by Don DeLillo
“I already looked. I looked.”
“We could always call her doctor. But I don’t want to make too much of this. Everybody takes some kind of medication, everybody forgets things occasionally.”
“Not like my mother.”
“I forget things all the time.”
“What do you take?”
“Blood pressure pills, stress pills, allergy pills, eye drops, aspirin. Run of the mill.”
“I looked in the medicine chest in your bathroom.”
“No Dylar?”
“I thought there might be a new bottle.”
“The doctor prescribed thirty pills. That was it. Run of the mill. Everybody takes something.”
“I still want to know,” she said.
All this time she’d been turned away from me. There were plot potentials in this situation, chances for people to make devious maneuvers, secret plans. But now she shifted position, used an elbow to prop her upper body and watched me speculatively from the foot of the bed.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Sure,” I said.
“You won’t get mad?”
“You know what’s in my medicine chest. What secrets are left?”
“Why did you name Heinrich Heinrich?”
“Fair question.”
“You don’t have to answer.”
“Good question. No reason why you shouldn’t ask.”
“So why did you?”
“I thought it was a forceful name, a strong name. It has a kind of authority.”
“Is he named after anyone?”
“No. He was born shortly after I started the department and I guess I wanted to acknowledge my good fortune. I wanted to do something German. I felt a gesture was called for.”
“Heinrich Gerhardt Gladney?”
“I thought it had an authority that might cling to him. I though it was forceful and impressive and I still do. I wanted to shield him, make him unafraid. People were naming their children Kim, Kelly and Tracy.”
There was a long silence. She kept watching me. Her features, crowded somewhat in the center of her face, gave to her moments of concentration a puggish and half-belligerent look.
“Do you think I miscalculated?”
“It’s not for me to say.”
“There’s something about German names, the German language, German things. I don’t know what it is exactly. It’s just there. In the middle of it all is Hitler, of course.”
“He was on again last night.”
“He’s always on. We couldn’t have television without him.”
“They lost the war,” she said. “How great could they be?”
“A valid point. But it’s not a question of greatness. It’s not a question of good and evil. I don’t know what it is. Look at it this way. Some people always wear a favorite color. Some people carry a gun. Some people put on a uniform and feel bigger, stronger, safer. It’s in this area that my obsessions dwell.”
Steffie came in wearing Denise’s green visor. I didn’t know what this meant. She climbed up on the bed and all three of us went through my German-English dictionary, looking for words that sound about the same in both languages, like orgy and shoe.
Heinrich came running down the hall, burst into the room. “Come on, hurry up, plane crash footage.” Then he was out the door, the girls were off the bed, all three of them running along the hall to the TV set.
I sat in bed a little stunned. The swiftness and noise of their leaving had put the room in a state of molecular agitation. In the debris of invisible matter, the question seemed to be, What is happening here? By the time I got to the room at the end of the hall, there was only a puff of black smoke at the edge of the screen. But the crash was shown two more times, once in stop-action replay, as an analyst attempted to explain the reason for the plunge. A jet trainer in an air show in New Zealand.
We had two closet doors that opened by themselves.
That night, a Friday, we gathered in front of the set, as was the custom and the rule, with take-out Chinese. There were floods, earthquakes, mud slides, erupting volcanoes. We’d never before been so attentive to our duty, our Friday assembly. Heinrich was not sullen, I was not bored. Steffie, brought close to tears by a sitcom husband arguing with his wife, appeared totally absorbed in these documentary clips of calamity and death. Babette tried to switch to a comedy series about a group of racially mixed kids who build their own communications satellite. She was startled by the force of our objection. We were otherwise silent, watching houses slide into the ocean, whole villages crackle and ignite in a mass of advancing lava. Every disaster made us wish for more, for something bigger, grander, more sweeping.
I walked into my office on Monday to find Murray sitting in the chair adjacent to the desk, like someone waiting for a nurse to arrive with a blood-pressure gauge. He’d been having trouble, he said, establishing an Elvis Presley power base in the department of American environments. The chairman, Alfonse Stompanato, seemed to feel that one of the other instructors, a three-hundred-pound former rock ’n’ roll bodyguard named Dimitrios Cotsakis, had established prior right by having flown to Memphis when the King died, interviewed members of the King’s entourage and family, been interviewed himself on local television as an Interpreter of the Phenomenon.
A more than middling coup, Murray conceded. I suggested that I might drop by his next lecture, informally, unannounced, simply to lend a note of consequence to the proceedings, to give him the benefit of whatever influence and prestige might reside in my office, my subject, my physical person. He nodded slowly, fingering the ends of his beard.
Later at lunch I spotted only one empty chair, at a table occupied by the New York émigrés. Alfonse sat at the head of the table, a commanding presence even in a campus lunchroom. He was large, sardonic, dark-staring, with scarred brows and a furious beard fringed in gray. It was the very beard I would have grown in 1969 if Janet Savory, my second wife, Heinrich’s mother, hadn’t argued against it. “Let them see that bland expanse,” she said, in her tiny dry voice. “It is more effective than you think.”
Alfonse invested everything he did with a sense of all-consuming purpose. He knew four languages, had a photographic memory, did complex mathematics in his head. He’d once told me that the art of getting ahead in New York was based on learning how to express dissatisfaction in an interesting way. The air was full of rage and complaint. People had no tolerance for your particular hardship unless you knew how to entertain them with it. Alfonse himself was occasionally entertaining in a pulverizing way. He had a manner that enabled him to absorb and destroy all opinions in conflict with his. When he talked about popular culture, he exercised the closed logic of a religious zealot, one who kills for his beliefs. His breathing grew heavy, arrhythmic, his brows seemed to lock. The other émigrés appeared to find his challenges and taunts a proper context for their endeavor. They used his office to pitch pennies to the wall.
I said to him, “Why is it, Alfonse, that decent, well-meaning and responsible people find themselves intrigued by catastrophe when they see it on television?”
I told him about the recent evening of lava, mud and raging water that the children and I had found so entertaining.
“We wanted more, more.”
“It’s natural, it’s normal,” he said, with a reassuring nod. “It happens to everybody.”
“Why?”
“Because we’re suffering from brain fade. We need an occasional catastrophe to break up the incessant bombardment of information.”
“It’s obvious,” Lasher said. A slight man with a taut face and slicked-back hair.
“The flow is constant,” Alfonse said. “Words, pictures, numbers, facts, graphics, statistics, specks, waves, particles, motes. Only a catastrophe gets our attention. We want them, we need them, we depend on them. As long as they happen somewhere else. This is where California comes in. Mud slides, brush fires, coastal erosion, earthquakes, mass killings, et cetera. W
e can relax and enjoy these disasters because in our hearts we feel that California deserves whatever it gets. Californians invented the concept of life-style. This alone warrants their doom.”
Cotsakis crushed a can of Diet Pepsi and threw it at a garbage pail.
“Japan is pretty good for disaster footage,” Alfonse said. “India remains largely untapped. They have tremendous potential with their famines, monsoons, religious strife, train wrecks, boat sinkings, et cetera. But their disasters tend to go unrecorded. Three lines in the newspaper. No film footage, no satellite hookup. This is why California is so important. We not only enjoy seeing them punished for their relaxed life-style and progressive social ideas but we know we’re not missing anything. The cameras are right there. They’re standing by. Nothing terrible escapes their scrutiny.”
“You’re saying it’s more or less universal, to be fascinated by TV disasters.”
“For most people there are only two places in the world. Where they live and their TV set. If a thing happens on television, we have every right to find it fascinating, whatever it is.”
“I don’t know whether to feel good or bad about learning that my experience is widely shared.”
“Feel bad,” he said.
“It’s obvious,” Lasher said. “We all feel bad. But we can enjoy it on that level.”
Murray said, “This is what comes from the wrong kind of attentiveness. People get brain fade. This is because they’ve forgotten how to listen and look as children. They’ve forgotten how to collect data. In the psychic sense a forest fire on TV is on a lower plane than a ten-second spot for Automatic Dishwasher All. The commercial has deeper waves, deeper emanations. But we have reversed the relative significance of these things. This is why people’s eyes, ears, brains and nervous systems have grown weary. It’s a simple case of misuse.”
Grappa casually tossed half a buttered roll at Lasher, hitting him on the shoulder. Grappa was pale and baby-fattish and the tossed roll was an attempt to get Lasher’s attention.
Grappa said to him, “Did you ever brush your teeth with your finger?”
“I brushed my teeth with my finger the first time I stayed overnight at my wife’s parents’ house, before we were married, when her parents spent a weekend at Asbury Park. They were an Ipana family.”
“Forgetting my toothbrush is a fetish with me,” Cotsakis said. “I brushed my teeth with my finger at Woodstock, Altamont, Monterey, about a dozen other seminal events.”
Grappa looked at Murray.
“I brushed my teeth with my finger after the Ali-Foreman fight in Zaire,” Murray said. “That’s the southernmost point I’ve ever brushed my teeth with my finger at.”
Lasher looked at Grappa.
“Did you ever crap in a toilet bowl that had no seat?”
Grappa’s response was semi-lyrical. “A great and funky men’s room in an old Socony Mobil station on the Boston Post Road the first time my father took the car outside the city. The station with the flying red horse. You want the car? I can give you car details down to the last little option.”
“These are the things they don’t teach,” Lasher said. “Bowls with no seats. Pissing in sinks. The culture of public toilets. All those great diners, movie houses, gas stations. The whole ethos of the road. I’ve pissed in sinks all through the American West. I’ve slipped across the border to piss in sinks in Manitoba and Alberta. This is what it’s all about. The great western skies. The Best Western motels. The diners and drive-ins. The poetry of the road, the plains, the desert. The filthy stinking toilets. I pissed in a sink in Utah when it was twenty-two below. That’s the coldest I’ve ever pissed in a sink in.”
Alfonse Stompanato looked hard at Lasher.
“Where were you when James Dean died?” he said in a threatening voice.
“In my wife’s parents’ house before we were married, listening to ‘Make Believe Ballroom’ on the old Emerson table model. The Motorola with the glowing dial was already a thing of the past.”
“You spent a lot of time in your wife’s parents’ house, it seems, screwing,” Alfonse said.
“We were kids. It was too early in the cultural matrix for actual screwing.”
“What were you doing?”
“She’s my wife, Alfonse. You want me to tell a crowded table?”
“James Dean is dead and you’re groping some twelve-year-old.”
Alfonse glared at Dimitrios Cotsakis.
“Where were you when James Dean died?”
“In the back of my uncle’s restaurant in Astoria, Queens, vacuuming with the Hoover.”
Alfonse looked at Grappa.
“Where the hell were you?” he said, as if the thought had just occurred to him that the actor’s death was not complete without some record of Grappa’s whereabouts.
“I know exactly where I was, Alfonse. Let me think a minute.”
“Where were you, you son of a bitch?”
“I always know these things down to the smallest detail. But I was a dreamy adolescent. I have these gaps in my life.”
“You were busy jerking off. Is that what you mean?”
“Ask me Joan Crawford.”
“September thirty, nineteen fifty-five. James Dean dies. Where is Nicholas Grappa and what is he doing?”
“Ask me Gable, ask me Monroe.”
“The silver Porsche approaches an intersection, going like a streak. No time to brake for the Ford sedan. Glass shatters, metal screams. Jimmy Dean sits in the driver’s seat with a broken neck, multiple fractures and lacerations. It is five forty-five in the afternoon, Pacific Coast Time. Where is Nicholas Grappa, the jerk-off king of the Bronx?”
“Ask me Jeff Chandler.”
“You’re a middle-aged man, Nicky, who trafficks in his own childhood. You have an obligation to produce.”
“Ask me John Garfield, ask me Monty Clift.”
Cotsakis was a monolith of thick and wadded flesh. He’d been Little Richard’s personal bodyguard and had led security details at rock concerts before joining the faculty here.
Elliot Lasher threw a chunk of raw carrot at him, then asked, “Did you ever have a woman peel flaking skin from your back after a few days at the beach?”
“Cocoa Beach, Florida,” Cotsakis said. “It was very tremendous. The second or third greatest experience of my life.”
“Was she naked?” Lasher said.
“To the waist,” Cotsakis said.
“From which direction?” Lasher said.
I watched Grappa throw a cracker at Murray. He skimmed it backhand like a Frisbee.
15
I PUT ON MY DARK GLASSES, composed my face and walked into the room. There were twenty-five or thirty young men and women, many in fall colors, seated in armchairs and sofas and on the beige broadloom. Murray walked among them, speaking, his right hand trembling in a stylized way. When he saw me, he smiled sheepishly. I stood against the wall, attempting to loom, my arms folded under the black gown.
Murray was in the midst of a thoughtful monologue.
“Did his mother know that Elvis would die young? She talked about assassins. She talked about the life. The life of a star of this type and magnitude. Isn’t the life structured to cut you down early? This is the point, isn’t it? There are rules, guidelines. If you don’t have the grace and wit to die early, you are forced to vanish, to hide as if in shame and apology. She worried about his sleepwalking. She thought he might go out a window. I have a feeling about mothers. Mothers really do know. The folklore is correct.”
“Hitler adored his mother,” I said.
A surge of attention, unspoken, identifiable only in a certain convergence of stillness, an inward tensing. Murray kept moving, of course, but a bit more deliberately, picking his way between the chairs, the people seated on the floor. I stood against the wall, arms folded.
“Elvis and Gladys liked to nuzzle and pet,” he said. “They slept in the same bed until he began to approach physical maturity. They talked baby
talk to each other all the time.”
“Hitler was a lazy kid. His report card was full of unsatisfactorys. But Klara loved him, spoiled him, gave him the attention his father failed to give him. She was a quiet woman, modest and religious, and a good cook and housekeeper.”
“Gladys walked Elvis to school and back every day. She defended him in little street rumbles, lashed out at any kid who tried to bully him.”
“Hitler fantasized. He took piano lessons, made sketches of museums and villas. He sat around the house a lot. Klara tolerated this. He was the first of her children to survive infancy. Three others had died.”
“Elvis confided in Gladys. He brought his girlfriends around to meet her.”
“Hitler wrote a poem to his mother. His mother and his niece were the women with the greatest hold on his mind.”
“When Elvis went into the army, Gladys became ill and depressed. She sensed something, maybe as much about herself as about him. Her psychic apparatus was flashing all the wrong signals. Foreboding and gloom.”
“There’s not much doubt that Hitler was what we call a mama’s boy.”
A note-taking young man murmured absently, “Muttersöhnchen.” I regarded him warily. Then, on an impulse, I abandoned my stance at the wall and began to pace the room like Murray, occasionally pausing to gesture, to listen, to gaze out a window or up at the ceiling.
“Elvis could hardly bear to let Gladys out of his sight when her condition grew worse. He kept a vigil at the hospital.”
“When his mother became severely ill, Hitler put a bed in the kitchen to be closer to her. He cooked and cleaned.”
“Elvis fell apart with grief when Gladys died. He fondled and petted her in the casket. He talked baby talk to her until she was in the ground.”
“Klara’s funeral cost three hundred and seventy kronen. Hitler wept at the grave and fell into a period of depression and self-pity. He felt an intense loneliness. He’d lost not only his beloved mother but also his sense of home and hearth.”
“It seems fairly certain that Glady’s death caused a fundamental shift at the center of the King’s world view. She’d been his anchor, his sense of security. He began to withdraw from the real world, to enter the state of his own dying.”
