by Daniel Klein
The bartender is uncommon too, a sloe-eyed Eurasian beauty in her early thirties who appears as out of place as he feels.
“Beer?” she asks.
“And something to eat,” Digby replies. “I feel the need for some protein.”
“Land or sea?”
“A recently killed four-legged animal would be nice.”
She offers Digby the barest hint of a smile and he realizes that, like comely bartenders everywhere, she has learned to balance professional friendliness with a subtext of “Don’t even think you have a chance with me.” Fair enough. Digby chooses an apple-stuffed pork chop and mashed potatoes. The beer is local, a brew called Trout River, tart and bubbly as its name. He sips. He looks around the place.
The clientele, for the most part, are Louden students and they have what Digby’s mother approvingly calls “fresh-scrubbed” faces. His mother means by this, among other things, white faces, and that they are, pinkishly white and wide-eyed. Before Digby Googled Louden College, he had no idea that student bodies like this still existed anywhere in the U.S., let alone in the Northeast. Like many small, old New England colleges, it was founded by a minister with magniloquent ideals that he was called to instill in young Christian men. Actually, this made Louden little different from, say, Amherst or Middlebury, but over the decades, while those two colleges paddled into changing currents in American thought, not to mention America’s changing demographics, Louden proudly clung to Pastor Jeremiah Louden’s values, among these being his high regard for light-hued skin. Not coincidentally, the intellectual quality of its student body steadily declined although, in the past several years, it experienced a modest upturn in that regard as a result of the trickle-down effect of A-and B-level colleges becoming more selective.
Two tables in the far corner are occupied by men and women in Digby’s age group. It is hard to tell from the way they are dressed and coiffed whether they are connected to the college. His only clue that they might be is the expressions on their faces—they look grim.
But what is this? One of them is waving in his direction. He does the obligatory glance behind him to see if the wave’s intended recipient is someone more deserving, but no, he is definitely being waved at by a fortyish blonde. Was she once one of the pretty young things with whom he had his way when he was in his early shithead years? Is she going to slap him on the shoulder and tell him that she always thought he would end his days in an obscure college town?
She is coming toward Digby and he now realizes she was the server at Mrs. Hastings’ shindig.
“Max?” she says, extending a pale hand.
“Digby,” he replies. “Digby Maxwell. Thanks for the croquettes.”
“I defrosted them myself,” she says. “I’m Winny. Would you like to join us?”
“I, uh, I just ordered my dinner.”
“I’m sure Ada will be able to find you,” Winny says. “Unless you’d rather be alone with your thoughts, of course.”
Actually, he was about to beg off, but hearing the words “alone with your thoughts” forces him to reconsider: the thoughts he has been alone with lately have been lacking in consolation.
Winny leads the way to the corner table where he is introduced to a dour-looking, forty-something woman named Florence and a smug-looking, ponytailed fellow in his fifties named Milton. All three are Louden faculty: Florence an assistant professor of macroeconomics, Milton a full professor of applied physics, and Digby’s erstwhile croquette server an instructor in creative writing who supplements her income with a small catering business. Digby has little doubt that like most faculty at middling colleges, the teachers at Louden are overqualified in their fields and under-stimulated by their students, but his sense is that they have one sweet deal here, cushy schedules and perfumed mountain air for starters, so he feels no desire to waste any compassion on them. All of these three know who he is, what brought him here and, apparently, then some.
“I was just telling them what a breath of fresh air you were last night,” Winny says.
“Steamy air,” Digby replies.
“Oh, that was part of your charm,” Winny says.
“What were you doing in there—your laundry?” Milton says.
Jesus Christ, the public fishbowl of small town life. Were they going to weigh in on his bowel habits next?
Close, actually.
“I understand you’re doing an issue about heaven,” Florence says.
Digby’s pork chop arrives and he saws off a bite before responding, simply, “Yup.”
“ ‘Hebben, hebben, Goin’ to walk all over God’s hebben,’ ” Milton croons in what he apparently believes is African-American dialect. He wears the familiar, self-satisfied expression of an intellectual verbally slumming it. Digby wishes to God he had remained at the bar.
“I think it’s a terrific idea,” Winny chimes. “And so does Felicia—Mrs. Hastings.”
To Digby’s surprise, he finds this news exceedingly uplifting. He is not yet fully accustomed to the idea that he really does want to keep his job. Nonetheless, he restrains himself from asking for any details about Felicia’s reaction. Florence asks him what he thinks of Louden so far.
“Very pretty,” he says. “And very white.”
“We have one heck of a time attracting African-American applicants,” Florence replies earnestly.
“It would probably help if we had better than a Division Three basketball team,” Milton says.
Digby experiences the fleeting desire to press Milton’s face into his mashed potatoes. Actually, his desire isn’t fleeting, just his will to do the deed. His restraint is aided by the fact that Winny, apparently sensing Digby’s discomfort, comforts his thigh under the table. It is just a little squeeze, but it is more than enough to replace his flow of venom with a surge of libido.
Digby orders drinks all around, then sips Trout River contentedly while Scott and Florence discuss an upcoming budget meeting with Louden’s president, Miles “Kim” Herker. Some sophomoric quips are knowingly exchanged concerning President Herker’s ability to add and subtract. Digby passes the time by gazing at Winny.
Her hair is obviously dyed, her eyebrows plucked and painted, her impressive bosom remolded by undergarments, and a few irregularities in her skin are smoothed over with emollients, but her pale blue eyes are naked—as eyes will be—and they speak to him. They say, “Spring is in the air”; they also say, “How many springs do we have left anyhow?” Digby knows whereof her eyes speak. He squeezes her thigh by way of response. Squeeze, squeeze and an understanding is reached with nary a word spoken, a contract between primates.
They wait a discreet interval, then excuse themselves from their tablemates. Before they leave, Milton looks up at Digby and simpers, “Well, thanks to you, they may get their hands on the Hastings Towers after all.”
Digby does not have the slightest idea what he is talking about.
Very little is said as Digby and Winny wend their way from Louden Clear to Winny’s room in faculty housing. They both know what is up, and they both are old enough to know that even the most casual of words could cause one or the other of them to reevaluate the agenda.
CHAPTER 4
Digby’s midlife dip into the world of philosophy revealed a surprising insight into his personal history: his mother, Cynthia-Marie Maxwell, was a metaphysician. She was as comfortable with the cosmic point of view as Hegel or Schopenhauer or, for that matter, Jesus. Remarkably, she was capable of surveying Being and Time from this pinnacle of abstraction even as in the physical world the highest altitude to which she ever ascended was Rock Pear Mountain, a weekend adventure sponsored by Digby’s father who she always maintained was the cause of her lifelong battle with hypertension.
One of the basic tenets of Cynthia-Marie’s metaphysics was her belief in some kind of Unremitting Universal Decay. In the world she inhabited, not only did bread and fruit go bad, but so went neighborhoods, nations, years, and most people. She subscribed to the First Pr
inciple that Being itself went on the skids from the moment it began, and that along that line of decline a point is marked where all traces of good are gone for good.
This, of course, raises the question of when, exactly, did Digby go bad?
He traces his skid back to his First Communion when, much to everyone’s surprise—including Digby’s own—the devil took up residency in his immortal soul. (In retrospect, Digby realizes that Satan had been inspired by their shared sneak viewing of Exorcist II at Passaic’s Central Theatre the day before.) Preparing for the ceremony was simple: get a new suit, shirt, tie, and haircut; memorize the Hail Mary; and return to a state of grace through the Sacrament of Penance—that is, Digby’s first confession. Note that Digby was only seven years old at the time and, although he had a mad crush on Debbie Epstein of the adorable, shoulder-length raven curls who sat next to him in school, he was still free from naughty thoughts, unless kakie-doodie nursery rhymes count.
Mrs. Maxwell led her only child to the confessional, straightening his tie and kissing his forehead before he made his entrance and sat down. Digby can still recall that there were tears in his eyes, tears of generalized Catholic guilt. He had rehearsed his recitation and it featured the sin of wishing his father would go away on a very long trip leaving him alone with his mother, and the time he lied to Debbie Epstein when he told her he was Jimmy Carter’s nephew. Through the confessional screen, Father Bob absolved Digby of these transgressions on the spot and then asked if that was all. That is when Satan grabbed the mike. He had a high-pitched, scratchy voice.
“I have come to spawn demons,” he said.
“Digby?”
“The Church will tremble, its walls will crumble.” Digby-qua-Satan had apparently adapted this last bit from a graham cracker ad that was then playing on afternoon TV.
“Digby, are you all right?” Father Bob’s face was flush with the screen.
“I am the anti-Christ,” Digby’s inner Satan concluded.
Bad. Digby had gone bad. And his first defense, that the devil made him do it, didn’t ring any bells for anyone, least of all his mother. In truth, Digby pretty much believed that explanation himself. “Spawn demons?” “The anti-Christ?” These could hardly be words found in the vocabulary of a seven-year-old boy from New Jersey, precocious as he was. (Digby was as yet unaware of his uncanny ability to recall whole sections of dialogue from movies he had only seen once.)
But here is the way bad part. Digby got a tremendous hoot out of the whole deal. He felt rescued from the banality of his young life by his impromptu coup de theatre. This manifested itself in the goofy smirk which no amount of seven-year-old self-discipline could remove from his lips; it perched there for days afterward. Interestingly, Digby was nonetheless permitted to go through with his First Communion without a hitch. This undoubtedly speaks more about Father Bob’s inability to alter plans—Digby’s name was already printed in the Sunday program—than about the Church’s benevolence.
And then it was all over. The incident was blanked out of the Maxwell household history in a matter of weeks, never to be spoken of again. Indeed, Digby had more or less forgotten about it himself until some sixteen years later when he was in psychotherapy with Dr. Epstein (no relation to Debbie). Occasioning his therapy was the fact that in less than a year after graduating college, Digby had managed to be fired by his first two employers. Both had the same complaint: Digby exhibited a patronizing attitude toward his job and, as a result, his performance of even the simplest tasks the jobs required (filing letters at the William Morris Agency, in the first instance; answering the phone and jotting down messages at a veterinarian’s office in the second) was found wanting.
Dr. Epstein was enthralled by the tale of Digby’s boyhood satanic attack. He declared that it was undoubtedly the key to Digby’s personality. (Epstein had an extremely broad mind for a therapist. He said that the notion of the devil taking possession of Digby’s soul was as plausible as any theory—say, Freud’s theory about unconscious impulses—but that the devil hypothesis didn’t provide them with much to talk about in their sessions, so they would stick with Freud. This places Epstein in the underpopulated camp of Utilitarian headshrinkers.)
But back to the key to Digby’s personality, a subject for which Digby has a shameless interest. Epstein believed that Digby had an extreme form of reaction formation, the mechanism whereby the ego reacts to the impulses of the id by creating an antithetical formation that blocks repressed desires. To wit: in Digby’s deepest self, he actually took things way too seriously—unbearably seriously, in fact—so he reacted with over-the-top nonchalance, also known as being a wiseass. (For those keeping track, a wiseass is a precursor of a shithead.) In any event, Epstein’s analysis put a new spin on Mrs. Maxwell’s metaphysics: Digby had gone bad as a reaction to his innate goodness.
Of course, Digby couldn’t have been more pleased with this theory.
Later on, armed with this stunning insight, he proceeded to spend some twenty years employing his reaction formation to become a highly successful professional wiseass, namely a New York writer and editor.
He has been waiting on his deepest self’s innate goodness ever since.
CHAPTER 5
“Holy cow, I thought you were dead, Digby. Or joined a cult in New Mexico.”
Digby has just phoned Tommy Gasparini from his Cogito office. It is early in the day for him to be upright anywhere, but he has already left Winny’s bed, downed a hearty breakfast at the college coffee shop, Uncommon Grounds, and changed into fresh duds. He feels post-coitally peppy and forward-looking.
“Are you saying that you miss me, Tommy?”
“Let’s just say I noticed you weren’t around lately.”
Tommy Gasparini lives with his mother in her Bensonhurst apartment, sleeping in the same bedroom for all of his thirty-six years. By most standards, he would be considered a textbook case of arrested development, but Tommy has parlayed his sluggish maturation into minor stardom. He knows more about the comic strip universe than any other living human being of any age. True, his prose rambles and is given to gee-whizisms befitting a teenager, but his encyclopedic knowledge and preternatural insights into how comics reflect cultural currents are well worth the wholesale editing that his books and articles require. He once even made the Times extended best-seller list with a book about Robin, Batman’s pixie sidekick, and the homoerotic undertones of that relationship. In his power days at New York Magazine, Digby often tapped Tommy for a piece. He is now asking him to contribute to his debut issue of Cogito with an illustrated article about heaven’s portrayal in the comics.
“What does it pay?” Tommy asks.
“It’s a prestige thing, Tommy.”
“What does it pay? I’m a professional, you know.”
“The mid two figures,” Digby replies, then whispers, “plus sexual favors.”
Tommy, of course, is not quite ready for de facto sex, but like most adolescents he likes dirty talk. He is chortling now.
“It would mean a lot to me, Tommy,” Digby goes on. “You’re the first writer I called.”
After a long pause, Tommy says, “Well, I suppose I could, you know, squeeze it in,” and then breaks into hiccuppy laughter at his unintended double entendre.
“Fifteen hundred words,” Digby says.
“I didn’t say that I would do it, just that I could.”
“I’m begging you, Tommy.”
“Okay. But just this once, Digby.”
“You are a prince,” Digby says and hangs up before Tommy can change his mind.
Zippidy, zip. It is not even ten o’clock and Digby is already making things happen. No loser, he. Digby is back in the saddle. Like all experienced garden-variety, low-grade manic-depressives, he decides to take care of some depression-postponed business while he is still riding high. He finds his daughter Sylvia’s cell phone number on his own cell and presses dial. It rings a dozen times before she picks up.
“Dad?”
“It is I.”
“Jesus, it’s seven here, Dad. Why don’t you wait another six months and call me at a decent hour.”
“I’m sorry, hon. I’ll call back later.”
“Hey, I’m up now, you know? So what’s up with you? Mom says you finally found a job.”
Digby flinches, as they say, inwardly. His early morning surge of self-worth does not appear as durable as he had thought.
“Yup. It’s not bad, actually. At least judging by my first day on the job. I’m up in Vermont. Small town. I’m trying to acquire simple tastes.”
“Milkmaids? Trailer trash?” Sylvia says.
Digby definitely had not given enough forethought to this conversation.
“How’s school, Sylvie?”
This is greeted by ironic laughter of a style that is unfamiliar to Digby, possibly a California inflection. After a few seconds, she says, “You are out of the loop, aren’t you? I quit school four months ago.”
Indeed, this is news to Digby, especially considering that he has been sending monthly tuition checks from his overextended American Express account to Sylvia’s mother for the last year.
“Transferring to another school?”
“Way too busy for that.”
“Really?”
“I guess nobody told you about The Unmade Bed.”
Digby does not have the slightest idea what his daughter is talking about, but it seems a distinct possibility that she is a chip off the old man’s block of Buenos Aires Red.
“It’s an online novel, Dad,” Sylvie goes on in the overly patient tone of a special needs teacher. “Like it only gets four hundred thousand hits a day.”
“And you wrote it.”
“Yes. Well, me and Tyler.”
