Infinite Jest Part 7

'Leith might say the Write-Capable CD, for entertainment.'

'He's hard to pin down if you get him on entertainment qua entertainment.'

'The Diz'll say use your own judgment,' Pemulis says. 'Axford took it last year. He wants an argument made. He'll skewer you if you treat it like there's an obvious answer.'

'Plus there's the InterLace de-digitizer instead of an antenna, with a TP,' Jim Struck says, squeezing at something behind his ear. Graham ('Yard-guard') Rader is checking his underarm for more hair. Freer and Shaw might be asleep.

Stice has pulled his towel down slightly and is fingering the deep red abdominal stripe a jock's waistband leaves. 'Boys, I ever become president, the first thing to go's elastic.'

Troeltsch pretends to shuffle cards. 'Next item. Next like flash-card. Define acutance. acutance. Anybody?' Anybody?'

'A measure of resolution directly proportional to the resolved ratio of a given pulse's digital code,' Hal says.

'The Incster has the last word once again,' says Struck. Which invites a chorus: 'The Halster.'

'Halorama.'

'Halation.'

'Halation,' Rader says. 'A halo-shaped exposure-pattern around light sources seen on chemical film at low speed.'

'That most angelic of distortions.'

Struck says 'We'll be like vying vying for the seats all around Inc tomorrow.' Hal shuts his eyes: he can see the page of text right there, all highlighted, all yellowed up. for the seats all around Inc tomorrow.' Hal shuts his eyes: he can see the page of text right there, all highlighted, all yellowed up.

'He can scan the page, rotate it, fold the corner down and clean under his nails with it, all mentally.'

'Leave him alone,' Pemulis says.

Freer opens his eyes. 'Do a dictionary-page for us, man, Inc.'

Stice says 'Leave him be.'

It's all only half-nasty. Hal is placid about getting his b.a.l.l.s smacked around; they all are. He does his share of chops-busting. Some of the littler kids who take their showers after the uppercla.s.smen are hanging around listening. Hal sits on the floor, quiescent, chin on his chest, just thinking it's nice finally to breathe and get enough air.

The temperature had fallen with the sun. Marathe listened to the cooler evening wind roll across the incline and desert floor. Marathe could sense or feel many million floral pores begin slowly to open, hopeful of dew. The American Steeply produced small exhalations between his teeth as he examined his scratch of the arm. Only one or two remaining tips of the digitate spikes of the radial blades of the sun found crevices between the Tortolitas' peaks and probed at the roof of the sky. There were the slight and dry locationless rustlings of small living things that wish to come out at night, emerging. The sky was violet.

Everyone in the locker room's got a towel around his waist like a kilt. Everyone except Stice has a white E.T.A. towel; Stice uses his own sort of trademark towels, black ones. After a silence Stice shoots some air out through his nose. Jim Struck picks liberally at his face and neck. There are one or two sighs. Peter Beak and Evan Ingersoll and Kent Blott, twelve, eleven, ten, are up sitting on the blond-wood benches that run in front of the lockers' rows, sitting there in towels, elbows on knees, not taking part. So is Zoltan Csikzentmihalyi, who's sixteen but speaks very little English. Idris Arslanian, new this year, ethnically vague, fourteen, all feet and teeth, is a shadowy lurking presence just outside the locker-room door, poking the non-Caucasoid snout in occasionally and then withdrawing, terribly shy.

Each E.T.A. player in 18-and-Unders has like four to six 14-and-Unders kids he's supposed to keep his more experienced wing over, look out for. The more the E.T.A. administration trusts you, the younger and more generally clueless the little kids in your charge. Charles Tavis inst.i.tuted the practice and calls it the Big Buddy System in the literature he sends new kids' parents. So the parents can feel their kid's not getting lost in the inst.i.tutional shuffle. Beak, Blott, and Arslanian are all in Hal's Big Buddy group for Y.D.A.U. He also in effect has Ingersoll, having traded Todd ('Postal-Weight') Possalthwaite to Axford off the books for Ingersoll, because Trevor Axford found he so despised the Ingersoll kid for some una.n.a.lyzable reason that he was struggling against a horrible compulsion to put Ingersoll's little fingers into the gap by the hinges of an open door and then very slowly close the door, and came to Hal almost in tears, Axford had. Though technically Ingersoll is still Axford's and Possalthwaite Hal's. Possalthwaite, the great lobber, has a weird young-old face and little wet lips that lapse into a sucking reflex under stress. In theory, a Big Buddy's somewhere between an R.A. and a prorector. He's there to answer questions, ease b.u.mpy transitions, show ropes, act as liaison with Tony Nw.a.n.gi and Tex Watson and the other prorectors specializing in little kids. Be somebody they can come to off the record. A shoulder to climb up on a footstool and cry on. If a 16-and-Under gets made a Big Buddy it's kind of an honor; it means they think you're going places. When there's no tournament or travel, etc., Big Buddies get together with their quar-to-s.e.xtet in small-group private twice a week, in the interval between P.M. challenge matches and dinner, usually after saunas and showers and a few minutes of sitting slumped around the locker room sucking air. Sometimes Hal sits with his Little Buddies at dinner and eats with them. Not often, however. The savvier Big Buddies don't get too overly close with their L.B. ephebes, don't let them forget about the unbridgeable gaps of experience and ability and general status that separate ephebes from uppercla.s.smen who've hung in and stuck it out at E.T.A. for years and years. Gives them more to look up to. The savvy Big Buddy doesn't rush in or tread heavy; he holds his own ground and lets the suppliants realize when they need his help and come to him. You have to know when to tread in and take an active hand and when to hang back and let the littler kids learn from the personal experience they'll have to learn from, inevitably, if they want to be able to hang. Every year, the biggest source of attrition, besides graduating 18s, is 1315s who've had enough and just can't hang. This happens; the administration accepts it; not everyone's cut out for what's required of you here. Though C.T. makes his administrative a.s.sistant Lateral Alice Moore drive the prorectors bats trying to ferret out data on littler kids' psychic states, so he can forecast probable burnouts and attritive defections, so he'll know how many slots he and Admissions'll have to offer Incomings for the next term. Big Buddies are in a tricky position, requested to keep the prorectors generally informed about who among their charges seems shaky in terms of resolve, capacity for suffering and stress, physical punishment, homesickness, deep fatigue, but at the same time wanting to remain a trustworthy confidential shoulder and wing for their Little Buddies' most private and delicate issues.

Though he, too, has to struggle with a strange urge to be cruel to Ingersoll, who reminds him of someone he dislikes but can't quite place, Hal on the whole rather likes being a Big B. He likes being there to come to, and likes delivering little unpretentious minilectures on tennis theory and E.T.A. pedagogy and tradition, and getting to be kind in a way that costs him nothing. Sometimes he finds out he believes something that he doesn't even know he believed until it exits his mouth in front of five anxious little hairless plump trusting clueless faces. The twice-weekly (more like once-weekly, as things usually pan out) group interfaces with his quintet are unpleasant only after a particularly bad P.M. session on the courts, when he's tired and on edge and would far rather go off by himself and do secret stuff in underground ventilated private.

Jim Troeltsch feels at his glands. John Wayne is of the sock-and-a-shoe, sock-and-a-shoe school.

'Tired,' Ortho Stice again sighs. He p.r.o.nounces it 'tard.' To a man, now, the uppercla.s.smen are down slumped on the locker room's blue crush carpet, their legs straight out in front of them, toes pointing out at that distinctive morgue-angle, their backs up against the blue steel of the lockers, careful to avoid the six sharp little louvered antimildew vents at each locker's base. All of them look a bit silly naked because of their tennis tans: legs and arms the deep sienna of a quality catcher's mitt, from the summer, the tan just now this late starting to fade, but feet and ankles of toadbelly-white, the white of the grave, with chests and shoulders and upper arms more like off-white - the players can sit s.h.i.+rtless in the stands at tournaments when they're not playing and get at least a bit of thoracic sun. The faces are the worst, maybe, most red and s.h.i.+ny, some still deep-peeling from three straight weeks of outdoor tournaments in August-September. Besides Hal, who's atavistically dark-complected anyway, the ones here with the least bad piebald coloring are the players who can tolerate spraying themselves down with Lemon Pledge before outdoor play. It turns out Lemon Pledge, when it's applied in pre-play stasis and allowed to dry to a thin crust, is a phenomenal sunscreen, UV-rating like 40+, and the only stuff anywhere that can survive a three-set sweat. No one knows what jr. player at what academy found this out about Pledge, years back, or how: rather bizarre discovery-circ.u.mstances are envisioned. The smell of sweat-wet Pledge out on the court makes some of the more delicately const.i.tuted kids sick, though. Others feel sunscreen of any kind to be unconscionably p.u.s.s.ified, like white visors or on-court sungla.s.ses. So most of the E.T.A. uppercla.s.smen have these vivid shoe-and-s.h.i.+rt tans that give them the cla.s.sic look of bodies hastily a.s.sembled from different bodies' parts, especially when you throw in the heavily muscled legs and usually shallow chests and the two arms of different sizes.

'Tard tard tard,' Stice says.

Group empathy is expressed via sighs, further slumping, small spastic gestures of exhaustion, the soft clanks of skulls' backs against the lockers' thin steel.

'My bones are ringing the way sometimes people say their ears are ringing, I'm so tired.'

'I'm waiting til the last possible second to even breathe. I'm not expanding the cage till driven by necessity of air.'

'So tired it's out of tired tired's word-range,' Pemulis says. 'Tired just doesn't do it.' just doesn't do it.'

'Exhausted, shot, depleted,' says Jim Struck, grinding at his closed eye with the heel of his hand. 'Cashed. Totalled.'

'Look.' Pemulis pointing at Struck. 'It's trying to think.'

'A moving thing to see.'

'Beat. Worn the heck out.'

'Worn the f.u.c.k f.u.c.k-all out is more like.'

'Wrung dry. Whacked. Tuckered out. More dead than alive.'

'None even come close, the words.'

'Word-inflation,' Stice says, rubbing at his crewcut so his forehead wrinkles and clears. 'Bigger and better. Good greater greatest totally great. Hyperbolic and hyperbolicker. Like grade-inflation.'

'Should be so lucky,' says Struck, who's been on academic probation since fifteen.

Stice is from a part of southwest Kansas that might as well be Oklahoma. He makes the companies that give him clothes and gear give him all black clothes and gear, and his E.T.A. cognomen is 'The Darkness.'

Hal raises his eyebrows at Stice and smiles. 'Hyperbolicker?'

'My daddy as a boy, he'd have said "tuckered out"'ll do just fine.'

'Whereas here we are sitting here needing whole new words and terms.'

'Phrases and clauses and models and structures,' Troeltsch says, referring again to a prescriptive exam everyone but Hal wishes now to forget. 'We need an inflation-generative grammar.'

Keith Freer makes a motion as if taking his unit out of his towel and holding it out at Troeltsch: 'Generate this.'

'Need a whole new syntax for fatigue on days like this,' Struck says. 'E.T.A.'s best minds on the problem. Whole thesauruses digested, a.n.a.lyzed.' Makes a sarcastic motion. 'Hal?'

One semion that still works fine is holding your fist up and cranking at it with the other hand so the finger you're giving somebody goes up like a drawbridge. Though of course Hal's mocking himself at the same time. Everybody agrees it speaks volumes. Idris Arslanian's shoes and incisors appear briefly in the doorway's steam, then withdraw. Everyone's reflection is sort of cubist in the walls' s.h.i.+ny tiling. The name handed down paternally from an Umbrian five generations past and now much diluted by N.E. Yankee, a great-grandmother with Pima-tribe Indian S.W. blood, and Canadian cross-breeding, Hal is the only extant Incandenza who looks in any way ethnic. His late father had been as a young man darkly tall, high flat Pima-tribe cheekbones and very black hair Brylcreemed back so tight there'd been a kind of enforced widow's peak. Himself had looked ethnic, but he isn't extant. Hal is sleek, sort of radiantly dark, almost otterish, only slightly tall, eyes blue but darkly so, and unburnable even w/o sunscreen, his untanned feet the color of weak tea, his nose ever unpeeling but slightly s.h.i.+ny. His sleekness isn't oily so much as moist, milky; Hal worries secretly that he looks half-feminine. His parents' pregnancies must have been all-out chromosomatic war: Hal's eldest brother Orin had got the Moms's Anglo-Nordo-Canadian phenotype, the deep-socketed and lighter-blue eyes, the faultless posture and incredible flexibility (Orin was the only male anybody at E.T.A.'d ever heard of who could do a fully splayed cheerleader-type split), the rounder and more protrusive zygomatics.

Hal's next-oldest brother Mario doesn't seem to resemble much of anyone they know.

On most of the nontravel days that he doesn't Big Buddy with his charges, Hal will wait till most everybody's busy in the sauna and shower and stow his sticks in his locker and stroll casually down the cement steps into E.T.A.'s system of tunnels and chambers. He has some way he can casually drift off and have quite a while go by before anyone even notices his absence. He'll often stroll casually back into the locker room just as people are slumped on the floor in towels discussing fatigue, carrying his gear bag and substantially altered in mood, and go in when most of the littler kids are in there peeling Pledge-husks off their limbs and taking their turn showering, and shower, using one of the kids' shampoo out of a bottle shaped like a cartoon character, then hike the head back and apply Visine in a Schacht-free stall, gargle and brush and floss and dress, usually not even needing to comb his hair. He carries Visine AC, mint-flavored floss, and a traveller's toothbrush in a pocket of his Dunlop gear bag. Ted Schacht, big into oral hygiene, regards Hal's bag's floss and brush as an example to them all.

'So tired it's like I'm almost high.'

'But not pleasantly high,' Troeltsch says. 'It'd be a pleasanter tiredness-high if I didn't have to wait till f.u.c.king 1900 to start all this studyin',' Stice says.

'You'd think Scht.i.tt could at least not turn up the juice the week before midterms.'

'You'd think that the coaches and the teachers could try and get together on their scheduling.'

'It'd be like a pleasant fatigue if I could just go up after dinner and hunker on down with the mind in neutral and watch something uncomplex.'

'Not have to worry about prescriptive forms or acutance.' 'Kick back.' 'Watch something with chase scenes and lots of stuff blowing up all over the place.'

'Relax, do bongs, kick back, look at lingerie catalogues, eat granola with a great big wooden spoon,' Struck says wistfully.

'Get laid.' 'Just get one night off to like R and R.' 'Slip on the old environmental suit and listen to some atonal jazz.' 'Have s.e.x. Get laid.' 'b.u.mp uglies. Do the nasty. Haul ashes.' 'Find me one of them Northeast Oklahoma drive-in burger-stand waitresses with the great big huge t.i.tties.'

'Those enormous pink-white French-painting t.i.ts that sort of like tumble tumble out.' out.'

'One of those wooden spoons so big you can barely get your mouth around it.'

'Just one night to relax and indulge.'

Pemulis belts out two quick verses of Johnny Mathis's 'Chances Are,' left over from the shower, then subsides to examine something on his left thigh. Shaw has a spit-bubble going, growing to such exceptional size for just spit that half the room watches until it finally goes at the same moment Pemulis breaks off.

Evan Ingersoll says 'We get off Sat.u.r.day for Interdependence Day Eve, though, the board said.'

Several uppercla.s.s heads are c.o.c.ked up at Ingersoll. Pemulis makes a bulge in his cheek with his tongue and moves it around.

'Flubbaflubba': Stice makes his jowls fly around. 'We get off cla.s.ses is all. Drills and challenges go merrily on, deLint says,' Freer points out.

'But no drills Sunday, before the Gala.' 'But still matches.'

Every jr. player presently in this room is ranked in the top 64 continentally, except Pemulis, Yardley and Blott.

There'd be clear evidence that T. Schacht's still in one of the toilet stalls off the showers even if Hal couldn't see the tip of one of Schacht's enormous purple shower thongs under the door of the stall right by where the shower-area entryway cuts into his line of sight. Something humble, placid even, about inert feet under stall doors. The defecatory posture is an accepting posture, it occurs to him. Head down, elbows on knees, the fingers laced together between the knees. Some hunched timeless millennial type of waiting, almost religious. Luther's shoes on the floor beneath the chamber pot, placid, possibly made of wood, Luther's 16th-century shoes, awaiting epiphany. The mute quiescent suffering of generations of salesmen in the stalls of train-station johns, heads down, fingers laced, s.h.i.+ned shoes inert, awaiting the acid gush. Women's slippers, centurions' dusty sandals, dock-workers' hobnailed boots, Popes' slippers. All waiting, pointing straight ahead, slightly tapping. Huge s.h.a.ggy-browed men in skins hunched just past the firelight's circle with wadded leaves in one hand, waiting. Schacht suffered from Crohn's Disease, 43 43 a bequest from his ulcerative-colitic dad, and had to take carminative medication with every meal, and took a lot of guff about his digestive troubles, and had developed of all things arthritic gout, too, somehow, because of the Crohn's Disease, which had settled in his right knee and caused him terrible pain on the court. a bequest from his ulcerative-colitic dad, and had to take carminative medication with every meal, and took a lot of guff about his digestive troubles, and had developed of all things arthritic gout, too, somehow, because of the Crohn's Disease, which had settled in his right knee and caused him terrible pain on the court.

Freer's and Tall Paul Shaw's racquets fall off the bench with a clatter, and Beak and Blott move fast to pick them up and stack them back on the bench, Beak one-handed because the other hand is keeping his towel fastened.

'Because so that was let's see,' Struck says.

Pemulis loves to sing around tile.

Struck's. .h.i.tting his palm with a finger for either emphasis or ordinal counting. 'Close to let's call it an hour run for the A-squads, an hour-fifteen drills, two matches back to back.'

'I only played one,' Troeltsch injects. 'Had a measurable fever in the A.M A.M., deLint said to throttle down today.'

'Folks that went three sets only played one match, Spodek and Kent for an instance,' Stice says.

'Funny how Troeltsch how his health always seems to rally when A.M.

drills get out,' Freer says.

'- like conservatively two hours for the matches. Conservatively. Then half an hour on the machines under f.u.c.king Loach's beady browns, sitting there with the clipboard. That's let's call it five hours of vigorous nonstop straight-out motion.'

'Sustained and strenuous exertion.' 'Scht.i.tt's determinated this year we ain't singing no silly songs at Port Was.h.i.+ngton.'

John Wayne hasn't said one word this whole time. The contents of his locker are neat and organized. He always b.u.t.tons his s.h.i.+rt all the way up to the top b.u.t.ton as if he were going to put on a tie, which he doesn't even own. Ingersoll's also getting dressed out of his undercla.s.sman's small square locker.

Stice says 'Except they seem to forget we're still in our p.u.b.erty.'

Ingersoll is a kid seemingly wholly devoid of eyebrows, as far as Hal can see.

'Speak for yourself, Darkness.'

'I'm saying how stressing the p.u.b.ertyizing skeleton like this, it's real short-sighted.' Stice's voice rises. ' 'm I supposed to do when I'm twenty and in the Show playing nonstop and I'm skeletally stressed and injury-p.r.o.ned?'

'Dark's right.'

A curled bit of cloudy old Pledge-husk and a green thread from a strip of GauzeTex wrap are complexly entwined in the blue fibers of the carpet near Hal's left ankle, which ankle is faintly swollen and has a blue tinge. He keeps flexing the ankle whenever it occurs to him to. Struck and Troeltsch spar briefly with open hands, feinting and bobbing their heads, both still seated on the floor. Hal, Stice, Troeltsch, Struck, Rader, and Beak are all rhythmically squeezing tennis b.a.l.l.s with their racquet-hands, as per Academy mandate. Struck's shoulders and neck have furious purple inflammations; Hal had also noticed a boil on the inside of Schacht's thigh, when Ted'd sat down. Hal's face's reflection just fits inside one of the wall-tiles opposite, and then if he moves his head slowly the face distends and comes back together with an optical tw.a.n.g in the next tile. That post-shower community feeling is dissipating. Even Evan Ingersoll looks quickly at his watch and clears his throat. Wayne and Shaw have dressed and left; Freer, a major Pledge-devotee, is at his hair in the mirror, Pemulis also rising now to get away from Freer's feet and legs. Freer's eyes have a protrusive wideness to them that the Axhandle says makes Freer always look like he's getting shocked or throttled.

And time in the P.M. locker room seems of limitless depth; they've all been just here before, just like this, and will be again tomorrow. The light saddening outside, a grief felt in the bones, a sharpness to the edge of the lengthening shadows.

'I'm thinking it's Tavis,' Freer says to them all in the mirror. 'Where there's excess work and suffering can f.u.c.king Tavis be far behind.'

'No, it's Scht.i.tt,' Hal says.

'Scht.i.tt was short a few wickets out of the old croquet set long before he got hold of us, men,' Pemulis says.

'Peemster and Hal.'

'Halation and Pemurama.'

Freer purses his little lips and expels air like he's blowing out a match, blowing some tiny grooming-remnant off the big mirror's gla.s.s. 'Scht.i.tt just does what he's told like a good n.a.z.i.'

'What the hail hail is that supposed to mean?' asks a Stice who's well known for asking How High Sir when Scht.i.tt says Jump, now feeling at the carpet around him for something to throw at Freer. Ingersoll tosses Stice a woppsed-up towel, trying to be helpful, but Stice's eyes are on Freer's in the gla.s.s, and the towel hits him on the head and sits there, on his head. The room's emotions seem to be inverting themselves every couple seconds. There's half-cruel laughter at Stice as Hal struggles to his feet, rising in careful stages, putting most of his weight on the good ankle. Hal's towel falls off as he does his combination. Struck says something that's lost in the roar of a high-pressure toilet. is that supposed to mean?' asks a Stice who's well known for asking How High Sir when Scht.i.tt says Jump, now feeling at the carpet around him for something to throw at Freer. Ingersoll tosses Stice a woppsed-up towel, trying to be helpful, but Stice's eyes are on Freer's in the gla.s.s, and the towel hits him on the head and sits there, on his head. The room's emotions seem to be inverting themselves every couple seconds. There's half-cruel laughter at Stice as Hal struggles to his feet, rising in careful stages, putting most of his weight on the good ankle. Hal's towel falls off as he does his combination. Struck says something that's lost in the roar of a high-pressure toilet.

The feminized American stood at a slight angle to Marathe upon the outcropping. He stared out at the dusk-shadow they were now inside, and as well the increasingly complicated twinkle of the U.S.A. city Tucson, seeming slackly transfixed, Steeply, in the way vistas too large for the eye to contain transfix persons in a kind of torpid spectation.

Marathe seemed on the edge of sleep.

Even the voice of Steeply had a different timbre inside the shadow. 'They say it's a great and maybe even timeless love, Rod Tine's for your Luria person.'

Marathe grunted, s.h.i.+fting slightly in the chair.

Steeply said 'The sort that gets sung about, the kind people die for and then get immortalized in song. You got your ballads, your operas. Tristan and Isolde. Lancelot and what's-her-name. Agamemnon and Helen, Dante and Beatrice.'

Marathe's drowsy smile continued upward to become a wince. 'Narcissus and Echo. Kierkegaard and Regina. Kafka and that poor girl afraid to go to the postbox for the mail.'

'Interesting choice of example here, the mailbox.' Steeply pretended to chuckle.

Marathe came alert. 'Take off your wig and be s.h.i.+tting inside it, Hugh Steeply B.S.S. And the ignorance of you appalls me. Agamemnon had no relation with this queen. Menelaus was husband, him of Sparta. And you mean Paris Paris. Helen and Paris. He of Troy.'

Steeply seemed amused in the idiotic way: 'Paris and Helen, the face that launched vessels. The horse: the gift which was not a gift. The anonymous gift brought to the door. The sack of Troy from inside.'