by Don DeLillo
They also talked about my father. That’s the other thing they talked about in the deep lull after dinner. It’s the kind of subject Marian seized on, trying to fill in gaps, work out details. I used to sit in the living room and listen fitfully through the urgent sexual throb of the dishwasher. I used to half listen, listen with my face in a magazine, hearing scumbled voices coming from the back room, a cluster of words audible now and then above the dishwasher and the TV set. The TV set was always on when my mother was in her room.
Travel was an important part of my job. Leaving the reflecting surfaces of the bronze tower, the way people modeled themselves on someone else, a few people, it’s only natural, mostly mimicking up, repeating a superior’s gestures or expressions. Think of a young man or woman, think of a young woman speaking a few words in a movie gangster’s growl. This is something I used to do for pointed comic effect to get things done on time. I made breathy gutter threats from the side of my mouth and then I’d walk past an office a day or two later and hear one of my assistants speaking in this voice.
We fixed her up with a television set and a humidifier and the dresser that used to be Marian’s when she was growing up. We emptied and cleaned the dresser and resilvered the mirror and put a plentiful supply of hangers in the closet.
Or I picked up the phone in the middle of a meeting and pretended to arrange the maiming of a colleague, a maneuver that drew snide laughter from the others in the room. I tried not to laugh a certain way myself, the way Arthur Blessing laughed, our chief executive, with articulated ha-has, a slow nod of the head marking the laugh beat. Going away, flying away freed me from the signals that bounced off every waxed and spanking surface.
He went out to get a pack of cigarettes and never came back. This is a thing you used to hear about disappearing men. It’s the final family mystery. All the mysteries of the family reach their culmination in the final passion of abandonment. My father smoked Lucky Strikes. The pack has a design that could easily be called a target but then maybe not—there’s no small central circle or bull’s-eye. The circle is large. There’s a large red circle with a white border and then a narrower tan border and finally a thin black border, so unless you expand the definition of a bull’s-eye or the definition of a target, you probably can’t call the Lucky Strike logotype a target. But I call it a target anyway and fuck the definitions.
Marian believed this is the crucial thing you have to consider when making a person feel at home. If you don’t provide enough hangers, she will think she is not wanted.
My firm was involved in waste. We were waste handlers, waste traders, cosmologists of waste. I traveled to the coastal lowlands of Texas and watched men in moon suits bury drums of dangerous waste in subterranean salt beds many millions of years old, dried-out remnants of a Mesozoic ocean. It was a religious conviction in our business that these deposits of rock salt would not leak radiation. Waste is a religious thing. We entomb contaminated waste with a sense of reverence and dread. It is necessary to respect what we discard.
I saw a man on the via della Spiga standing in front of a mirrored column smoothing his hair, running both hands over his hair, and the way he did it, the cast of his eyes, the slightly pitted skin, both hands guiding the flow of his hair—this was half a second in Milan one day—reminded me of a thousand things at once, long ago.
The Jesuits taught me to examine things for second meanings and deeper connections. Were they thinking about waste? We were waste managers, waste giants, we processed universal waste. Waste has a solemn aura now, an aspect of untouchability. White containers of plutonium waste with yellow caution tags. Handle carefully. Even the lowest household trash is closely observed. People look at their garbage differently now, seeing every bottle and crushed carton in a planetary context.
My son used to believe that he could look at a plane in flight and make it explode in midair by simply thinking it. He believed, at thirteen, that the border between himself and the world was thin and porous enough to allow him to affect the course of events. An aircraft in flight was a provocation too strong to ignore. He’d watch a plane gaining altitude after taking off from Sky Harbor and he’d sense an element of catastrophe tacit in the very fact of a flying object filled with people. He was sensitive to the most incidental stimulus and he thought he could feel the object itself yearning to burst. All he had to do was wish the fiery image into his mind and the plane would ignite and shatter. His sister used to tell him, Go ahead, blow it up, let me see you take that plane out of the sky with all two hundred people aboard, and it scared him to hear someone talk this way and it scared her too because she wasn’t completely convinced he could not do it. It’s the special skill of an adolescent to imagine the end of the world as an adjunct to his own discontent. But Jeff got older and lost interest and conviction. He lost the paradoxical gift for being separate and alone and yet intimately connected, mind-wired to distant things.
At home we separated our waste into glass and cans and paper products. Then we did clear glass versus colored glass. Then we did tin versus aluminum. We did plastic containers, without caps or lids, on Tuesdays only. Then we did yard waste. Then we did newspapers including glossy inserts but were careful not to tie the bundles in twine, which is always the temptation.
The corporation is supposed to take us outside ourselves. We design these organized bodies to respond to the market, face foursquare into the world. But things tend to drift dimly inward. Gossip, rumor, promotions, personalities, it’s only natural, isn’t it—all the human lapses that take up space in the company soul. But the world persists, the world heals in a way. You feel the contact points around you, the caress of linked grids that give you a sense of order and command. It’s there in the warbling banks of phones, in the fax machines and photocopiers and all the oceanic logic stored in your computer. Bemoan technology all you want. It expands your self-esteem and connects you in your well-pressed suit to the things that slip through the world otherwise unperceived.
Marian drove the car with a pencil in her hand. I don’t think I ever asked her why. I don’t think we talked the way we used to talk when the kids were growing up. What a richness of subject, two living things changing before our eyes, going from dumb clamor, from milk slop to formed words, or starting school, or just sitting at the table eating, little crayoned faces pumped with being. But they were grown people now with a computer after all, with rotating media shelves and a baby on the way and a bumper sticker (this was my son) that read Going Nowhere Fast. The days of the marriage were no longer filled with dialogues about Lainie and Jeff. We hung on the birth of the grandchild.
I ran along the drainage canal wearing a wireless headphone. I listened to Sufi chanting while I ran. I ran along the palm alleys and through the winding streets of orange trees and handsome stucco homes—streets of westward dreams, the kind of place my father could have taken us half a century earlier, lightward and westward, where people came to escape the hard-luck past with its gray streets and crowded flats and cabbage smells in the hallway.
Lainie was an entrepreneur, a hard driver, a bargainer, our huckster daughter, we called her, and she was living in Tucson with husband Dex. They made ethnic jewelry and sold it over a shopping channel, bracelets, chains, the works, and they did interviews and traveled to festivals and other cultural events. Her pregnancy gave us a lift and she sent photos of her changing shape and we drove down there often to see the booming body.
I rearranged the books on the shelves. I stood in the room looking at the books. Then I strapped my ankle wallet to my ankle and ran.
The larger she got, the happier we became. We never knew how happy we were supposed to be until we turned off Interstate 10 and followed the sweeping traffic on one of those mall arteries that resemble a marathon of headlong metal and found her little street and saw her posing in the doorway in stately profile.
I call the Lucky Strike logotype a target because I believe they were waiting for my father when he went out to buy a pac
k of cigarettes and they took him and put him in a car and drove him somewhere near the bay, where the river goes into the bay or where the lagoon lies silent in the dark and there are marshes and inlets, remote spits of land, and then they gave it to him good, the projectile entering the back of the head and making a pathway to the brain. And, besides, if it’s not a target, why did they name the brand Lucky Strike? True, there’s a gold-rush connotation. But a strike is not only the discovery of some precious metal in the ground. It is also a penetrating hit from a weapon. And isn’t there a connection between the name of the brand and the design of concentric circles on the package? This implies they were thinking target all along.
3
* * *
We sat in the Stadium Club with our sour-mash whiskey and bloody meat, pretending to watch the game. I’d been to Los Angeles many times on business but had never made the jaunt to Dodger Stadium. Big Sims had to wrestle me into his car to get me here.
We were set apart from the field, glassed in at press level, and even with a table by the window we heard only muffled sounds from the crowd. The radio announcer’s voice shot in clearly, transmitted from the booth, but the crowd remained at an eerie distance, soul-moaning like some lost battalion.
Brian Glassic said, “I hear they finally stopped ocean dumping off the East Coast.”
“Not while I’m eating,” I said.
“Tell him,” Sims said. “Describe it in detail. Make him smell the smell.”
“I also hear the more they dumped in a particular area, the richer the sea life.”
Sims looked at the Englishwoman, who alone ate fish.
“Hear that?” he said. “The sea life thrived.”
And Glassic said, “Let’s eat fast and get out of here and go sit in the stands like real people.”
And Sims said, “What for?”
“I need to hear the crowd.”
“No, you don’t.”
“What’s a ball game without crowd noise?”
“We’re here to eat a meal and see a game,” Sims said. “I took the trouble to book us a table by the window. You don’t go to a ballpark to hear a game. You go to see a game. Can you see all right?”
Simeon Biggs, Big Sims, was famous in the firm for his midbody girth. He was fat, bald and fifty-five but also strong, with a neck and arms resembling rock maple. If he liked you enough he might trade chest thumps or invite you to race him around the block. Sims ran the operational end of our Los Angeles campus, as we called it, and designed landfills that were prettier than pastel malls.
Glassic looked at me and said, “We need video helmets and power gloves. Because this isn’t reality. This is virtual reality. And we don’t have the proper equipment.”
Sims said, “We can’t take our drinks with us if we go to our seats.”
“That’s a forceful point,” I said.
The only time I ate the wrong food, just about, or drank too much, if ever, was when I was out with Sims, who was a living rebuke to the tactics of moderation.
The Englishwoman said, “Now as I understand it the pitcher gets a signal from the catcher. This pitch or that pitch. Fast or slow, up or down. But what happens if he ardently opposes the catcher’s selection?”
“He shakes off the sign,” Glassic said.
“Oh I see.”
“He waggles his glove or shakes his head,” Sims said. “Or he stares down the catcher.”
The Englishwoman, Jane Farish, was a BBC producer who wanted to do a program about the salt domes we were testing for the storage of nuclear waste, under the direction of the Department of Energy. She’d been busy for some years devouring American culture, leaving the earth scorched with interviews, she said—porno kings, contemplative monks, blues singers in prison. She’d just finished a sweep of California and was headed to a poker tournament in Reno and then into the desert to interview Klara Sax.
The Dodgers were playing the Giants.
Sims looked at Farish and said, “You know these two teams go way back. They were New York teams until the late fifties.”
“They moved west, did they?”
“Moved west, taking Nick’s heart and soul with them.”
Farish looked at me.
“There was nothing left to take. I was already a nonfan by that time. Burnt out. This is my first ball game in decades.”
“And it turns out to be silent,” Glassic said.
Big Sims ordered another round and told Farish about the old Brooklyn Dodgers. Sims grew up in Missouri and he got some of it right, some of it wrong. No one could explain the Dodgers who wasn’t there. The Englishwoman didn’t mind. She was absorbing things chemically, sometimes shutting her eyes to concentrate the process.
“Nick used to take his radio up to the roof,” Glassic said.
Farish spun in my direction.
“I had a portable radio I took everywhere. The beach, the movies—I went, it went. I was sixteen. And I listened to Dodger games on the roof. I liked to be alone. They were my team. I was the only Dodger fan in the neighborhood. I died inside when they lost. And it was important to die alone. Other people interfered. I had to listen alone. And then the radio told me whether I would live or die.”
It isn’t easy to be smart about baseball if you didn’t grow up with the game but Farish asked decent enough questions. It was the answers that came hard. We must have resembled three mathematicians so lost in their highly refined work that they haven’t noticed how quaint and opaque the terminology is, how double-meaning’d. We argued the language and tried to unravel it for the outsider.
“Does anyone want wine?” Farish said. “I wouldn’t mind trying a local white.”
“Wine is a copout,” Sims told her. “We clean toilets for a living.”
Glassic pointed out that an inning was an inning if we were speaking from the viewpoint of a pitcher getting three outs but it was only half an inning in the broader scheme of a nine-inning game with top halves and home halves. And the same half inning is also two-thirds of an inning if the pitcher is lifted with one out remaining.
I asked the waiter to get a glass of wine for our guest. Glassic returned to the paradox of the innings but Big Sims waved him off.
“Let’s go back to the Dodgers,” he said. “We left the kid on the roof with his radio.”
“Let’s not,” I said.
“You have to tell Jane what ended your career as a die-hard rooter.”
“I don’t remember.”
“Killed you so dead you never went back.”
“These are local afflictions. They don’t travel.”
“Tell her,” Sims said, “about the Bobby Thomson homer.”
Farish looked politely hopeful. She wanted someone to tell her something that made sense. So Sims told her about Thomson and Branca and how people still said to each other, more than forty years later, Where were you when Thomson hit the homer? He told her how some of us had stopped the moment and kept it faithfully shaped and how Sims himself had gone running in the streets, a black kid who didn’t even root for the Giants—heard the game on good old KMOX and ran out of the house shouting, I’m Bobby Thomson, I’m Bobby Thomson. And he told Farish how people claimed to have been present at the game who were not and how some of them honestly insisted they were there because the event had sufficient seeping power to make them think they had to be at the Polo Grounds that day or else how did they feel the thing so strongly in their skin.
“You’re not saying like Kennedy. Where were you when Kennedy was shot?”
Glassic said, “When JFK was shot, people went inside. We watched TV in dark rooms and talked on the phone with friends and relatives. We were all separate and alone. But when Thomson hit the homer, people rushed outside. People wanted to be together. Maybe it was the last time people spontaneously went out of their houses for something. Some wonder, some amazement. Like a footnote to the end of the war. I don’t know.”
“I don’t know either,” Sims said.
Farish looked at me.
“Don’t look at me,” I said.
“But you were on the roof, were you, when the blow was struck?”
“I didn’t have to rush outside. I was already outside. I rushed inside. I closed the door and died.”
“You were anticipating Kennedy,” Farish said, and got a little laugh.
“The next day I think it was I began to see all sorts of signs pointing to the number thirteen. Bad luck everywhere. I became a budding numerologist. I got pencil and paper and wrote down all the occult connections that seemed to lead to thirteen. I wish I could remember them. I remember one. It was the date of the game. October third or ten-three. Add the month and day and you get thirteen.”
“And Branca’s number,” Sims said.
“Of course. Branca wore thirteen.”
“They called it the Shot Heard Round the World,” Sims told Farish.
“A little bit of American bluster?”
“But what the hell,” Sims said.
Glassic was looking at me in a strange way, almost tenderly, the way someone regards a friend who is too dumb to know he is about to be exposed.
“Tell them about the baseball,” Glassic said.
He reached across the table and took some food from Sims’ plate.
Glassic was supposed to be my pal. I’d known Sims and Glassic a long time and Glassic, freckled free-style Brian, a man of shambling charm, was the guy I talked to when I talked about something. I talked to Big Sims but maybe I talked to Glassic more readily because he did not challenge me with his own experience, he did not narrow his eyes as Sims did and fix me in his gaze.
“Let’s change the subject,” I told him.
“No. I want you to speak about this. You owe it to Sims. It’s a crime that Sims does not know this. He’s the only one here who still loves the game.” Glassic turned to the Englishwoman. “I go to ball games when I go at all for the sake of keeping up. It’s a fall from grace if you don’t keep up. Nick has fallen from grace. Only Sims is completely, miserably in touch. We had the real Dodgers and Giants. Now we have the holograms.”
