by Don DeLillo
“You have to talk to them, Bucky. Make jokes. Tell them what a slimy child I am. Once they’re off balance, move in with the old show-biz compassion.”
“No good.”
“The dignity of shoes,” Hanes said. “The dignity of a record changer with a solid walnut base. The dignity of room equalizers. The dignity of a custom designed speaker component group.”
I left him in the subway. There was still about an hour of light and it wasn’t nearly as cold on the street as it had been below. A woman and two men looked closely at me, gesturing almost imperceptibly to each other as I walked past them. I stood across the street from the building on Great Jones, realizing I’d never before considered it as a total unit, having limited myself, in the visual idiom of the area, to the lower parts of small tenements, the middle and upper parts of the cast-iron titans. There wasn’t much to see, no tilted skylight or skinny minaret, just Fenig hunching past his window. Beauty enough for the upward diggers. The poet’s noble bones buried with his manuscripts.
After Hanes, events moved with virgin speed. The time was near when I’d have to return my body to the thermal regions and so I made minor raids on the night, a kind of training procedure, venturing out on circular journeys, extending the radius each succeeding time. Virgin speed. The thermal regions. Each succeeding time. The first event after Hanes was a phone call from California. Dodge. I hadn’t talked to him since I’d left the tour in Houston and it took me several seconds to place the voice. Dodge played bass guitar in the last two groups I’d headed, a loose-limbed scrawl of a boy, never more at home than when having his stomach pumped. Our connection was excellent.
“Azarian’s throat’s been cut. They found him in the back of a gutted TV set that was sitting in a vacant lot in Watts.”
“Strange,” I said.
“It was a real big Magnavox console. He was stuffed into the back. Dead about ten hours when they found him. My mother’s been trying to reach him all day.”
“Strange. So strange.”
“My mother’s a spiritualist. I don’t know if you knew that, Bucky. She’s getting real good at it. But she thinks Azarian might be too far away. She can’t establish voice contact. The vibrations are there. It’s just that he’s too far away to talk to.”
“Weird,” I said. “Oh so weird.”
22
NEAR MIDNIGHT Menefee led me in the rain to a meeting with Dr. Pepper. He sheltered me with a large black umbrella, the kind doormen use, almost twice the normal size. Our route was circuitous in the extreme, full of loops, detours and backtrackings. A man emerged from beneath a freight platform and came toward us, barking strange words, his hair pasted straight back in choppy wet strokes, like a Cuban prize fighter’s hair. He lunged at Menefee, who tossed the umbrella away and backed quickly to the middle of the street where he leaped repeatedly in panic, inundated by his own cape.
“New York!” he screamed at the man. “New York! New York! New York!”
The man, who’d stopped only long enough to lunge, continued on his way. I picked up the umbrella and tried to calm Menefee. We turned a corner, doubled back and then walked north on Lafayette. There was nobody in sight ana the rain fell heavily. A car went by and Menefee lowered the umbrella until the spokes grazed our heads.
Water began to flood the sewers and when we crossed a street we had to wheel around the estuaries developing at every corner.
“Azarian’s been murdered.”
“Far out,” he said.
On Astor Place he pointed to a city bus parked on the dark corner where the route begins and drivers take their break. The front door was open and I got on, leaving Menefee on the sidewalk. Dr. Pepper was sitting on the long seat at the back of the bus. I joined him there. He was hatless this time, dressed in a belted trench coat equipped with buttons, zippers, flaps, epaulets and at least four pockets. Although it was dark in the bus I could tell he was wearing perforated shoes.
“Driver’s having a cup of coffee over at Iggy’s. He’s a good boy, friend of mine. I have friends in low places. I cultivate such people. It pays to have friends in low places. I find they do more for me in the long haul than the average maker and shaker.”
“Azarian’s been murdered,” I said.
“He was a good boy,” Pepper said. “Never met him myself. But the word on him was good. A good boy. I heard they did a number on his throat.”
“That’s what they did. Last time I saw him, he had a destroyer escort. Black woman. About twenty-five. Dressed for the heavyweight championship of the world. Epiphany Powell. I’d say she was five-eight, kind of dumb-sounding, no marks or scars.”
“She’s a police informer. Her name’s Ferry or Sperry or something. Bureau of Narcotics Enforcement, et cetera, et cetera, state of California, so on, so forth.”
“This is ending for me. I’ve got other things on my mind. What do you want to see me about?”
“Hanes,” he said. “Hanes first and foremost. Has he tried to get in touch with you? Has he tried to lay off the package? These questions need answering, Buck.”
“Hanes is riding the subways. If you want the package, go hunt him down.”
“Your tone of voice doesn’t go unnoted,” Pepper said. “I guess if anybody’s got the right to be irritated by all the amateurism on display, you and I would be the ones. This whole affair is beginning to rankle. Too much booshit being thrown around. I’ve maintained a high level of professionalism for a good many years and this dipsy-doodle stuff is affecting my equilibrium. I’ve set lofty standards for the whole damn profession. I could tell you about the Brownsville dope wars. Dave Grady and his microbus. The cocaine nun.”
“Not right now,” I said.
“Your tone is duly noted. Tell you why I asked you here, Buck. To get a fix on Hanes. See, we’ve got to wind this thing up. The dog-boys are running wild. Bohack is getting edgy. Azarian’s black legions are poised. The narcs are everywhere. All in all the next few days figure to be crucial. If I can’t get to Hanes in forty-eight hours, I’m pulling the hell out. This is a reluctant move but it’s a move I’ve got to make for the sake of my own safety. Too many amateurs. Look what happened to Azarian, a good boy. Consider what may happen to Hanes, a homeless lad, orphan of the storm. It’s definitely an unpromising future that boy appears to have. That’s why I’ve got to liberate the product. Get it and fade. Leave Happy Valley to its own devices. Buck, you and I are the only parties in positions of mutual trust. Now I know you’ve been in touch with Hanes. All you have to do is point me in his direction. It’s an act you’ll never regret Damn shame to see a dream product end up in the hands of unschooled people. Once-in-a-lifetime stuff. Do this thing, Buck. Point me toward Hanes.”
“He’s in the subways. That’s all I know. He’s got the product with him. I told him I wasn’t interested in taking it off his hands. I’ve got other things. I told him to keep it.”
“You amaze me, Buck. It’s a street-wise gent you’re talking to. An old politico of the back rooms. Do you realize what you’re telling me? You’re saying you came within arm’s length of the product and you didn’t make a grab. That story has no hair on it. I thought we were partners. I thought sure we’d be able to function in an atmosphere of mutual trust. Guess I’m losing my judgment. Getting all mellowed out. This grieves me, Buck. Dog-boys are running wild. U.S. Guv is sniffing at my laundry. I thought sure I had one ally in this whole sorry league of misfits. Hell of a note. Deeply disappointing. Face to face with Hanes. The product within arm’s length. I assume that to be the case. Is arm’s length an accurate term of measurement to the best of your recollection?”
“We shared a subway seat. We walked through tunnels together. At times our cuffs touched.”
“And I’m to believe you didn’t talk him off the product? I’m to believe you don’t have possession of said product? If not possession of, then access to. I’m to believe you and Hanes didn’t make a deal? I’m to believe all this? Oink-oink. That’s all, folks.�
�
“Sorry.”
“Well now,” he said. “You grant me no leeway, friend. None at all. I’m forced to bring pressure to bear. Not by choice. Not by inclination. It’s a matter of balance and edge. Circumstances weigh against me. Old alliances have fallen on evil days. I’m left with no cards but the last nasty trump. According to my sources you’re going back out on tour. I was apprised on that fact no more than two hours ago. So take the following proposal home and mull it over. It’s simple, Buck. Either get the product to me or I make arrangements to extend your sabbatical. You won’t leave that room is what I’m saying. That room will become your past, present and future. Four walls and a flush toilet. Don’t doubt I can make such arrangements. It won’t be easy, I grant you that. It’ll take maneuvering of the riskiest kind. Arf-arf. Ill have to cut my drinking water with a splash of Wild Turkey. Oh, I’ll have to be right on edge, spit-shined, cold as a witch’s tit. Your decision to make. Forty-eight hours. A generous allowance by anyone’s reckoning. Ill be in touch soon after. Get the product to me, Buck. For the sake of both our souls. I’ve got to have it, son. It’s the making of a legend.”
It was Menefee’s duty to escort me back to Great Jones Street. It had stopped raining but he kept the umbrella close to our heads, bringing it down into my face every time a car passed. Our outing was less roundabout this time, a feint to the east, a shallow probe north, then straight down Lafayette past the warehouses. Two women with aerosol cans were spraying insect repellent into a heap of abandoned furniture. When they were finished, they dislodged the frame of an old sofa and dragged it off.
“He was wearing perforated shoes.”
“I know,” Menefee said. “I tried to talk him out of it, the rain and all, but I guess he thought perforated shoes were called for. He’s had them twenty years, he said. The man’s uncanny. He’s a master of apparel, a master of vocal dynamics, a master of the odd fact. He’s got style, he’s got guile. Good thing he came along is all I can say in terms of my own development as a human thought module. I was being systematically depersonalized by the whole educational apparatus at the University of California at Santa Barbara and all I heard from my parents day after day in letters, phone calls and telegrams was that I should transfer to the University of California at Santa Cruz, which they wanted me to do for their own selfish grabby reasons, probably tinged with incest. So I got myself apprenticed to Dr. Pepper and since then I’ve developed unbelievably in terms of seeing myself as a full-service container with access outlets. So there we were traveling all around. So my parents said where are you? So I said I’m back in school. University of California at Pittsfield, Massachusetts.”
Menefee closed the great umbrella and walked up the stairs with me. He checked the apartment before allowing me to enter. Then he left like a mythological bird returning to its jeweled nest. There was no heat. I ran the bath water and undressed. The water turned cold almost immediately but I let it run until the tub was nearly full. Then I took a bath, scrubbing my body with a hairbrush, outlasting the series of deep quakes that passed through me. When I stepped out finally, I was colder than the room.
23
“I HAVE a terminal fantasy,” Fenig said. “It comes to me more and more often, a recurring obsessive thing, and I add little details every time. Funny how I never get tired of this fantasy. I never get tired of it and I never feel the need to purge myself of it. Here it is, word for word as it comes to me, or as I come to it, whichever happens to be the case. Listen and tell me what you think. Terminal fantasy. I’m living all alone in this building. Outside the dog-boys are pursuing their life-style of constant prowling. They roam the empty streets, picking a building at random and then crashing right in to execute their punches and kicks, breaking down doors, charging up stairs, loping through the hallways. I’m living here all alone. During the day I write and think. I make tomato soup on my little table stove. I spread butter on the saltines. I pour a glass of Budweiser, the king of beers. This is my basic meal which I have almost every day between my two basic sessions at the typewriter, provided the juices are flowing. The heart of the terminal fantasy is what happens at night. At night I do some prowling of my own. I prowl this very building. With me, fore and aft, are two vicious German shepherds. I carry a pump-action shotgun snug against my belly. Floating at my right hip is a giant machete, lodged in a special customized cartridge belt. I go up and down the stairs virtually all night, me and the dogs. I look in every dark corner. I peer into the end of the darkest hallway. I check under the steps on the first floor. I conduct a thorough surveillance of your former apartment and Micklewhite’s former apartment. All around me the buildings are being invaded and I’m just waiting for them to reach here, to come loping in with their gangly strides. All day I write fantastic terminal fiction. At night I prowl the building. Finally they come, eight of them, armed with tiny knives and little wooden clappers like castanets which they clap near the ears of their victims in a ritual of childish Zenlike spite. I don’t panic in the slightest when I see them. This is what I’ve been waiting for all the while. Casually I pump out round after round. The shotgun is magical, never needs reloading, makes a throaty noise that comes out in slow motion. Booo-ooo-ooom. I set the dogs on them and follow on a two-count, wading in with the machete to slash and chop. The whole thing is like choreographed movie violence, lovely blood, happening so slowly, the dogs leaping at the dog-boys’ throats, the gray blade slashing, the ripe red blood flowing everywhere, lovely, so slow, slower than milk being lapped from a mama’s breast. But the blood and violence please me less than the simple fact that it’s all so terminal. Stark days and nights. No one in the streets. Whole building to myself. Dogs and dog-boys. I defend one thing. I am here not to defend my land or my art. I am here to defend my privacy.
I slaughter whoever breaches the stillness of this building. Guard duty through the night. Feeding raw meat to my dogs. Dragging the dead and wounded down the stairs and placing them along the street at intervals of ten yards. Pouring gasoline. Lighting the bodies. Bonfires of the dead and dying. It’s frankly a gorgeous sight. Tomato soup and fiction through the day. Guard duty all the night. Why are terminal events so pleasing, I wonder?”
Fenig was seated on the large trunk that contained his manuscripts. He bumped the heels of his sneakered feet in elusive tempo against the front of the trunk. His clothes, freshly laundered, were the same as those he’d worn every other time we’d talked. Perhaps he bought items in fours and fives. It seemed possible this was everything he owned, five sweat shirts, five pairs of chinos, five pairs of tennis sneakers. Fenig and I intersected at curious places beneath the solvable plane. This made things simple, I thought. It’s always easier to live with similarities because they provide the shadings needed for concealment. Opposites tend eventually to corrode whatever democracy of feeling they made possible at the outset. In Fenig’s closet were four more Fenigs, laced, hooded, neatly creased.
“I failed at pornography,” he said, “because it put me in a position where I the writer was being manipulated by what I wrote. This is the essence of living in P-ville. It makes people easy to manipulate. It puts people on the level of things. I the writer was probably more aware of this than whoever the potential reader might be because I could feel the changes in me, the hardening of mechanisms, the subservience to lust-making and lust-awakening. You have to be half-mad to be a great pornographer and half-Swedish to expose yourself repeatedly to outright porn without losing a measure of whatever makes you human. Every pornographic work brings us closer to fascism. It reduces the human element. It encourages antlike response. I the writer suffered these things myself. As my child-characters whipped and raped each other around the clock, they began to fall apart in my fingers, and I myself slowly began to fragment. Pornography’s limits and stereotypes worked against me from the very beginning and yet just beyond some last line or boundary I could imagine a new kind of P-ville full of characters who never even touch each other. But I’m not g
oing anywhere near it. I’m not half-mad and I’m only one-eighth Swedish so obviously this is the wrong genre for me. The market wasn’t very lucrative anyway. Fifteen hundred dollars for a novel-length manuscript. I told them it’s not just pornography, it’s children’s pornography. They said a pussy’s a pussy no matter who it’s attached to. Genitals always take precedence. If it’s a question of mixed categories and genitals play a prominent part in one of the categories, then that’s the rate scale you’re working with. Listen, I’m happy to be free of it. I can entertain my terminal fantasy with a clear conscience. It’s not as though I’m a lust purveyor or incipient totalitarian of the world of letters. I have a fantasy that involves other people’s blood being shed but this fantasy isn’t part of the thread of my Me. It isn’t consistent with who I am and what I do. It’s just an isolated aberration, much of it taking place in slow motion. If I was still involved in pornography for kids, then I’d be worried about a thread, a string, a consistency. But I’m free of that category and free of its miserable rate scale. Finance, I get twelve and a half per cent after five thousand copies. Finance is big time. The market’s dying except for fì-nance. Daytime dramatic serials are still pretty healthy but I personally shun TV as much as possible. TV is deep space, thin air, no oxygen. There and gone, my words tickling the ears of the walking dead. I’m definitely sticking with financial literature. Finance is solid. There’ll always be millionaires and people who want to be millionaires. I’m midwifing this thing very carefully. This is the watershed of my career. Let’s face it, I’ve been turning out a pretty uneven oeuvre. I need a permanent base to express myself from. No more movement or fluctuation. I need to see a long line stretching straight ahead into the distance. The market’s spinning slower and slower and the lights are dimming and all the loud sounds are dying out. The great wheel is running down, no doubt about it, but I surprise myself by being philosophical. Even if the financial market dies out with the rest of the market, I maintain a certain fragile hope for my own eventual redemption as a functioning writer. I see empty streets. I see a dead market. I see the dog-boys prowling. There I am at the typewriter. I’m old but still fit. My mind is clearer than ever. I’m at the height of my powers. I’m in firm control of my material. I’m writing terminal fiction and I’m writing not for the market, not for the quick sale, not for the sake of professionalism or my name in print. I’m writing for the survivors, that they may know what it was they survived. I’m writing, if you will, for posterity, that people may understand what went wrong and resist the historical imperative of judging us too harshly. I see tomato soup and saltines.”
