Authors: David Foster Wallace
Knocking at the Office's door at the same time as entering came a young girl with missing teeth, radiating coldness from the exterior outside the demi-maison, leaning only her upper half of the body into the office through the doorway she had opened.
'Clocking in, boss,' the young girl stated in the flat nasality of Boston U.S.A.
The woman in authority smiled in return. 'Two more to interview, John-ette, then I'm off.’
'Pisser.’
'Can you let the people in from the shed when they come for Mrs. Lopate?’
The young and inclined girl nodded her slim head. In a nostril a generic diaper-pin was transpercé, which glittered in the fluorescence of the light as she nodded. 'And Janice says she's screwing out of here now and any message for her before she goes.' The authority negated with her head at this. The young girl in the door looked down upon Marathe and said 'Hey' or 'Eh' in a greeting of neutral emotions. Marathe smiled with desperation and pretended to sniff. Visible smoke's odor came through the open door from the noisy salon beyond it. Marathe decided firmly against the snapping of any necks upon this visit, because of bodies leaning with suddenness into the office unexpectedly. The torso of the person began to withdraw as suddenly the authority looked up and stated 'Oh and Johnette?’
The door swung more open once more as the returned upper half replied 'Yo.’
'Do me a favor? Clenette H. brought some donie-cartridges down from E.T.A. this afternoon?’
'Let me guess.’
'The natives are restless.' The authority laughed aloud. 'Something new.’
The torso laughed as well. 'Did you see McDade's watching that Korean thing again out here?’
'So can you just run them through after lights-out, as many as you can, check and make sure they're appropriate?’
'No skin, no substances, light drinking only,' the young girl said in the manner of reviewing the rehearsal of something learned.
'As many as you can get through, and leave them on Janice's desk, and I'll have her put them out at the start of the day-shift tomorrow.’
The young girl of substitute authority made a curious circle with two of her fingers in the air of the doorway. Some kind of signal of the hand to the chief authority. Every finger of the hand of the girl wore a ring of different type. 'The natives'll be grateful, for once.’
'They're in the cabinet with the intakes,' the authority told her.
'I'll watch them during Dream Duty, as many as there's time.’
'And Johnette?’
Once more the torso reextended inward.
The woman with authority said 'And keep Emil and Wade from tormenting David K., will you please?’
Marathe smiled largely as the door closed entirely and the authority made a small motion of apologies for being interrupted. 'I do not have these meanings donie and natives, if I may boldly ask,' he said. 'Nor etier.’
A laugh of friendliness. It occurred to Marathe that this was a happy person. 'Donies are donated goods. Which we depend on more than we'd like. The residents and alums are always on the lookout. Sometimes we call the current residents the natives; we mean it as affectionate. That was Johnette, she's living
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staff. We've got two living staff, alums of the house. One's under the weather, but Johnette's — you'll like Johnette. Johnette's a keeper. E.T.A. is letters, E-T-A.’
Marathe pretended to laugh aloud. 'I beg a pardon, for I thought some etier in the pronunciation of my native Swiss.’
The authority smiled with understanding. 'E.T.A.'s a private school. We usually get some residents on up there, part-time. It's just up the hill.' Seeing the deep intake of veil which his inhaling caused for one moment only, the authority expressed surprise of the face and said 'But you did know Ennet's a working house. Residents have a month to find work, normally.' Exhaling with care, Marathe gestured faintly as in But of course.
11 NOVEMBER YEAR OF THE DEPEND ADULT UNDERGARMENT
Part of Mario's footage for the documentary they're letting him do on this fall's E.T.A. consists of Mario just walking around different parts of the Academy with the Bolex H64 camera strapped to his head and joined by coax cable to the foot-treadle, which he holds against his sweatered chest with one hand and operates with the other. At 2100 at night it's cold out. The Center Courts are brightly lit, but only one court is being used, Gretchen Holt and Jolene Criess still winding up some sort of marathon challenge from the P.M. session, the hands around their grips bluish and sweaty hair frozen into electrified spikes, pausing between points to blow noses on sleeves, wearing so many layers of sweats they look barrel-bodied out there, and Mario doesn't bother with the change in film-speed he'd need to record them through the steamed window of Schtitt's room, where he is. The room's noise is deafening.
Coach Schtitt's room is 106, next to his office on the first floor of Comm.-Ad., past Dr. Rusk's office and down a two-corner hall from the lobby.
It's a big empty room, built for its stereo. Hardwood floor in need of sanding, a wooden chair and a cane chair, an army cot. A little low table just big enough for Schtitt's pipe rack. A folding card table folded up and leaning against the wall. Acoustic damping-tile on all the walls and nothing decorative hanging or mounted on the walls. Acoustic tiling on the ceiling also, with a bare overhead light with a long chain mounted in a dirty ceiling fan with a short chain. The fan never rotates but sometimes emits a sound of faulty wiring. There's a faint odor of Magic Marker in the room. There is nothing upholstered, no pillow on the cot, nothing soft to absorb or deflect the sound of the equipment stacked on the floor, the black Germanness of a top-shelf sound system, a Mario-sized speaker in each corner of the room with the cloth cover removed so each woofer's cone is exposed and mightily throbbing. Schtitt's room is soundproofed. The window faces the Center Courts, the transom and observatory directly overhead and mangling the shadows of the courts' lights. The window is right over the radiator, which when the stereo is off makes odd hollow ringing clanky clunks as if someone deep underground were having at the pipes with a hammer. The cold window over the radiator is steamed and trembles slightly with Wagnerian bass.
Gerhardt Schtitt is asleep in the cane chair in the middle of the empty room, his head thrown back and arms hanging, hands treed with arteries you can see his slow pulse in. His feet are stolidly on the floor, his knees spread way out wide, the way Schtitt always has to sit, on account of his varicoceles. His mouth is partly open and a dead pipe hangs at an alarming angle from its corner. Mario records him sleeping for a little while, looking very old and white and frail, yet also obscenely fit. What's on and making the window shiver and condensed droplets gather and run in little bullet-headed lines down the glass is a duet that keeps climbing in pitch and emotion: a German second tenor and a German soprano are either very happy or very unhappy or both. Mario's ears are extremely sensitive. Schtitt sleeps only amid excruciatingly loud European opera. He's shared with Mario several different tales of grim childhood experiences at a BMW-sponsored 'Quality-Control-Orientated' Austrian Akademie to account for his REM-peculiarities. The soprano leaves the baritone and goes up to a high D and just hangs there, either shattered or ecstatic. Schtitt doesn't stir, not even when Mario falls twice, loudly, trying to get to the door with his hands over his ears.
The Community-Administration stairwells are narrow and no-nonsense. Red railings of cold iron whose red is one coat of primer. Steps and walls of raw-colored rough cement. The sort of sandy echo in there that makes you take stairs as fast as possible. The salve makes a sucking sound. The upper halls are empty. Low voices and lights from under the doors on the second floor. 2100 is still mandatory Study Period. There won't be serious movement till 2200, when the girls will drift from room to room, congregating, doing whatever packs of girls in robes and furry slippers do late at night, until deLint kills all the dormitory lights at the dorms' main breaker around 2300. Isolated movement: a door down the hall opens and shuts, the Vaught twins are heading down the hall to the bathroom at the far end, wearing only an enormous towel, one of their heads in curlers. One of the falls in Mr. Schtitt's room had been on the burnt hip, and squunched salve from the bandage is starting to darken the corduroys at that side of the pelvis, though there is zero pain. Three tense voices behind Carol Spodek and Shoshana Abram's door, lists of degrees and focal lengths, a study group for Mr. Ogilvie's 'Reflections on Refraction' exam tomorrow. A girl's voice from he can't tell which room says 'Steep hot beach sea' twice very distinctly and then is still. Mario is leaning back against a wall in the hallway, panning idly. Felicity Zweig emerges from her door by the stairwell carrying a soap-dish and wearing a towel tied at that breast-level, as if there were breasts, moving toward Mario on her way to the head. She puts her hand out straight at his head's camera, a kind of distant stiff-arm as she passes:
'I'm wearing a towel.’
'I understand,' Mario says, using his arms to turn himself around and pointing the lens at the bare wall.
'I'm wearing a towel.’
Brisk controlled sounds of retching from behind Diane Prins's door. Mario gets a couple seconds of Zweig hurrying away in the towel, tiny little bird steps, looking terribly fragile.
The stairwells smell like the cement they're made of.
Behind 310, Ingersoll and Penn's door, is the faint rubbery squeak of somebody moving around on crutches. Someone in 311 is yelling 'Boner check! Boner check!' A lot of the third floor is for boys under fourteen. The hall carpet up here is ectoplasmically stained, the expanses of wall between doors hung with posters of professional players endorsing gear. Someone has drawn a goatee and fangs on an old Donnay poster of Mats Wilander, and the poster of Gilbert Treffert is defaced with anti-Canadian slurs. Otis Lord's door has Infirmary next to his name on the door's name-card. Penn's room's door's card's name also had Infirmary. Sounds of someone talking low to someone who's sobbing from Beak, Whale, and Virgilio's room, and Mario resists an impulse to knock. LaMont Chu's door next door is completely covered with magazines' action-shots of matches. Mario is leaning back to get footage of the door when LaMont Chu exits the bathroom at this end in a terry robe and thongs and wet hair, literally whistling 'Dixie.’
'Mario!’
Mario gets him bearing down, his calves hairless and muscular, hair-water dripping onto his robe's shoulders with each step. 'LaMont Chu!’
'What's happening?’
'Nothing's happening!’
Chu stands there just within conversation-range. He's only slightly taller than Mario. A door down the hall opens and a head sticks out and scans and then withdraws.
'Well.' Chu squares his shoulders and looks into the camera atop Mario's head. 'You want me to say something for posterity?’
'Sure!’
'What should I say?’
'You can say anything you want!’
Chu draws himself way up and looks penetrating. Mario checks the meter on his belt and uses the treadle to shorten the focal length and adjust the angle of the camera's lens slightly downward, right at Chu, and there are tiny grinding adjustment-sounds from the Bolex.
Chu's still just standing there. 'I can't think what to say.’
'That happens to me all the time.’
'The minute your invitation became official my mind went blank.’
'That can happen.’
'There's just this staticky blank field in there now.’
'I know just what you mean.’
They stand there silent, the camera's mechanism emitting a tiny whir.
Mario says 'You just got out of the shower, I can tell.’
'I was talking with good old Lyle downstairs.’
'Lyle's terrific!’
'I was going to just whip right over into the showers, but the locker room's got this, like, odor.’
'It's always great to talk with good old Lyle.’
'So I came up here.’
'Everything you're saying is very good.’
LaMont Chu stands there a moment looking at Mario, who's smiling and Chu can tell wants to nod furiously, but can't, because he needs to keep the Bolex steady. 'What I was doing, I was filling Lyle in on the Eschaton debacle, telling him about the lack of hard info, the conflicted rumors that are going around, about how Kittenplan and some of the Big Buds are going to get blamed. About disciplinary action for the Buds.’
'Lyle's just an outstanding person to go to with concerns,' Mario says, fighting not to nod furiously.
'Lord's head and Penn's leg, the Postman's broken nose. What's going to happen to the Incster?’
'You're acting perfectly natural. This is very good.’
'I'm asking if you've heard from Hal what they're going to do, if he's in on the blame from Tavis. Pemulis and Kittenplan I can see, but I'm having trouble with the idea of Struck or your brother taking discipline for what happened out there. They were strictly from spectation for the whole thing. Kittenplan's Bud is Spodek, and she wasn't even out there.’
'I'm getting all this, you'll be glad to know.’
Chu is now looking at Mario, which for Mario is weird because he's looking through the viewfinder, a lens-eye view, which means when Chu looks down from the lens to look at Mario it looks to Mario like he's looking down south somewhere along Mario's thorax.
'Mario, I'm asking if Hal's told you what they're going to do to anybody.’
'Is this what you're saying, or are you asking me?’
'Asking.’
Chu's face looks slightly oval and convex through the lens's fish-eye, a jutting aspect. 'So what if I want to use this that you're saying for the documentary I've been asked to make?’
'Jesus, Mario, use whatever you want. I'm just saying I have conscience-trouble with the idea of Hal and Troeltsch. And Struck didn't even seem like he was conscious for the debacle itself.’