Infinite Jest (120 page)

‘You think we need to take you over to St. E.’s to get your intestine looked at, Doon,
do you think?’

‘Hoits, Don.’

‘You think you—?’

Because he’s worrying about what if a resident comas or dies on his shift, and then
feeling shame that this is his worry, the squeal of brakes and raised voices’ noises
down out front hasn’t registered on Gately right away, but Hester Thrale’s unmistakable
high-B# scream does—i.e. register—and now serious feet running up the stairs:

Green’s face in the doorway, red in round patches high on his cheeks: ‘Come out.’

‘The fuck’s the problem out—’

Green: ‘Come
now
Gately.’

Glynn sotto: ‘Mother.’

Gately doesn’t get to even ask Green what the fuck again on the stairs because Green
is down ahead out the door so fast; the damn front door’s been open all this time.
A watercolor of a retrieverish dog cants and then falls from the wall on the staircase
from the vibrations of Gately taking two stairs down at a time. He doesn’t take time
to grab his coat off Pat’s couch. All he’s got on is a donated orange bowling shirt
with the name
Moose
cursive-stitched on the breast and SHUCO-MIST M.P.S. in ghastly aqua blocks across
the back,
²⁵³
and he feels every follicle on his body hump up again as the cold encases him on
the front porch and the wheelchair-ramp down to the little walkway. The night is cold
and glycerine-clear and quite still. Very distant sounds of car horns and raised voices
down on Comm. Green’s receding at a run off up the little streetlet into a glare of
highbeams that diffracts in the clouds of Gately’s breath, so even as Gately walks
briskly
²⁵⁴
in Green’s leather-smelling backwash toward a rising hubbub of curses and Lenz’s
high-speed voice and Thrale’s glass-shattering cries and Henderson and Willis talking
shit angrily to somebody and the sound of Joelle v.D.’s veiled head in an upstairs
window that isn’t the 5-Women room’s shouting something down to Gately as he appears
in the street, even as he closes in it takes a while for the scene to decoct out of
the fog of his breath and its shifting spears of color against the headlights. He
passes Glynn’s disembowelled and illegally parked Bug. Several of the residents’ cars
are idling at haphazard angles of mid-U-turn in the middle of the street, and in front
of them is a modified dark Montego with highbeams and jacked rear wheels and a turbo’s
carnivorous idle. Two almost Gately-sized bearded guys in loose like bowling-wear
shirts with flowers or suns on them and what look like big faggy necklaces of flowers
around what would be their necks if they had necks turn out to be chasing Randy Lenz
around this Montego car. Yet another guy with a necklace and a plaid Donegal is holding
the rest of the residents at bay on the lawn of #4 with a nasty-looking Item
²⁵⁵
expertly held. Everything now slightly slows down; at the sight of an Item held on
his residents there’s almost a kind of mechanistic click as Gately’s mind shifts into
a different kind of drive. He gets very cool and clear and his headache recedes and
his breathing slows. It’s not so much that things slow as break into frames.

The ruckus has aroused the old nurse in #4 who Asks For Help, and her spectral figure
is splayed in a nightie against an upstairs #4 window yelling
‘Eeeeeeeyelp
!’ Hester Thrale now has her pink-nailed hands over her eyes and is screaming over
and over for nobody to hurt nobody especially her. It’s the Bulldog Item that holds
the attention. The two guys chasing Lenz around the Montego are unarmed but look coldly
determined in a way Gately recognizes. They’re not wearing coats either but they don’t
look cold. All this appraisal’s taking only seconds; it only takes time to list it.
They have vaguely non-U.S. beards and are each about
Gately’s size. They take turns coming around the car and running past the headlights’
glare and Gately can see they have similar froggy lippy pale foreign faces. Lenz is
talking at the guys nonstop, mostly imprecating. They’re all three going around and
around the car like a cartoon. Gately’s still walking up as he sees all this. It’s
obvious to appraisal the foreignish guys aren’t real bright because of they’re chasing
Lenz in tandem instead of heading around the car in opposite directions to trap him
in like a pincer. They all three stop and start, Lenz across the car from them. Some
of the at-bay residents are yelling to Lenz. Like most coke-dealers Lenz is quick
on his feet, his topcoat billowing and then settling whenever he stops. Lenz’s voice
is nonstop—he’s alternately inviting the guy to perform impossible acts and advancing
baroque arguments for how whatever they think he did there’s no way he was even in
the same area code as whatever happened that they think he did. The guys keep speeding
up like they want to catch Lenz just to shut him up. Ken Erdedy has his hands up and
his car keys in his hand; his legs look like he’s about to wet himself. Clenette and
the new black girl, clearly veterans at gunpoint-etiquette, are prone on the lawn
with their fingers laced behind their heads. Nell Gunther’s assumed Lenz’s old martial-arts
Crane stance, hands twisted into flat claws, eyeing the guy’s .44, which pans coolly
back and forth over the residents. This smaller guy gets the most frames the slowest.
He’s got on a plaid hunting cap that keeps Gately from seeing if he’s foreign also.
But the guy’s holding the weapon in the classic Weaver stance of somebody that can
really shoot—left foot slightly forward, slightly hunched, a two-handed grip with
the right arm cocked elbow-out so the Item’s held high up in front of the guy’s face,
up to his sighting eye. This is how policemen and Made Guys from the North End shoot.
Gately knows weapons way better than sobriety, still. And the Item—if the guy trig-pulls
on some resident that resident’s going down—the Item’s some customized version of
a U.S. .44 Bulldog Special, or maybe a Nuck or Brazilian clone, blunt and ugly and
with a bore like the mouth of a cave. The stout alcoholic kid Tingley has both hands
to his cheeks and is 100% at bay. The piece’s been modified, Gately can appraise.
The barrel’s been vented out near the muzzle to cut your Bulldog’s infamous recoil,
the hammer’s bobbed, and the thing’s got a fat Mag Na Port or -clone grip like the
metro Finest favor. This is not a weekend-warrior or liquor-store-holdup type Item;
it’s one that’s made real specifically for putting projectiles into people. It’s not
a semiauto but is throated for a fucking speed-loader, which Gately can’t see if the
guy’s got a speed-loader under the loose floral shirt but needs to assume the guy’s
got near-unlimited shots with a speed-loader. The North Shore Finest on the other
hand wrap their grips in this like colored gauze that wicks sweat. Gately tries to
recall a past associate’s insufferable ammo-lectures when under the influence—your
Bulldog and clones can take anything from light target loads and wadcutter to Colt
SofTip dum-dums and worse. He’s pretty sure this thing could put him down with one
round; he’s not sure. Gately’s never been shot but he’s seen guys shot. He feels something
that is neither fear nor excitement. Joelle van D. is shouting stuff you can’t make
out, and Erdedy at bay on the lawn’s calling out to her to get her head out of the
whole picture. Gately’s been bearing down this whole brief time, both seeing his breath
and hearing it, beating his arms across his chest to keep some feeling in his hands.
You could almost call what he feels a kind of jolly calm. The unAmerican guys chase
Lenz and then stop across the car facing him for a second and then get furious again
and chase him. Gately guesses he ought to be grateful the third guy doesn’t come over
and just shoot him. Lenz puts both hands on whatever part of the car he stops at and
sends language out across the car at the two guys. Lenz’s white wig is askew and he’s
got no mustache, you can see. E.M. Security, normally so scrupulous with their fucking
trucks at 0005h., is nowhere around, lending weight to yet another cliché. If you
asked Gately what he was feeling right this second he’d have no idea. He’s got a hand
up shading his eyes and closes on the Montego as things further clarify. One of the
guys now you can see has Lenz’s disguise’s mustache in two fingers and keeps holding
it up and brandishing it at Lenz. The other guy issues stilted but colorful threats
in a Canadian accent, so it emerges on Gately it’s Nucks, the trio Lenz has managed
to somehow enrage is Nucks. Gately cops a black surge of Remember-Whenning, the babbling
little football-head Québecer he’d killed by gagging a man with a bad cold. This line
of thinking is intolerable. Joelle’s overhead shout to for Christ’s sake somebody
call Pat mixes in and out of the Help lady’s cries. It occurs to Gately that the Help
lady has cried Wolf for so many years that real shouts for real help are all going
to be ignored. The residents all look to Gately as he crosses the street directly
into the Montego’s wash of light. Hester Thrale screams out Look out there’s a Item.
The plaid-hat Nuck pans stiffly to sight at Gately, his elbow up around his ear. It
occurs to Gately if you fire with an Item right up to your sighting-eye like that
won’t you get a face full of cordite. There’s a break in the circular action around
the throbbing car as Lenz shouts
Don
with great gusto just as the Help lady shouts for Help. The Nuck with the Item has
backed up several steps to keep the residents in his peripheral vision while he sights
square on Gately as the massive Nuck holding the mustache across the car tells Gately
if he was him he’d return to whence he came, him, to avoid the trouble. Gately nods
and beams. Nucks really do pronounce
the
with a
z.
Both the car and Lenz are between Gately and the large Nucks, Lenz’s back to Gately.
Gately stands quietly, wishing he felt different about potential trouble, less almost
jolly. Late in Gately’s Substance and burglary careers, when he’d felt so low about
himself, he’d had sick little fantasies of saving somebody from harm, some innocent
party, and getting killed in the process and getting eulogized at great length in
bold-faced
Globe
print. Now Lenz breaks away from the hood of the car and dashes Gately’s way and
around behind him to stand behind him, spreading his arms wide to put a hand on each
of Gately’s shoulders, using Don Gately like a shield. Gately’s stance has the kind
of weary resolution of like You’ll Have to Go Through Me. The only anxious part of
him can see the Log entry he’ll have to make if residents come to physical grief on
his shift. For a moment he can almost smell the smells of the penitentiary, armpits
and Pomade and sour food and cribbage-board-wood and reefer and mopwater, the rich
piss stink of a zoo’s lion house, the smell of the bars you lace your hands through
and stand there, looking out. This line of thinking is intolerable. He’s neither goosepimpled
nor sweating. His senses haven’t been this keen in over a year. The stars in their
jelly and dirty sodium lamplight and stark white steer-horns of headlights splayed
at residents’ different angles. Star-chocked sky, his breath, faraway horns, low trill
of ATHSCMEs way to the north. Thin keen cold air in his wide-open nose. Motionless
heads at #5’s windows.

The Nuck duo with flowers chasing Lenz come around this side and now break away from
the car toward them. Now Hester Thrale at Gately’s right periphery breaks away from
the cluster and runs for it off into the night across the lawn and behind #4, waving
her arms and screaming, and Minty and McDade and Parias-Carbo and Charlotte Treat
appear out of Ennet House’s back door across the hedge and mill and jostle amid the
mops and old furniture on Ennet’s back porch, watching, and a couple of the more mobile
catatonics appear on the porch of the Shed across the little street, staring at the
spect-op, all this flummoxing the smaller one so he keeps swinging the Item stiffly
this way and that way, trying to keep way more people at potential bay. The two alien
foreigners that want Lenz’s map bear down slowly across the Montego’s headlights toward
where Lenz is holding Gately like a shield. The larger one that’s so large his luauish
shirt won’t even button all the way holding out the mustache adopts the overly reasonable
tone that always precedes a serious-type beef. He reads Gately’s bowling shirt in
the headlight and says reasonably that Moose still has a chance to keep out of what
they’ve got no beef with him, them. Lenz is pouring a diarrheatic spatter of disclaimers
and exhortations into Gately’s right ear. Gately shrugs at the Nucks like he’s got
no choice but to be here. Green’s just looking at them. It occurs to Gately by White
Flag suggestion that who gives a fuck how it’d look, he ought to hit his knees right
here on the headlit blacktop and ask for guidance on this from a Higher Power. But
he stands there, Lenz chattering in his shadow. The fingernails of Lenz’s hand on
Gately’s shoulder have horseshoes of dried blood in the creases between nail and finger,
and there’s a coppery smell off Lenz that isn’t just fear. It occurs to Gately that
if he’d pulled the instant spot-urine he’d wanted on Lenz this whole snafu wouldn’t
maybe be happening. The one Nuck is holding Lenz’s disguise’s mustache out at them
like a blade. Lenz hasn’t asked the time once, notice. Then the other Nuck’s got his
hand down at his side and a real blade’s gleam appears in that hand with the familiar
snick.
At the blade’s sound the situation becomes even more automatic and Gately feels adrenaline’s
warmth spread through him as his subdural hardware clicks deeper into a worn familiar
long-past track. Having no choice now not to fight and things simplify radically,
divisions collapse. Gately’s just one part of something bigger he can’t control. His
face in the left headlight has dropped into its fight-expression of ferocious good
cheer. He says he’s responsible for these people on these private grounds tonight
and is part of this whether he wants to be or not, and can they talk this out because
he doesn’t want to have to fight them. He says twice very distinctly that he does
not want to fight them. He’s no longer divided enough to think about whether this
is true. His eyes are on the two men’s maple-leaf belt buckles, the part of the body
where you can’t get suckered by a feint. The guys shake their manes and say they’re
going to unembowel this craven
bâtard
here like this
sans-Christe bâtard
killed somebody they call either Pépé or Bébé, and if Moose has any self-interest
he’ll backpedal away from there’s no way it is his duty to get frapped or fropped
for this sick gutless U.S.A.
bâtard
in his womanly wig. Lenz, apparently thinking they’re Brazilian, pops his head around
Gately’s flank and calls them
maricones
and tells them they can suck his
bâtard
is what they can do. Gately has just division enough to almost wish he didn’t feel
such a glow of familiar warmth, a surge of almost sexual competence, as the two shriek
at Lenz’s taunts and split and curve in at them an arm’s length apart, walking gradually
faster, like unstoppable inertia, but stupidly too close together. At two meters off
they charge, shedding petals and unisonly bellowing something in Canadian.