY with Mo here.

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

MR. VEALS: Maureen says we need you and Buster’s green light to disseminate.

Ms. HOOLEY: You and the titular sponsor here green-light it, we can have disseminatable product by the end of the weekend.

MR. VEALS: [Sneezes.] Assuming this fucking snow doesn’t shut down our power.

MR. TINE SR.: [Motioning with weatherman’s pointer to U.S.O. stenographer to transcribe verbatim.] Seen it yet, Buster?

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

MR. TINE JR.: [Tapping edge of ruler on tabletop.] How’d you fare getting up here, Sir, if I may?

MR. TINE SR.: Mountain comes to Mohammed, eh Tom?

MR. VEALS: How come I only came two clicks down here and I’m the one with a fucking cold?

MR. TINE JR.: I’ve been here in Boston as well.

MR. VEALS: [Checking connections on Infernatron 210-Y Digital Player and Viewer System.] So shall we?

MR. TINE SR.: OK, for the record. Mo. Demographic target?

Ms. HOOLEY: 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.

MR. TINE SR.: Spot-length?

Ms. HOOLEY: Thirty seconds with a traumatic graphic at fourteen seconds.

MR. VEALS: [Hawks phlegm.]

MR. YEE: Proposed insertion-vehicle, Mo?

Ms. HOOLEY: The ‘Mr. Bouncety-Bounce Show,’ spontaneous dissemination at 1600 M to F. 150 °Central and Mountain. Cream of the crop. 82 Share on spontaneous receptions for the slot.

MR. YEE: Any data on what percentage of total viewing in the slot is Spontaneous versus Recorded cartridge?

Ms. HOOLEY: 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.

MR. TINE SR.: So say 40 % of total viewing for the spot.

MR. YEE: Give or take. Impressive.

MR. TINE SR.: So check, check, check. We got rough costs?

MR. YEE: Production just over half a meg. Post-production —

MR. VEALS: Bupkus. 150K before matteing.

MR. YEE: I might add that Tom’s pro-bonoing his part of the production.

MR. VEALS: So you all ready to eyeball this or what?

Ms. HOOLEY: Since ‘Mr. B-B’ ‘s contracted as a no-public-service-spot vehicle, dissemination charge’11 come out around 18 OK per slot.

MR. YEE: Which we’re still of the position this seems a bit steep.

MR. TINE JR.: 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—?

MR. TINE SR.: 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.

MR. VEALS: [Sneezes twice in abrupt succession.] [Comment unintelligible.]

MR. TINE SR.: [Taps telescoping weatherman’s pointer on edge of table-top.] Righto then. The spot itself, then. The spokesfigure icon thing. Still the singing Kleenex?

MR. YEE: The what-was-it, Frankie the No-Thankee Hankie, warning kids to say No Thankee to unlabelled or suspicious cartridges?

Ms. HOOLEY: [Clears throat.] Tom?

MR. TINE JR.: [Taps ruler on edge of tabletop.]

MR. VEALS: [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.

Ms. HOOLEY: Problems with the icon itself.

MR. VEALS: [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.

Ms. HOOLEY: Which is why in this case thank God for response-group testing.

MR. YEE: This business’ll make you old.

MR. VEALS: Had to go back and completely reboot at square one.

MR. YEE: Does anyone else smell a peculiar citrusy floral odor?

Ms. HOOLEY: Tom’s boys’ve been at it twenty-four/seven. We’re extremely excited at the result.

MR. VEALS: It’s previewable but rough. Not really quite there yet. The first Phil’s digitals had a bug.

MR. TINE JR.: Phil?

MR. VEALS: A small bug, but nasty. Dregs of a turbovirus in the graphic encoder. Phil’s head kept detaching and floating off to the upper right. Not a good effect at all, given the message we want to send.

MR. YEE: Like orange blossoms, but with a kind of sick sweetness.

Ms. HOOLEY: Oh dear.

MR. VEALS: [Sneezes.] And debugging put us behind on some of the fonts, so you’re going to have to use some imagination here. Has this 210 unit been downloaded for schematic matteing?

MR. TINE JR.: Excuse me. Phil?

MR. VEALS: Introducing Fully Functional Phil, the prancing ass.

Ms. HOOLEY: More like a mule, a burro. A burro.

MR. TINE JR.: [Tapping like mad.] An ass?

Ms. HOOLEY: Horse-characters were copyrighted by ChildSearch. Their ‘Patch the Pony Who Says Nay to Strangers’ spots.

MR. TINE JR.: A prancing ass?

Ms. HOOLEY: The perception of naïveté and clumsiness about a mule-icon provoked a kind of empathy in the response groups. Phil’s not coming off as an authority-figure-joy-killer type. More like a peer. So the cartridge he warns against gets none of the forbidden-fruit-type boost of being warned against by an authority figure.

MR. VEALS: Plus the kid market’s a frigging horror show. Near every species was copyrighted. Garfield. McGruff the freaking crime dog. Toucan Sam. The O.N.A.N. bird of prey. Let’s not even get into the bears or bunnies. It was basically either an ass or a cockroach. Never again the kid’s market as God is my witness. [Sneezes.]

Ms. HOOLEY: Once we went with the burro, Tom opted to accentuate the clumsy-incompetence factor. To almost ironize the icon. Buck teeth, crossed eyes —

MR. VEALS: Extravagantly crossed. Like he’s just been whacked with a sock full of nickels. Eye-response was through the roof.

Ms. HOOLEY: Ears that won’t stay upright. Legs keep getting all rubbery and tangled when he tries to prance.

MR. VEALS: But prance he does.

MR. YEE: But surely it doesn’t present itself as an ass. Surely it doesn’t prance out and say, ‘Take it from me, an ass.’

MR. VEALS: A fully functional ass.

Ms. HOOLEY: Tom’s rather ingeniously played up the functionality angle. The energy and verve versus passivity angle. He’s never just Phil. He’s Fully Functional Phil. He’s a blur of kid-type activity — school, playing, teleputer-interfacing, prancing. Tom’s got him storyboarded for a number of thirty-second activity-packed little adventures. He’s a goof, an iconic child, but he’s active. He stands for the attraction of capacity, agency, choice. As versus the spot’s animated adult who we see in a recliner ostensibly watching the Canadian cartridge, little spirals going around and around in his eyes as his body sort of melts and his head starts growing and distending until the passive watching adult’s image is just a huge five-o’clock-shadowed head in the recliner, his eyeballs huge and whirling.

MR. TINE JR.: [Taps his ruler against the edge of the tabletop.j

MR. VEALS: Let’s just roll the thing for them, Mo.

MR. TINE SR.: I’ve got to say I foresee trouble selling a certain Commander in Chief on a prancing ass as an improvement over a singing Kleenex.

Ms. HOOLEY: Phil’s message is that not every entertainment cartridge out there is necessarily a good old safe pre-approved InterLace TelEnter-tainment product. He says word’s reached him during his fun-filled fully functional daily activities of a certain very wicked and sneaky cartridge that even has a little smiling face on the case and when you first start watching it looks like it promises to be more fun to watch than anything you’ve ever wished on a star or blown out a birthday-cake candle for. In a thought-bubble that becomes visible when Phil’s ears flop down again —

MR. VEALS: [Sneezes.] Not yet matted in all the way —

MR. TINE SR.: You know how he is about Kleenex.

Ms. HOOLEY: — will be an image of an iconic cartridge case with a friendly smile and pudgy little harmless Pillsbury Doughboy arms and legs.

MR. YEE: [Loosening his collar.] Not the actual copyrighted Pillsbury iconic-limb animation-codes, though.

MR. VEALS: Relax. More like a reference. An allusion to plumpness, cute-ness. Pudgy and harmless-looking limbs, is the thing.

MR. TINE JR.: [Tapping edge of tabletop with ruler.]

MR. TINE SR.: [Pointing at tapping ruler with weatherman’s pointer.] You’re close to losing that hand, bucko.