I Think You're Totally Wrong

by David Shields

  DAVID: I’ve met him a couple of times.

  CALEB: We’re Facebook friends and he posted an article by Hitchens criticizing Mormons. I looked at the Hitchens article and then I wrote in the comment section on Madden’s post: “Mormons have one too many m’s.”

  David laughs.

  CALEB: Patrick writes, “That’s not a very nice thing to say about a religion that fourteen million people believe in.” I’m thinking, Hmm, not what I expected. So I write, “Nice, schmice.” Then he writes, “So you insult me, my wife, my family, and my community?”

  DAVID: Whoa.

  CALEB: The back-and-forth isn’t going the way I hoped. I go over the whole thread, dig up some info on Madden, and not only is he a Mormon but he converted. I can’t tell him I didn’t mean what I said, because I did, but I regret my attack and I want to convey this. I write an apology, saying that I respect him as a person and a writer and that my words and opinions had no place, given the spirit of the conversation. He writes an elegant reply—humble, understanding, kind, almost as if he’s apologizing to me.

  DAVID: There’s something very substantial about him; you can feel that immediately. He’s a mensch.

  CALEB: I told him I’m universally disrespectful of religion—a vice that to me is a virtue—that I drink beer while my mother says grace, and when someone sneezes I say, “Imaginary Friend bless you.”

  DAVID: What’d he say?

  CALEB: That he’s had to deal with much worse.

  CALEB: I get the feeling David Markson spends fifteen hours a day, seven days a week, reading and writing. I’m not sure how much experience he has with life.

  DAVID: He died a year or two ago, but that’s obviously a very scary model for myself.

  CALEB: There’s no way all those writers Markson romanticizes have mastered that many languages. It’s like some actress can say bonjour and her publicity agent sells her as fluent in French.

  DAVID: I find what you say reassuring, because I’m embarrassed that I’ve never gained true command of a second language. Even Nabokov’s English is, to me, so phony. Markson calls it “the precious, pinchbeck, ultimately often flat prose of Vladimir Nabokov.” All those twenty-dollar words of his, the enormous amount of alliteration. He actually has a really bad ear.

  CALEB: I can forgive stilted language in Nabokov or Conrad or anyone who speaks a second language and writes intelligently. You’ve grown further and further away from Nabokov.

  DAVID: Completely.

  CALEB: You used to put him on a pedestal in class.

  DAVID: I used to love his imperious distance. Now I hate it. There’s never any blood on the page.

  Returning on a forest service dirt road.

  DAVID: I was staying in Mexico one summer, many years ago, writing Dead Languages. People at the hotel would ask me what I was doing and what the book was about, but I didn’t have sufficiently good Spanish to explain this “literary” novel, so I made up this other book: La casa del fuego.

  CALEB: Your Spanish was decent enough to communicate that?

  DAVID: Each morning one of the waiters would ask me how my novel was coming along: “¿Qué pasa con tu romance?” And I’d say, “¡Mi dios!” Off I’d go on this fake novel. It was very basic—a melodramatic soap opera in which a house winds up burning down—but it was fun to “write.”

  I met this girl in Manzanillo at the beginning of the summer, when my Spanish was horrible. I visited her again in Guadalajara at the end of the summer, and she couldn’t believe we could actually communicate now. I’d spoken hardly any English in four and a half months.

  CALEB: I’m surprised you don’t spend more time in Mexico. ¿Balbuceas en español?

  DAVID: My Spanish was so faulty that if I stuttered, people thought I was simply having trouble with a foreign language, so it wasn’t that evident. The moment I turned back to English, they’d notice that I spoke much faster in English.

  CALEB: Speak English and you can teach and see the world.

  DAVID: We’re both lucky and unlucky we speak English.

  CALEB: Shit!

  DAVID: Uh-oh. That sounded bad. A puncture? Is that the main worry?

  CALEB: I almost hope there’s a flat. Jeez, David Shields can’t change a flat.

  DAVID: I don’t keep picking up transvestites.

  CALEB: The park service must have decided to throw a bunch of jagged stones in a ravine every hundred yards. Slowly but surely we made it. Hot tub?

  DAVID: Sounds great. The Husky game is on, too.

  CALEB: What time?

  DAVID: They started at four. I wouldn’t mind watching the last half, especially if they’re in it. What time does the café close?

  CALEB: The bar’s open past midnight, but the kitchen closes at around nine. You might meet Billy, town drunk, single father who bitches about his ex-wife and how he never sees his kids.

  DAVID: Fun!

  RADIO: (static)

  CALEB: What station, 950?

  RADIO ANNOUNCER ONE: Washington has scored on their first possession of the third quarter. 12:13 to go, 17–7, Dawgs, on the Washington Husky Sports Network.

  CALEB: That’s a surprise.

  DAVID: That they’re winning?

  CALEB: That. And we get reception. Two years ago, radio and cell phone were real bad in these parts.

  ANNOUNCER ONE: Joe Kruger, a much-heralded sophomore, six-seven, 270. His older brother, Dave, played for the Baltimore Ravens. This Kruger family—outstanding defensive linemen.

  ANNOUNCER TWO: And his brother Freddy, with all those movies. Figures as a slasher kind of guy. Freddy, yeah, he’s over on Elm Street.

  ANNOUNCER ONE: Ha ha ha. Second and ten. Huskies at their forty-eight yardline, hash on the right. Handoff to Polk: midfield, forty-five, forty, first down and then some.

  CALEB: How often do you bump into David Downing?

  DAVID: Because he’s so tall and we live near each other, I see him a lot, and he always says, “Are you still writing?” I say, “Yeah.” And he always says, “Well, when are you going to write another novel?” I’m like, Dude.

  Caleb laughs.

  DAVID: Is he just out of the loop?

  CALEB: He’s written four novels.

  DAVID: Children’s books, I think.

  CALEB: Maybe, but he told me he’s got four unpublished novels and is working on another. These days he’s a father, edits for Amazon, likes it, gets paid well, and has time to write.

  A lot of Davids: David Downing. You’re David. My dad’s David. David Barouh. My middle name’s David.

  DAVID: We’ll get readers nicely confused. They’ll think they’re in the middle of a Faulkner novel with six people all having the same novel. I mean, the same name.

  CALEB: I’ve tried all sorts of bio notes. I like the simple ones: “Caleb Powell likes hanging out with friends and family. He’s always up for a beer.”

  DAVID: Those are good: “Anne Carson lives in Canada.”

  CALEB: Your bio mentions five awards you’ve won and that you’ve published eleven books and then goes on to list fifteen magazines you’ve written for. It’s longer than the essay it’s attached to. Why not just say, “David Shields can’t change a flat”? Link to your blog and let that be that?

  DAVID: Well.

  CALEB: You up for shooting some hoops? Then hot tub.

  David picks up the ball and takes a shot, which rims out.

  CALEB: You wrote about Charles Barkley and how, wherever he goes, he’d get challenged. “You work at 7-Eleven and I’m in the NBA. What makes you think I want to hoop with you?” You made him seem cool: able to hang out with the regular guy.

  DAVID: (shooting ball) He’s complicated.

  CALEB: A little gimpy, but not too bad.

  DAVID: I haven’t shot hoops in a long time. I swim, but basketball’s not good on the back.

  CALEB: Okay. We’ll just shoot around.

  DAVID: On my way to the pool, I always walk by the Green Lake courts so I can watch a f
ew plays, hear some funny lines. One time, I could see the ball was going to bounce directly to me, so I moved my swim bag from one side to the other and stutter-stepped in order to catch the ball in stride. I zoomed the rock behind my back to Ed Jones forty feet away. In that stentorian voice of his he just kept saying, “John Stockton! On the money! John Stockton! Dead on the money!” Highlight of my basketball life.

  Caleb laughs.

  DAVID: Key thing was I never looked back. Just kept walking.

  CALEB: Classy flesh-colored shorts.

  DAVID: I know. You probably thought I was naked.

  CALEB: I turn around and … eek!

  DAVID: They started out black, and I swim so much they’ve become brown over time.

  CALEB: They went from black to brown to flesh? I’ll leave the DVR right here. No splashing.

  DAVID: This feels pretty damn good.

  CALEB: Really nice. Check out them thar mountains.

  DAVID: Don’t turn it up any higher.

  CALEB: It’s at 104. It doesn’t go any higher.

  Sound of water jets turning on.

  DAVID: Jets?

  CALEB: We’ll probably not be able to hear much. Let’s take a break.

  CALEB: (to DVR) October 1st, 8:09 p.m., Skykomish. Huskies win, 31–14. We’re heading to the Cascadia Inn. David is driving because he wants to learn the terrain.

  DAVID: Actually, because I didn’t think you should be driving after—

  CALEB: We’ve passed the train tracks at Money Creek campground and are heading to Highway 2. Take a right.

  DAVID: Two lefts, then a right.

  CALEB: I’ve got a good sense of direction because of my Oriental background.

  DAVID: You’re “Oriental”?

  CALEB: I was born in Taiwan. I can orient. The shadows speak to the sun, the sun speaks to the shadows, and the sun and shadows speak to you.

  DAVID: Town is about five miles?

  CALEB: You’re two feet over the white line. We’re in the ditch!

  DAVID: Okay. Relax. I turn here, right? I just wanted to make sure.

  Inside the Cascadia Inn.

  CALEB: Remember when we ate at Restaurant Zoe and the amuse-bouche came, the celery soup with crème fraîche?

  DAVID: Did I make a blunder?

  CALEB: You took a sip to be polite.

  DAVID: I can’t believe you noticed.

  CALEB: Danny sent out a couple of small plates, and you wondered aloud if we’d have to pay for them. My brother-in-law is chef de cuisine and, even without a family connection, you never pay for something you didn’t order.

  WAITRESS: Okay, guys, have you decided?

  CALEB: I’m ready.

  WAITRESS: Are you ready?

  DAVID: I’m ready.

  WAITRESS: He’s ready and you’re ready. Then we’re ready! All right, let’s do this.

  CALEB: I’ll have the special. Salad, no dressing, with lemon wedges if you have them.

  WAITRESS: We do.

  CALEB: Awesome.

  WAITRESS: How would you like your steak?

  CALEB: Medium rare. And a Sierra Nevada Pale Ale.

  WAITRESS: Okay. And for you? Are you together?

  DAVID: Yes.

  WAITRESS: (with raised eyebrow) Together? One bill. I can do that.

  DAVID: I’ll have the spaghetti with meat sauce.

  WAITRESS: What kind of dressing with the salad?

  DAVID: Honey mustard looks good.

  WAITRESS: Honey mustard.

  DAVID: And water. A pitcher of water.

  WAITRESS: Alrrrrriggggght. Done deal.

  CALEB: You didn’t drink at all—not in high school or college?

  DAVID: Very, very little.

  CALEB: How many times have you been drunk in your life?

  DAVID: I don’t know. Depends how you define “drunk.” Maybe ten times.

  CALEB: I’ve never seen my dad drunk. He’ll have the rare beer.

  DAVID: I grew up in a family that didn’t drink much. I drank a little in grad school, but—

  WAITRESS: Here’s your beer. You want a glass?

  CALEB: No thanks.

  DAVID: Then, somehow, from thirty to fifty, I didn’t drink much at all, because it seemed to exacerbate the cystitis I had, which may be TMI. Now I’ll usually have a beer with dinner. Do you find it hard to control drinking?

  CALEB: Easy. When I want a beer, I’ll have one. There have been times when Terry’s had to pull in the reins, though. I’ve had moments.

  DAVID: When Terry works from home, what does she do exactly?

  CALEB: She’s on the phone, answering email, talking to coworkers, preparing for presentations, going over contracts, and so on.

  WAITRESS: Here it is.

  CALEB: Looks great.

  WAITRESS: Can I get you anything else?

  DAVID: I’m good.

  CALEB: One more beer.

  WAITRESS: Same?

  CALEB: You bet.

  DAVID: She doesn’t ever deal with Murdoch, does she?

  CALEB: No. One degree of separation. There are 900 employees in her company, which was bought by NewsCorp, which has 50,000 employees.

  DAVID: Does she feel any moral qualms about working for NewsCorp?

  CALEB: Why should she?

  DAVID: You don’t think Murdoch is a supremely negative force in the world?

  CALEB: Not only is he not a malevolent force—

  DAVID: My god, are you serious?

  CALEB: Completely.

  DAVID: I can’t believe it. What are you—a laissez-faire capitalist?

  CALEB: Adam Smith was one of the great humanitarians of the eighteenth century. Pull quotes from Wealth of Nations, line them up with Marx or Che or Mao or even—

  DAVID: Only one problem: Rupert Murdoch isn’t Adam Smith.

  CALEB: I’m part free-market socialist, part big-government libertarian, part agnostic fundamentalist. I’m for fiscal responsibility. Socialism works for health and education; capitalism works better with restaurants and automobiles.

  DAVID: Those are all easy—

  CALEB: Murdoch’s biases balance out the left.

  DAVID: I’m not for every social program, but he tends to support extraordinarily right-wing candidates throughout the Western world. And he’s hugely lowered the level of discourse in journalism and media.

  CALEB: Fox News suffers from pseudo-journalism, sure.

  DAVID: Even that is a very generous appraisal of what they do.

  CALEB: So you’re on the “crush NewsCorp” bandwagon?

  DAVID: What are Terry’s politics?

  CALEB: She voted for Obama.

  DAVID: So she’s not especially conservative.

  CALEB: No, but if she was, so?

  DAVID: Are people at work to the right of her?

  CALEB: Does it matter?

  DAVID: I thought you were the person who thought politics mattered.

  CALEB: She works with highly ethical and motivated people for a company that treats their employees well.

  DAVID: Huh?

  CALEB: You question life and death, but don’t question your own views about Rupert Murdoch?

  DAVID: And you’ve suddenly lowered your periscope to whether a company gives its employees three-week vacations?

  WAITRESS: Is anything the matter?

  CALEB: The beer?

  WAITRESS: Here’s your beer.

  CALEB: Thanks much. What was I saying? People on the right aren’t “evil.” Rupert Murdoch isn’t “evil.” Terry’s been treated fairly; her coworkers are treated fairly; they have good benefits. The harder you work, the more you get paid. NewsCorp gives more than they have to in benefits and vacations, and they recognized gay unions when they didn’t have to. NewsCorp owns HarperCollins, for crying out loud. Does Barbara Kingsolver have “moral qualms” about cashing her HarperCollins royalty check? Do Matt Groening and The Simpsons posse, guys like Harry Shearer, have “moral qualms” that NewsCorp makes them multimillionaires? Yo
u must have really liked your food.

  DAVID: It’s delicious. The food is really good here.

  CALEB: It hits the spot.

  CALEB: Sam Harris, in The Moral Landscape, says that psychopaths represent one percent of the population. Martha Stout, in The Sociopath Next Door, says they represent four percent of the population. Someone’s wrong.

  DAVID: I’d vote for four.

  CALEB: Take Milgram, add human history and moral absolutes, and you can make a case that we’re all sociopaths.

  DAVID: I’m not. I recognize the reality of other human beings.

  CALEB: Depends. My aunt Grace, a poet and my mom’s sister, wrote a poem about the death of her cat. And the point of her poem was that people die all the time everywhere, but she didn’t care. She was devastated by the death of her cat. Grace is a warm, caring person. Of course she’s not a sociopath, but—

  DAVID: I don’t see how it illustrates your point. A sociopath acts on his antisocial sentiments. He is incapable of empathy or remorse. Your aunt just misses her cat. They’re not remotely the same thing.

  CALEB: I’m trying to get to John Donne: “Any man’s death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind.” Are we diminished? Are we involved? I’m working off what you said about Bush. It comes down to how many points of separation there are between you and responsibility. You thought George Bush evil. You more or less accused him of being a sociopath. Not to mention Rupert Murdoch and Fox News. Therefore, I could make a somewhat exaggerated yet plausible case that you see a world divided, half full of sociopaths responsible for, say, collateral damage in Iraq but sans remorse or empathy or responsibility. I’m playing devil’s advocate, of course, and using rhetorical—

  DAVID: Wait, this is all just a devil’s advocate argument for you?

  WAITRESS: Apple pie?

  DAVID: Sounds great. Do you have ice cream?

  WAITRESS: You bet. All right, apple pie it is.

  CALEB: The “survivor” episode of Curb [Your Enthusiasm]: The rabbi asks Larry, “Hey, a good friend of mine is a survivor. Could I bring him?” Larry says sure. Larry’s father’s friend, Solly, is also a survivor. Solly is ninety, has a glass eye, “very Jewish.” Solly shows up and says, “Where’s the survivor?” The rabbi brings out this young guy. Solly goes, “You’re not a survivor.” And the guy goes, “I am, too, a survivor. Survivor Australia, ten days without shoes, poisonous snakes.” Solly says, “Holocaust, one loaf of bread a week, ten degrees below, Poland.”