Authors: David Foster Wallace
Just as Gately's whole recall of his screwdriver-and-sinsemilla beginnings tends to telescope into one memory of pissing orange juice into the Atlantic (he and the blunt cruel Beverly players and bullies he partied with drinking whole quarts of throat-warming OJ at a shot and standing ankle-deep in grit on a North Shore shore, facing east and sending long arcs of legal-pad-yellow piss into onrushing breakers that came in and creamed around their feet, the foam warm and yellow-shot with their piss — like spitting into the wind — Gately at the podium had started saying it turns out he was pissing on himself right from the start, with alcohol), in just the same way, the whole couple years before he discovered oral narcotics, the whole period 13-15 when he was a devotee of Quaaludes and Hefenreffer-brand beer collapses and gathers itself under what he still recalls as 'The Attack of the Killer Sidewalks.' Quaaludes and Hefenreffer also marked Gately's entree into a whole new rather more sinister and less athletic social set at B.M.S., one member of which was Trent Kite,
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a dyed-in-wool laptop-carrying wienie, chinless and with a nose like a tapir, and pretty much the last fanatical Grateful Dead fan under age forty on the U.S. East Coast, whose place of honor in the sinister Beverly Middle School drug-set was due entirely to his gift for transforming the kitchen of any vacationing parents' house into a rudimentary pharmaceutical laboratory, using like BBQ-sauce bottles as Erlenmeyer Flasks and microwave ovens to cyclize OH and carbon into three-ring compounds, synthesizing methylenedioxy psychedelics
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from nutmeg and sassafras oil, ether from charcoal-starter, designer meth from Tryptophan and L-Histidine, sometimes using only a gas-top range and parental Farberware, able even to decoct usable concentrations of tetra-hydrofruan from PVC Pipe Cleaner — which at that time best of British luck ordering tetrahydrofruan from any chemical company in the 48 con tigs/6 provinces without getting paid an immediate visit by D.E.A. guys in three-piece suits and reflecting shades — and then using the tetrahydrofruan and ethanol and any protein-binding catalyst to turn plain old Sominex into something just one H
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C molecule away from good old biphasic metha-qualone, a.k.a. the intrepid Quaalude. Kite had called his Quaalude-isotopes 'QuoVadis,' and they were a great favorite for 13-15-year-old Bimmy G. and the slouched sharp-haired sinister set he dropped Ludes and QuoVadises with, washing them down with Hefenreffers, resulting in a kind of mnemonic brown-out where the entire two-year interval — the same interval during which the ex-M.P. found somebody else, a Newburyport divorcee who apparently put up a more sporting fight than Mrs. G., and decamped in his sticker-covered Ford with his seaman's bag and pea-coat — the whole period's become in Gately's sober memory just the vague era of The Attack of the Killer Sidewalks. Quaaludes and 16-oz. Hefenreffers awakened Gately and his new droogs to the usually-dormant-but-apparently-ever-lurking ill will of innocent-seeming public sidewalks everywhere. You didn't have to be brainy Trent Kite to figure out the equation (Quaaludes) + (not even that many beers) = getting whapped by the nearest sidewalk — as in you're walking innocently along down a sidewalk and out of nowhere the sidewalk comes rushing up to meet you: WHAP. Happened time after fucking time. It made the whole crew resent having to walk anywhere on QuoVadises because of not having driver's licenses yet, which gives you some idea of the sum-total I.Q. brought to bear on the problem of the Attacks. A tiny permanent cast in his left eye and what looks like a chin-dimple are Gately's legacy from the period before moving up to Percocets, which one advantage of the move deeper into oral narcs was that Percocets + Hefenreffers didn't allow you even enough upright mobility to make you vulnerable Co sidewalks' ever-lurking ill will.
It was amazing that none of this stuff seemed much to hurt Gately's performance playing ball, but then he was as devoted to football as he was to oral CNS-depressants. At least for a while. He had disciplined personal rules back then. He absorbed Substances only at night, after practice. Not so much as a fractional foamer between 0900h. and 1800h. during the seasons of practice and play, and he settled for just a single duBois on Thursday evenings before actual games. During football season he ruled himself with an iron hand until the sun set, then threw himself on the mercy of sidewalks and the somnolent hum. He used class to catch up on REM-sleep. By freshman year he was starting on the Beverly-Salem H.S. Minutemen Varsity and was on academic probation. Most of the sinister set he'd hung with were expelled for truancy or trafficking or worse by sophomore year. Gately kept hanging in and on til seventeen.
But Quaaludes and QuoVadis and Percocets are lethal in terms of homework, especially washed down with Hefenreffer, and extra-especially if you're academically ambivalent and A.D.D.-classified and already using every particle of your self-discipline protecting football from the Substances. And — unhappily — high school is totally unlike higher education in terms of major-sport coaches' influence over instructors, athletes-and-grades-wise. Kite got Gately through math and Special Ed. science, and the French teacher was getting her strabysmic eyeballs fucked out by the Minutemen's tanned lounge-lizard of an Offensive Coordinator on the behalf of Gately and a semi-retarded tight end. But English just fucking killed him, Gately. All four of the English teachers the Athletic Dept. tried Gately on had this sieg-heil idea that it was somehow cruel to pass a kid that couldn't do the work. And the Athletic Dept. pointing out to them that Gately had an especially challenging domestic situation and that flunking Gately and rendering him ineligible for ball would eliminate his one reason even to stay on in school — these were to no, like, aveil. English was his sink-or-swim situation, what he then termed his 'Water Lou.' Term papers he could more or less swing; the football coach had wienies on retainer. But the in-class themes and tests killed Gately, who simply didn't have enough will left over after sunset to choose like the crushingly dull Ethan From over QuoVadis and Hefenreffer. Plus by this time three different schools' authorities had him convinced he was basically dumb, anyway. But mostly it was the Substances. This one particular B.-S.H.S.-Athletic-Dept.-hired wienie of an English tutor spent a sophomore-year March's worth of evenings in Gately's company, and by Easter the kid weighed 95 pounds and had a nose-ring and hand-tremors and was placed by his frantic, functional parents in a juvenile-intervention rehab, where the wienie's whole first week of Withdrawal was spent in a corner reciting Howl in high-volume Chaucerian English. Gately flunked Sophomore Comp. in May and lost the fall's eligibility and withdrew from school for a year to preserve his junior season. And but then, without the only other thing he'd been devoted to, the psychic emergency-brake was off, and Gately's sixteenth year is still mostly a gray blank, except for his mother's new red chintz TV-watching couch, and also the acquaintance of an accommodating Rite-Aid pharmacist's assistant with disfiguring eczema and serious gambling debts. Plus memories of terrible rear-ocular itching and of a basic diet of convenience-store crud, plus the vegetables from his mother's vodka glass, while she slept. When he finally returned for his sophomore year of class and junior year of ball at seventeen and 284 lbs., Gately was enervated, flabby, apparently narcoleptic, and on a need-schedule so inflexible that he needed 15 mg. of good old oxycodone hydro-chloride out of his pocket's Tylenol bottle every three hours to keep the shakes off. He was like a huge confused kitten out on the field — the coach made him go in for P.E.T. Scans, fearing M.S. or Lou Gehrig's — and even the Classic Comics version of Ethan From was now beyond his abilities; and good old Kite was gone by that last September of Unsubsidized Time, admitted early on a full ride in Comp. Science by Salem State U., meaning Gately was now on his own in remedial math and chem. On offense, Gately lost his starting spot in the third game to a big clear-eyed freshman the coach said showed nearly limitless potential. Then Mrs. Gately suffered her cirrhotic hemorrhage and cerebral-blood thing in late October, just before the midterms Gately was getting ready to fail. Bored-eyed guys in white cotton blew blue bubbles and loaded her in the back of a leisurely sirenless ambulance and took her first to the hospital and then to a Medicaid L.T.I.
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out across the Yirrell Beach span in Pt. Shirley. The backs of Gately's eyes were too itchy for him to even be able to stand out on the red pocked stoop's steps and see to wave adios. The first gasper he ever smoked was that day, a 100 out of a half-finished pack of his mother's generics, that she left. He didn't even ever go back to B.-S.H.S. to clean out his lockers. He never played organized ball again.
I may have been dozing. Some more heads came and awaited response and left. I may have dozed. It occurred to me that I didn't have to eat if I was not hungry. This presented itself as almost a revelation. I hadn't been hungry in over a week. I could remember when I was always hungry, constantly hungry.
Then at some point Pemulis's head appeared in the doorway, his strange twin-towered A.M. cowlick bobbing as he looked back over each shoulder out into the hall. His right eye was either twitchy or swollen from sleep; something was wrong with it.
'Mmyellow,' he said.
I pretended to shade my eyes. 'Howdy there stranger.’
It is not Pemulis's way to apologize or explain or worry that you might think ill of him. In this he reminded me of Mario. This almost regal lack of insecurity is hard to put together with his crippling neurasthenia on-court.
"s up?' he said, not moving from the doorway.
I could see my asking him where he'd been all week leading to so many different possible responses and further questions that the prospect was almost overwhelming, so enervating I could barely get out that I'd just been lying here on the floor.
'Lying here is all,' I told him.
'So I just got told,' he said. 'The Petropulator mentioned hysterics.’
It was almost impossible to shrug lying supine on thick shag. 'See for yourself,' I said.
Pemulis came all the way in. He became the only thing in the room that understood itself as basically vertical. He didn't look very good; his color wasn't good. He had not shaved, and a dozen little black bristles jutted from the ball of his chin. He gave the impression of chewing gum even though he was not chewing gum.
He said 'Thinking?’
'The opposite. Thought-prophylaxis.’
'Feeling a little punk?’
'Can't complain.' I rolled my eyes up at him.
He made a sharp glottal stop. He moved toward the periphery of my vision and fit himself into the seam of two walls behind me; I heard him sliding down to assume the back-supported squat he sometimes liked.
The Petropulator was Petropolis Kahn. I was thinking of the final film-lecture in Good-Looking Men in Small Clever Rooms ... and then of C.T.'s misadventure at Himself's funeral. The Moms had had Himself interred in her family's traditional plot in L'Islet Province. I heard a whoop and two crashes directly overhead. My rib cage contracted and expanded.
'Incster?' Pemulis said after a time.
A noteworthy thing turned out to be that the mound of earth on a freshly-filled grave seems airy and risen and plump, like dough.
'Hal?' Pemulis said.
'Javol.’
'We've got some really important interfacing to do, brother.’
I didn't say anything. There were too many potential responses, both witty ones and earnest ones. I could hear Pemulis's cowlicks brush each wall as he looked to either side, and the slight sound of a small zipper being played with.
'I'm thinking we could go someplace discreet and really interface.’
'I'm a highly tuned horizontal antenna tuned in to you lying right here.’
'I was meaning could we go somewheres.’
'So this urgency all of a sudden?' I was trying to make my intonation Jewish-motherish, that melodic dip-rise-dip. 'All week: not a call, not a card. Now I should hear this about urgency?’
'Seen your Mums around lately?’
'Haven't seen her all week. Doubtless she's over helping C.T. arrange a weather-venue.' I paused. 'I haven't seen him all week either, come to think,' I said.
'The Eschaton's a no-go,' Pemulis said. 'The map's a mess out there.’
'We're going to get an announcement about the Quebec kids very soon, I can feel it,' I said. Tm that highly tuned in this position.’
'What say let's skip the sausage-analog and whip down to Steak 'N Sundae and eat.’
There was an extended pause as I ran a response-tree. Pemulis was zipping and unzipping something with a short zipper. I couldn't decide. I finally had to choose almost at random. 'I'm trying to cut down on patronizing places with '"N" in their name.’
'Listen.' I heard his knees creak as he leaned in toward the top of my head. 'About the tu-savez-quoi —’
'The Eeday Emmay Eezay. The synthetic bacchanal. That's definitely off, Mike. Talk about the map being a mess.’
'That's part of what we need to interface about, if you'd get off your literally your ass here.’
I spent a minute watching the NASA glass fall and rise. 'Don't even start, M.M.’
'What start?’
'We're on hiatus, remember? We're living like Shi'ite Moslems for the thirty days you miraculously blarneyed the guy into giving us.’
'Blarney wasn't why we got it, Inc, is the thing.’
'And now, what, twenty days to go. We're going to produce urine like a mullah's babe, we agreed.’
'This isn't—' Pemulis started.
I farted, but it didn't produce a noise. I was bored. I couldn't remember a time when Pemulis had bored me. 'And I do not need you launching temptation-rhetoric my way,' I said.