Infinite Jest (45 page)

CHRONOLOGY OF ORGANIZATION OF NORTH AMERICAN NATIONS’ REVENUE-ENHANCING SUBSIDIZED
TIME™, BY YEAR

(1) Year of the Whopper

(2) Year of the Tucks Medicated Pad

(3) Year of the Trial-Size Dove Bar

(4) Year of the Perdue Wonderchicken

(5) Year of the Whisper-Quiet Maytag Dishmaster

(6) Year of the Yushityu 2007 Mimetic-Resolution-Cartridge-View-Motherboard-Easy-To-Install-Upgrade
For Infernatron/InterLace TP Systems For Home, Office, Or Mobile (
sic
)

(7) Year of Dairy Products from the American Heartland

(8) Year of the Depend Adult Undergarment

(9) Year of Glad
⁷⁸

Jim’s eldest, Orin—punter extraordinaire, dodger of flung acid extraordinaire—had
once shown Joelle van Dyne his childhood collection of husks of the Lemon Pledge that
the school’s players used to keep the sun off. Different-sized legs and portions of
legs, well-muscled arms, a battery of five-holed masks hung on nails from an upright
fiberboard sheet. Not all the husks had names below them.

Boylston St. east means she passes again the black-bronze equestrian statue of Boston’s
Colonel Shaw and the MA 54th, illuminated now by a patch of emergent sunlight, Shaw’s
metal head and raised sword illicitly draped in a large Québecois fleur-de-lis flag
with all four irises’ stems altered to red blades, so it’s absurdly now a red white
and blue flag; three Boston cops on ladders with poles and shears; the Canadian militants
come in the night, on the eve of Interdependence, thinking anyone cares whether they
hang things from historic icons, hang anti-O.N.A.N. flags, as if anyone not paid to
remove them cares one way or the other. The encaged and suicidal have a really hard
time imagining anyone caring passionately about anything. And here too are E. Boylston’s
dealers, sirens of the other, second cage, standing as always outside F.A.O. Schwartz,
young little black boys, boys so black they’re blue, horrifically skinny and young,
little more than living shadows in knit caps and knee-length sweatshirts and very
white hightops, shifting and blowing into their cupped hands, alluding to the availability
of a certain Material, just barely alluding is all, with their postures and bored
blank important gaze. Certain salesmen have only to stand there. Certain types of
sales: the customer comes to you; and Lo. The cops at the flag across the street don’t
give them a look. Joelle hurries past the line of dealers, she tries to, her clogs
loose and clocking, tarrying for just a moment at the end, just past the gauntlet’s
end, still within two extended hands’ reach of the last bored dealer; for here on
the street outside Schwartz is placed an odd adverting display, not a live salesman
of any sort but rather a humanoid figure of something that’s better than cardboard,
untouched by the vendors who don’t seem even to look, a display on an angled rear-mount
stand like a photo-frame’s stand, 2-D, the figure a man in a wheelchair, in a coat
and tie, his lap blanketed and no legs below, his well-fed face artistically reddened
with some terrible joy, his smile’s arc of the extreme curvature that exists between
mirth and fury, his ecstasy terrible to see, his head hairless and plastic and cast
back, his eyes on the blue harlequin-patches of the post-storm sky, looking straight
up, or having a seizure, or ecstatic, his arms also up and out in a gesture of submission
or triumph or thanks, his oddly thick right hand the receptacle for the black spine
of the case of some new film cartridge being advertised for distribution, the cartridge
stuck like a tongue out of a slot in his (lineless) palm; except there is only this
display, this ecstatic figure and a cartridge no feral vendor’s removed, no mention
of title, no blurbs or quoted references to critics’ thumbs, the case’s spine itself
bare black slightly pebbled generic plastic, conspicuously unlabelled. Two Oriental
women’s shopping bags catch and make her raincoat billow slightly as Joelle stands
there briefly, feeling the lines’ dealers looking at her, assessing; and then someone
calls something to one of the cops halfway up the statue, using his first name, which
echoes slightly and breaks the spell; the little black boys look away. None of the
passersby seem to notice the display she stands before, reflecting. It’s some kind
of anti-ad. To direct attention at what is not said. Lead up to an inevitability you
deny. Not new. But an expensive and affecting display. The film-cartridge itself would
be a blank, too, or the case empty, worthless because it really can be removed all
the way from the slot in the figure’s hand. Joelle removes it and looks at it and
puts it back. She’s had her last fling with film cartridges. Jim had used her several
times. Jim at the end had filmed her at prodigious and multi-lensed length, and refused
to share what he’d made of it, and died w/o a note.
⁷⁹
Her mental name for the man had been ‘Infinite Jim.’ The display cartridge shoves
home with a click. One of the such young dealers calls her Mama and asks where’s the
funeral at.

For a while, after the acid, after first Orin left and then Jim came and made her
sit through that filmed apology-scene and then vanished and then came back but only
to—only four years seven months six days past—to leave, for a while, after taking
the veil, for a while she liked to get really high and clean. Joelle did. Scrub sinks
until they were mint-white. Dust the ceilings without using any kind of ladder. Vacuum
like a fiend and put in a fresh vacuum-bag after each room. Imitate the wife and mother
they both declined to shoot. Use Incandenza’s toothbrush on tiles’ grout.

In places along Boylston cars are triple-parked. People’s wipers are on that setting
that Joelle, who does not drive, imagines to read
OCCASIONAL
on the controls. Her own personal Daddy’s old car had wipers’ controls on the turn-signal
stalk by the wheel. Available yellow cabs pass, hissing in the streets. Over half
the passing cabs out here in the rain are advertising themselves as available, purple
numbers lit below
TAXI
. As she remembers things Jim was, besides a great filmic mind and her true heart’s
friend, the world’s best hailer of Boston cabs, known to have less hailed than conjured
cabs in spots where Boston cabs by all that’s right just aren’t, a hailer of Boston
cabs in places like Veedersburg, Indiana and Powell, Wyoming, something in the authority
of the lifted arm’s height, the oncoming taxi undergoing a sort of parallax as it
bore down over tumbleweed streets, appearing under Incandenza’s upraised palm as if
awaiting benediction. He was a tall and physically slow-moving man with a great love
of taxis. And they loved him back. Never again a cab in four-plus years, after that.
And so Joelle van Dyne, a.k.a. Madame P., surrendered, suicidal, eschews tumbrel or
hack, her solid clogs sounding formal on the smooth cement down Boylston’s sidewalk
past fine stores’ revolving doors southeast toward serious brownstone-terrain, open
coat swirling over poncho and hanging rain breaking into stutters and drips.

After she had smoked homemade freebase cocaine this
A.M.
for the last time and then fired up the Chore Boys and good panties she’d used as
a last filter and choked on burnt acetate when she shredded and smoked them, and had
wept and imprecated at the mirrors and thrown away her paraphernalia again for the
final time, when an hour later she’d walked not formally to her T-stop under a parliament
of gathering storm-clouds and faint sticky bits of autumn thunder to ride to Upper
Brighton and find Lady Delphina, get real weight from Lady Delphina, so hard to just
cut it off in mid-binge, on a Saturday, unless you just passed out, to tell L.D. when
she’d said goodbye and it was the last time it had been really the penultimate time
but that
this
was the last time, this was goodbye for real, and get serious weight from Lady Delphina,
pay her twice the 8-gram rate as a generous farewell, as she walked without much real
formality to her T-stop and stood on the platform, each time mistaking little mutters
of thunder for the approach of the train, wanting more of it so badly she could feel
her brain heaving around in its skull, then a pleasant and gentle-faced older black
man in raincoat and hat with a little flat black feather in the band and the sort
of black-frame styleless spectacles pleasant older black men wear, with the weary
but dignified mild comportment of the older black, waiting alone with her on the chill
dim Davis Square subway platform, this man had folded his
Herald
neatly lengthwise and had it under the same arm he tipped his hat with and said to
excuse him if this was an intrusion, he said, but he’d had occasion to see one or
two of these linen veils before, around, like what she wore, and was interested and
rendered curious. He pronounced all four syllables of
interested,
which Joelle, from Kentucky, enjoyed. If he might be so bold, he said, tipping his
hat. Joelle had engaged with him completely, which was extremely rare, even off the
air. She rather welcomed the chance to think about anything else at all, with the
train surely never pulling in. She reflected that the anecdote had gotten about, but
not the incident’s legacy, she said, as if that part were hidden. The Union of the
Hideously and Improbably Deformed was unofficially founded in London in B.S. 1940
in London U.K. by the cross-eyed, palate-clefted, and wildly carbuncular wife of a
junior member of the House of Commons, a lady whom Sir Winston Churchill, P.M.U.K.,
having had several glasses of port plus a toddy at a reception for an American Lend-Lease
administrator, had addressed in a fashion wholly inappropriate to social intercourse
between civilized gentlemen and ladies. Unwittingly all but authoring the Union designed
to afford the scopophobic empathic fellowship and the genesis of sturdy inner resources
through shame-free and unconstrained concealment, W. Churchill—when the lady, no person’s
doormat, informed him with prim asperity that he appeared to be woefully inebriated—made
the anecdotally famous reply that while, yes, yea verily, he was indeed inebriated,
he would the following
A.M.
be once again sober, while she, dear lady, would tomorrow still be hideously and
improbably deformed. Churchill, doubtless under weighty emotional pressures during
this period in history, had then proceeded to extinguish his cigar in the lady’s sherry
and to place a finger-bowl napkin delicately over the ruined features of her flaming
visage. The laminated non-photo U.H.I.D. membership card Joelle showed the interested
old black gentleman related all this data and more in a point-size so tiny the card
looked somehow both blank and defaced.

PUTATIVE CURRICULUM VITAE OF HELEN P. STEEPLY, 36, 1.93 M., 104 KG., A.B., M.J.A.

1 Year,
Time
(graduate intern, ‘Newsmakers’ Section);

16 Months,
Decade Magazine
(‘Hottest and Nottest,’ a trends-and-style-analysis column) until
Decade
folded;

5 Years,
Southwest Annual
(human-interest, geriatric-medical, personality and tourism articles);

5 Months,
Newsweek
(11 small features on trends and entertainment until her Executive Editor, with whom
she was in love, left
Newsweek
and took her with him);

1 Year,
Ladies Day
(personality and medical-cosmetic features—some research first-hand—until one week
in which the Executive Editor reconciled with his wife and H.P.S. got mugged and purse-snatched
on W. 62nd and vowed never again to live in Manhattan);

15 Months–Present,
Moment
magazine, Southwest Bureau, Erythema AZ (medical, soft sports, personality, and home-entertainment-trends
reporting, masthead byline, contributing-editor status).

Thereafter proceeding first to the Upper Brighton and now to the cooperative Back
Bay–edge brownstone she had lived in once with Orin and performed in with his father
and then passed on to Molly Notkin, today’s party’s guest of honor and hostess in
one, as of yesterday enjoying A.B.D. pre-doctoral status in Film & Film-Cartridge
Theory at M.I.T., having cleared the notorious hurdle of Oral Examinations on that
day by offering her examination committee a dramatically rendered and if she did say
so herself devastating oral critique of post-millennial Marxist Film-Cartridge Theory
from the point of view of Marx himself, Marx as pretend-film-cartridge theorist and
scholar. Still dressed as K.M. a day later, in celebration—the glued beard matted
and pubic-black, Homburg ordered direct from Wiesbaden, soot from a terribly obscure
British souvenir-filth shop—she has no idea that Joelle’s been in a cage since Y.T.S.D.B.,
has no idea what she and Jim Incandenza were even about for twenty-one months, whether
they were lovers or what, whether Orin left because they were lovers or what,
⁸⁰
or that Joelle even now lives hand-to-lung on a grossly generous trust willed her
by a man she unveiled for but never slept with, the prodigious punter’s father, infinite
jester, director of a final
opus
so
magnum
he’d claimed to have had it locked away. Joelle’s never seen the completed assembly
of what she’d appeared in, or seen anyone who’s seen it, and doubts that any sum of
scenes as pathologic as he’d stuck that long quartzy auto-wobbling lens on the camera
and filmed her for could have been as entertaining as he’d said the thing he’d always
wanted to make had broken his heart by ending up.

Climbing to the third-floor, stairs pale from wear, still trembling from the
A.M.
’s interruptus, Joelle finds herself having a hard time, climbing, as if the force
of gravity goes up as she does. The party-sounds start around the second landing.
Here is Molly Notkin dressed as a crumbling Marx again greeting Joelle at her door
with the sort of delighted mock-surprise U.S. hostesses use for greetings. Notkin
secures Joelle’s veil for her during removal of the beaded coat and poncho, then lifts
the veil slightly in a practiced two-finger gesture to deliver a double-cheek kiss
that is sour with cigarettes and wine—Joelle never smokes when veiled—asking how Joelle
got here and then without waiting for an answer offering her that odd kind of British-Columbian
apple juice they’d found they both liked so, and that Joelle at home’s abandoned and
gone back to the Big Red Soda Water of childhood, which Notkin doesn’t know, and still
cluelessly considers extra-sweet Canadian juice to be pretty much both her and Joelle’s
biggest vices. Molly Notkin’s the kind of soul you want desperately to be polite to
but have to hide it with because she’d be mortified if she suspected you were ever
just being polite to her about anything.