Wake Up, Sir!: A Novel

by Jonathan Ames

  When I woke up, we ordered some Chinese food to the room, watched television, and then did a little reading, and all the while I kept icing my nose. Jeeves might have liked to explore Saratoga, but I wasn't up for it, and he generously stayed by my side. After we finished reading, we discussed Powell and A Dance to the Music of Time, having lapsed somewhat in our book club discussions, and we both agreed that the character Widmerpool was one of the most repellent creatures ever found in literature.

  “It wasn't directly intentional,” I said, “but during this war period Widmerpool more or less brings about the deaths of Stringham and Templer. His orders as their military superior destroyed them, and it must be because they snubbed him at public school…. Public school in England really does a lot of damage to people. But I think all the sadism in those schools makes them good poets. The British are much better at poetry than Americans. Anyway, I can't stand Widmerpool.”

  “I imagine, sir, that justice will be served.”

  “You're saying that Widmerpool will get it in the end?”

  “That is my feeling, sir.”

  “A good reason to keep reading.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  And so our discussion went. Then I got back into bed around nine o'clock. I pulled the covers to my chin and said, “Jeeves, I'm worried what those artists will think about my face.”

  “I wouldn't be concerned, sir.”

  “But it's hard not to worry about what people think since they do think. There's no getting around it.”

  “Very true, sir.”

  “Well, regardless, I had better rest.”

  “I would agree, sir.”

  So I slept through until morning, nearly ten hours, and I needed it. My episode in Sharon Springs had taken a good deal out of me: I had burned the candle at both ends, as well as the middle.

  CHAPTER 12

  Another movie reference escapes JeevesWe drive past the comely Saratoga racetrackThe two front teeth of the Rose ColonyA first glimpse of the Mansion and thoughts of castles and seductionsTwo asylum inmates—I mean artists—are briefly encounteredSome foreboding, but not muchSetting goals with Jeeves

  By 9 A.M. we were in the Caprice. It was another sunny day, good for skin cancer and playing tennis. I had on dark sunglasses and was wearing a floppy cotton hat, purchased at the Princeton Woolworth's years ago. It was the kind of hat that pensioners wear in Florida and other warm climates. I was trying to obscure my injuries and felt like the Invisible Man, absent the bandages.

  “Jeeves, I feel like the Invisible Man,” I said as I started the car.

  “People often feel that way, sir,” said Jeeves.

  “I'm not speaking psychologically! I'm referring to the Invisible Man from the movies.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  If I had been speaking psychologically, I might have commented to Jeeves that my mood was rather good. The despair of the previous day, like my hangover, had just about lifted. I was even mildly hopeful, though still a bit anxious. Reporting to the Rose Colony was like the first day of school. Would I measure up? Fit in? Would my face frighten them? Maybe my nice clothes would distract them from my injuries, should I have to remove my glasses and hat. I was wearing khaki pants, my check sport coat, light blue shirt, and yellow-green tie with clock faces—a good first-day-at-school outfit, applicable as well to artist colonies.

  The Rose was located on the edge of town, about a quarter mile past the famous Saratoga racetrack, which we got a good look at as we drove past, and it was lovely. The track came with an ancient—by American standards—wooden grandstand, and there was, of course, the requisite mile-plus dirt oval, which had an expanse of emerald-colored grass in the middle for “turf” races and the steeplechase.

  The track and the colony were on Union Avenue, and separating the two was a stretch of dense forest, and in the middle of these woods was the rather secretive entrance to the Rose, privacy being of the utmost importance for artists, since you don't want the taxpaying public to know about the creative process—how much napping and procrastinating are involved—because otherwise what little funding there is would be cut immediately.

  If one didn't pay rigorous attention or have an excellent navigator like Jeeves, it would be very easy to miss the shadowy, mouthlike opening to the place. There was the smallest of faded signs, wooden with old painted script, The Rose Colony, Private Property, and behind the sign, at the top of the colony's drive, there were two ivy-covered stone columns, like two ancient front teeth, which must have supported an elaborate gate in the nineteenth century when the colony was the estate and home of a steel baron.

  “On your right, sir,” said Jeeves, “is, I believe, the entrance.”

  I had to make a rapid pull on the Caprice's steering wheel, but executed the maneuver without driving into the ditch on the side of the road, though I skidded to an awkward stop, breaking just in time before hitting one of the stone teeth. I backed the car up and then entered the driveway in the fashion most often associated with entering driveways.

  “Sorry, Jeeves,” I said. “Hope you weren't too jostled.”

  “Perfectly all right, sir,” said Jeeves.

  “Well, that's something of an auspicious start, but that's why they have the phrase auspicious start, because one often starts that way,” I said, trying to cover up my embarrassment for the sloppy turn.

  “Very good, sir.”

  We proceeded down a long, shadowy sylvan drive—on both sides was a continuation of the thick forest, with moody, sun-blocking trees. We passed a small, dark green pond, and then the driveway began a steep, winding ascent, trees still obscuring one's vision to the left and right, until suddenly we were at the top of a plateau, and revealed to the enchanted eye was a rolling, hilly lawn, about the size of a football field, and at the top of the lawn was the Mansion—an American castle. Built from blocks of silver-flecked stones imported from Italy, it was four stories in height and was loaded with picture windows, ivy, eaves, a copper roof, numerous wooden shutters, elaborate weather vanes, a porte cochere, and—if one looked closely—depraved gargoyles.

  I stopped the car. I was thinking cinematically. Whenever you see a movie about the British upper class, which is almost always set on an enormous estate, first there's the aerial shot of the country “home” or “seat.” It gives one a full sense of the place's majesty.

  Then you zoom in for a close-up, usually of a servant going in some pantry door, carrying a recently shot bird or a bottle retrieved from some secondary wine cellar.

  Then there's another close-up of some lord of the manor standing in a window looking repressed, bloated, scheming, and troubled. This is often followed by an interior shot of a woman sitting in front of a mirror, brushing her lustrous, gorgeous hair—blonde or brunette—while wearing just a slip. She's usually filmed from behind, but we see her face in the mirror, which gives us the rare treat of seeing, simultaneously, the front and back of a beautiful woman. And you get the whole story in those images—wealth, loneliness, and sex. The Rose, I thought, would definitely be served by such a sequence of movie takes.

  “It's glorious, Jeeves,” I said. “Like Brideshead.”

  “Very elegant, sir,” said Jeeves. “A handsome structure.”

  At the other end of the lawn from the Mansion was a fountain with marble nymphs. A jet of water kept the nymphs cool in the July morning sun. It struck me that this fountain, with its spray and small pool of water, would be an advantageous spot for romantic assignations if one could lure poetesses there late at night.

  I took my foot off the brake and drove farther into the grounds. The road curved, leading us behind and then past the Mansion. When Doris, the director's assistant, had given me directions, she had told me to go to a white wooden building marked simply as OFFICE to check in. Thus, we continued on the asphalt drive, beneath a colonnade of trees, and up ahead were two people, artists, presumably, walking together.

  “My future colleagues,” I said to Jeeves.<
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  As they came into sharper focus, I made out that these two creative souls were a man and a woman. We pulled alongside them and I stopped the car. I smiled kindly through my rolled-down window, acknowledging my fellow artists, my bruises hidden by my disguise, and my smile was met by a specimen out of Brueghel—the woman, in her fifties, had a long, jellyish nose, gray teeth, and copper, wiry hair that had a life of its own and not a very pleasant life at that. Her companion was a stoop-shouldered fellow whose arms were slack along his sides in an unnatural fashion, as if he were heavily sedated, and his thick eyeglasses were slanted spasmodically. One of the lenses was in front of his eyebrow—didn't he notice?

  They both lowered their heads to peer into my car and looked at me quizzically. I said, “I'm checking in today.”

  But this didn't seem to register. I tried a different tack. “Can you tell me where the office is?”

  The man pointed and said in a listless voice, “Just up ahead.” He did add a weird, feeble smile and I smiled back and said, “Thank you,” and the woman smiled at me. It was an orgy of smiles with us three, but it was all very strange: the female's eyes had a look of terror in them and the man appeared to be on the verge of collapse. So, thinking it wise to end this encounter, I pushed down on the gas pedal. A shudder of foreboding coursed through me. What kind of place was this? They looked more like inmates at an asylum than two of the country's finest artists. Had I escaped being banished to a rehab by my aunt Florence only to attend some kind of creative loony bin?

  We presently pulled alongside the office. It appeared to be a once-grand stables, now renovated to act as the bureaucratic center of the colony. Behind us loomed the Mansion.

  “Those two were the walking wounded, Jeeves,” I said. “I hope they were the exception and not the rule here at the Rose Colony…. Not to be unkind, since you said I'm a tolerant person, but they were unquestionably disturbed.”

  “Artists are often temperamental, sir.”

  “Disturbed going too far, Jeeves? … Well, to be fair then, those two were probably poets. Poets are the most afflicted in all the arts. Their hearts are like furnaces and their bodies disintegrate from the internal pressure and heat, though male poets are pretty much wrecks from the start, otherwise they wouldn't go in for it.”

  “Perhaps you should check in, sir.”

  “I need to gather myself a moment, Jeeves. Feeling a little nervous.”

  “I understand, sir.”

  There were a few parked cars, but no people. The place was quiet and tranquil. The immediate grounds were a mixture of lawns and trees, and in the distance were some renovated barns, perhaps artists' studios. I tried to calm my nerves by having a pleasant thought about that fountain of nymphs, and then I asked Jeeves, “Do you think there might be attractive young female poets here?”

  “It is certainly a possibility, sir.”

  “Young poets haven't burned up yet. It's only if they keep at it that they start to fall apart.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  “Maybe the girl from my dream is here, Jeeves. Wouldn't that be remarkable?”

  “Yes, sir. Quite remarkable.”

  “Know what's interesting, Jeeves?”

  “No, sir.”

  “My dream girl is actually a dream girl. See what I mean?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Isn't that interesting?”

  “Quite, sir.”

  “Well, I hope my dream girl dream girl is here.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I have three goals, Jeeves, for my time here at the Rose Colony.”

  “Indeed, sir?”

  “One, to fall in love—maybe with my dream girl or just a regular girl. Two, stay off the booze, and, three, finish my novel.”

  “Those are three admirable goals, sir.”

  “I'd like to throw in finding God. But I always think these things come in threes and that you're not allowed to ask for four.”

  “That is the norm, sir.”

  “A way around it perhaps is that finding God is a sort of constant goal and so doesn't have to be listed. You know what I mean, Jeeves? It's sort of a permanent Roman numeral I, and the others are just regular numbers: 1, 2, 3. That Roman numeral does give it a Catholic air, though. But that's all right. Essentially I'm a pantheist-agnostic. I worship many deities with equal amounts of confusion…. So, God, if you're listening, finding you is my number-one goal, and if you want to help me with the other three goals, I won't object…. I hope you don't mind me praying in front of you, Jeeves.”

  “Not at all, sir.”

  “Well, I guess I should go into that office, but I'm still scared, Jeeves.”

  “No need to be afraid, sir.”

  “But my face, Jeeves, and, too, this is a famous artist colony, even if the poets are mad-looking, and I'm a struggling writer at best.”

  “They accepted you, sir, so they value your talent. And you can simply tell them you've had an accident, which is not untrue.”

  “All right, I'll plunge in there, Jeeves. I don't want to but I have to. It seems like we're always doing things in life we don't want to do.”

  “One often has that impression, sir.”

  “I'm sorry I'm whining, Jeeves. In I go!”

  “Very good, sir.”

  CHAPTER 13

  I am welcomed by three kindly womenFor a moment, my sanity is in question and what causes this—my fractured nose or acute withdrawal from alcohol?A remembrance of the psychic effects of plastic surgery on a high school colleague's noseA return to sanity, and some discourse about Brown University and the origins of its nameAn unmasking and the telling of untruthsI meet the novelist Charles Murrin and we proceed to the MansionI'm shown my glorious roomsAn invitation to drinkI repeat certain untruths, but I'm used to it now, telling untruths, that is

  The office was comprised of three women sitting behind desks, arranged in a sort of pyramid—two desks at the base and one at the point. It was some kind of hierarchical arrangement. They all looked up at me.

  “Is Doris here?” I asked. “I'm Alan Blair—”

  “Welcome to the Rose!” said the woman at the point of the pyramid, presumably the leader. She was a solid, gray-haired lady with flushed cheeks and a sweet smile. “I'm Doris! And look at you! Nobody has shown up here in a jacket and tie in years.”

  She then introduced me to the other two ladies, Barbara and Sue, and they murmured welcomes. Barbara was rather old, late sixties with white hair, and Sue was rather young, early twenties with red hair. She was pretty, maybe a college intern.

  All three women radiated sweetness, though there was a bit of a rough, take-charge quality to Doris—she came over to me, shook my hand vigorously, then commandeered me to a chair alongside her desk.

  “Dr. Hibben is out of town for a few days,” she said. “Normally he'd say hello and give you a warm welcome, but you'll meet him when he returns.”

  “Dr. Hibben?”

  “Dr. Hibben, our director,” she said and smiled, and I didn't like the sound of this—a doctor!

  “What type of doctor is he?” I asked, and for a moment I doubted my sanity. Had I perhaps ended up in an asylum after all, deceiving myself into thinking it was an artist colony? And if this was true, then it was some kind of double insanity: insane enough to think an asylum is an artist colony, but also insane enough to be accepted to an asylum!

  Doris didn't answer my question about Dr. Hibben; she was preoccupied, searching for something in her desk drawer. My mind raced. It had to be an asylum. The director was a doctor, and the grounds were too calm and idyllic, perfect for a nerve farm. And those two I had seen staggering up the drive weren't poets but patients, just as I had feared. Of course, they might have been poets who had become patients, since the history of mentally ill poets is famously long. Regardless, they were patients now!

  But how had this happened? How did I come to be in an asylum? I had applied to this place during the dark month of January, when I was in
the throes of that terrible depression, before my thinking had cleared up, before Jeeves and my quarter-million-dollar settlement had both come into my life. So had my application to what I thought was an artist colony actually been a call for help to a private, elite nuthouse? A call for help I didn't even know I had made due to mental fogginess and muddle? And now a bed was free and so they had taken me off the waiting list?

  “Sorry,” Doris said, handing me a form that had been the object of her search. “I couldn't lay my hands on this. What did you want to know? What kind of doctor is Dr. Hibben?”

  “Yes,” I whispered, and looked at the paper she had handed me—a medical history form! I had committed myself!

  “Dr. Hibben has a Ph.D. in art history,” Doris said good-naturedly. “He was at Brown for years, but now we have him.”

  “Yes, of course,” I said, and I felt my sanity return instantaneously; it had only been a case of temporary insanity, which is very useful for committing murder, but not so practical in other situations. But thank God I wasn't at an asylum! Someone with a Ph.D. in art history could only be running an artist colony, not a nuthouse. But why had I been suspicious even for a moment? What was wrong with my thinking?

  Well, I had to go easy on myself, I realized, and not be upset if my judgment of things was off. I was booze-free for only twenty-four hours—I could be having delirium without the tremens. Also, my nose had been rearranged, and this could definitely affect one's perception of reality, at least according to some nineteenth-century psychiatrists who believed that the structure of the nose determined the psyche, to which there is some merit, I think, otherwise why would so many people go in for nose jobs? Their psyches become a mess from having overly large noses; then the noses get shortened and their psyches feel better, at least cosmetically.

  I saw this psychic rearrangement happen to a girl I knew in high school. She was a blonde with a good figure, but she had an enormous, catastrophic nose. She was ostracized and had no friends. Then one summer her parents sprang for plastic surgery. When we all returned to school, no one knew what to make of her. Then a football player asked her out. Suddenly she had friends. She became “cool.” She was considered beautiful, pretty, but I could see that in her eyes there was still the look of the ugly girl she had once been, a hint of fear that it would all be taken away from her. By the end of the year that look in her eyes was almost extinguished, but a trace was left. Still, her psyche must have felt a lot better. With a short nose to go with her other attributes, she was destined to be courted often and eventually married and impregnated, which was the goal of most of the girls from my middle-class New Jersey high school. But then her children would have big noses. No escaping one's self. Her husband would wonder where his children's noses had come from. Perhaps the marriage would dissolve. He might suspect infidelity. She wouldn't be able to tell him the truth—I'm ugly.