Wake Up, Sir!: A Novel

by Jonathan Ames

  Jeeves had repeated the hummingbirds, pushing them back into the tie rotation sooner than usual, and I was incredibly grateful to him—Ava was touching me. Well, touching my tie, that is. But my tie was like a part of me, more so than with most people. Then she let go of it. She had appraised the small portraitures of the birds as a visual artist, but still she had touched it, touched me, and I had a growth spurt. I was at my full height and was now taller than Ava!

  “It's my favorite tie,” I said.

  “Do you wear a tie every day?”

  “I try to.”

  “Why?”

  “I like to. Gives me a false sense of purpose.”

  “Well, I'm glad to meet somebody interesting around here…. See you at dinner tonight.” This was another abrupt conclusion to our conversation, but it didn't wound me this time. I felt good about our whole meeting. She had noticed me, touched me, and praised me. What more could I ask for on a first encounter?

  “Okay,” I said, “see you tonight.”

  She smiled and then left the mudroom for the main hall. I was free to watch her backside. My testosterone valve was completely open, and I felt the serotonin valve open, as well. My bloodstream was rich with ingredients and I was happy, euphoric, and jocund. And since I was in such a good mood, I'll add ecstatic to the menu.

  I collected my lunch pail and flew up the stairs to my room. My Beaubien-inspired drooping spirits had reversed completely. There was much to tell Jeeves. Last night's feeling upon seeing Ava was confirmed. I was in love!

  Of course, I knew it might only be physical infatuation. But you know how it is. One thinks it's love, and sometimes, once or twice in a lifetime, it is.

  CHAPTER 23

  A meditation on love, probably all wrongI give Jeeves my headlines—the gossip page and the crime blotterA plot to catch the slipper thief, but has a perversion also been mistakenly stolen?

  Jeeves was just finishing the corners on the young master's bed. His back was to me and so absorbed was he in the perfection of his task that he didn't hear me come into the room, which was unlike Jeeves—my catching him unawares; it was always the reverse.

  So I was oozing love for the world, and there was Jeeves making my bed—selflessly being kind to me, thinking of me, wanting to please me. Well, I almost felt like crying.

  You see, every now and then I glimpse a person in my life for just an eyelash of time, and the dearness of this other human being—in this instance, Jeeves—strikes me as a revelation, and my love for them becomes so obvious and clear, not obscured by judgments or fears or distractions—the rush of life—and it's a very beautiful feeling, and I'd like to tell the person, but I'm not sure I can express it, maybe it would frighten them, or maybe it will frighten me to say it, maybe it will sound hollow and false, and right next to this feeling of my love for them, like something across a breach, is the fragility of it all, the mortality of it all, the hopelessness of it all, and I sense the coming loss before it has even happened, and then usually the mind clouds over and I'm back to pressing on to the next event.

  It's all very confusing. One of my problems is that I mix up love and pity. I can't really distinguish the two, but maybe they do go hand in hand, because as soon as you love someone, you don't want them to feel pain. But you know they will. You see the tenuous illusions they surround themselves with to keep going, how easily they could be hurt and crushed, and so you pity them, in the same way that deep down you pity yourself for the very same reasons.

  Regardless of how gloomy it all is, I should tell people I love them, but I don't do it nearly enough. When I was living in Princeton, I had a friend who was dying from a brain tumor and he knew he only had about six months to live, and on the phone one day he said to me, in lieu of good-bye, “I love you.” It wasn't going to be our last phone call and I wasn't his closest friend by any means, but I could hear in his voice that he was going to say this now to everyone; there was no need anymore to hold back. I thought I should adopt the same policy with the people in my life, but I wasn't able to, though to my friend I could say it whenever we spoke over the next few months until he died.

  Anyway, I was looking at Jeeves and feeling a good deal of affection for him. My adoration hadn't turned dark in my mind yet—it hadn't turned to pity—and he must have sensed something because he suddenly snapped out of his gurulike bed-making trance and turned and said, “Yes, sir?”

  I think it would have made Jeeves uncomfortable if I had suddenly blurted out, “I love you.” But in his case maybe things don't have to be explained or said out loud. So even though my sentimental engine was running on all eight cylinders and my foot was on the pedal, I kept things off our relationship and went right to a heralding of the day's current events.

  “Brace yourself, Jeeves.”

  “All right, sir.”

  “Are you properly braced?”

  “I believe so, sir.”

  I sat on the newly made bed and motioned to Jeeves to take the chair at the letter-writing desk. Thus situated, I was prepared to give him a full account of all that had happened.

  “I have headlines, Jeeves.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  I paused for effect, and then let him have it: “I'm in love! You can print it in bold. Splash it across the front page.”

  “Excellent news, sir. Delightful.”

  “I feel wonderful, Jeeves. Full of life and beans … Is that the correct saying?”

  “I don't know, sir.”

  “What about spelling bees, Jeeves. Why are they called that?”

  “I apologize, sir. I don't know the answer to that question, either.”

  “That's all right, Jeeves. These mysteries don't really plague me, they just momentarily annoy.”

  “Understandable, sir…. If I may ask, sir, with whom have you fallen in love?”

  “Ava! I mentioned her earlier. The one with the extraordinary profile.”

  “Are you sure you're in love, sir?”

  “You mean, I might just be smitten?”

  “Perhaps, sir.”

  “I've considered that, Jeeves, and it's highly likely. But it's fun to feel in love. And the most promising development is that she seems to like me. I don't think it's going to be one of those one-sided affairs.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  “She appreciated my tie, for which I have you to thank. I'm glad you went with the hummingbirds again this morning. She grabbed hold of it. A woman doesn't do that sort of thing if she's not drawn to you. She was admiring the artwork, but on some level she must have wanted to touch me or wasn't so repulsed as to not want to touch me. When a woman is not repulsed, that's half the battle.”

  “I am pleased that the hummingbird tie was a satisfactory selection, sir.”

  “More than satisfactory! The tie won her over…. You know, Jeeves, I'll tell you one thing—she's not my dream girl dream girl. Kind of a photo negative of her. Which is interesting, now that I've put it that way. Maybe the subconscious is some kind of negative or reverse telepathic imprint of the future. You see what I mean, Jeeves?”

  “I believe I understand, sir, to a certain degree the concept you wish to express.”

  “I don't fully get the concept myself, Jeeves, but I sort of get it. A lot of my concepts, I've noticed, are like that, which is a bit frustrating. They're not fully thought out. I don't seem to have the intellect to take things all the way. I hit a mental wall.”

  “You do quite well, sir.”

  “You think so, Jeeves?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Thank you, Jeeves…. Anyway, what do you think of the name Ava? Besides its obvious attribute as a palindrome. Good for a femme fatale?”

  “Ava is a lovely name, sir.”

  “She is lovely, so she matches her name, though she is a bit rough around the edges. She said she couldn't ‘spell for shit.’ But I like her earthiness.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  I lay back on the bed and Jeeves sat dutiful
ly at the letter-writing desk with admirable posture. I closed my eyes and on the inner Ziegfeld I saw myself taking Ava in my arms, my hands in her thick hair … but then a dark shadow passed in front of this image, as if the mental celluloid had been burned. I sat back up.

  “There is another headline, Jeeves.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “From the crime blotter, I'm afraid. I was accused by this Sigrid Beaubien character of stealing her slippers. She made quite a scene at breakfast. Denounced me in front of everyone. Tried to organize a lynching. My sugar went completely berserk. I almost went blind from diabetes.”

  “Most vexing, sir. She claims that you took her slippers?”

  “Yes…. The others seemed to be on my side; they have her characterized as a hysteric who sees ghosts. But I'm not entirely cleared. I'm sure everyone suspects me a little after her accusation…. And my blackout does give me some pause. I didn't come back here last night with a pair of women's slippers, Jeeves, did I?”

  “No, sir.”

  “And if anyone would know, you would.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And we're not in possession of any scissors or cutting shears?”

  “No, sir. Why do you ask?”

  I further explained to Jeeves the nature of the crime—the tracing of the slippers and the manufacture of cutouts and how Beaubien left the slippers outside her door each night. He took it all in stride, but did say, “Very strange, sir.”

  “Yes, it is strange. Strange that she leaves slippers outside her door and strange that they were taken. I don't blame her for being upset, but she overreacted. She was ready to kill me. It's very uncomfortable to be hated, Jeeves, especially in an environment like this—no escaping her, really. I mean it's worse than living with Uncle Irwin. I wasn't his favorite person, but he didn't exactly loathe me. I just kind of bothered him. But this woman, I feel, hates me. I want to be able to concentrate on my writing and my love infatuation with Ava and not worry about Beaubien and her damn stolen slippers…. You know, if we caught the thief, that would clear my name with her and everyone else.”

  “That would firmly establish your innocence, sir.”

  “Any idea how we could achieve this, Jeeves?”

  “Well, we might leave your shoes outside the door tonight, sir, and try to apprehend anyone who might make off with them.”

  “Excellent thinking, Jeeves!”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “But don't you think we should leave my slippers outside the door? This person might only go in for slippers and not shoes.”

  “A relevant distinction, sir.”

  “Could just be a prankster or an actual slipper fetishist. We have to cover all the bases. So to be on the safe side, we'll bait him with slippers, assuming it's a male. It could be a female, but most sociopaths are male. Females take out their troubles on themselves, for the most part.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I contemplated our catching this possible slipper fetishist, and I distractedly ran my finger along my mustache. It was rather sensual to stroke myself this way, and this led me back to the inner Ziegfeld and the movie I had started to run: Ava in my arms.

  But how two people kiss is always a great mystery. It doesn't make sense to me when I think about it. One tilts the head and then somehow these two mouths come together. Nevertheless, I tried to visualize our kiss—the physics of it—but I was botching the whole thing, my choreography was all off. Mouth issue aside, I imagined that our considerable noses would be crushed against the other's face, and then I really fumbled the camera—the mind shoots the picture and screens it at the same time—and I saw her nose go in my mouth. But this aroused me. I indulged myself with this bit of scenery chewing, and then, chastising myself, I turned off the inner projector and camera. I was suddenly feeling more than a trace of concern about this nose business and sought to express my anxiety to Jeeves.

  “There is an element to my love affair that disturbs me, Jeeves.”

  “Indeed, sir?”

  “It's somewhat embarrassing …” Jeeves looked at me calmly; his was a face you could trust. I shot out my confession: “I think I'm overattracted to Ava's nose, Jeeves. I've never had that before. Never been drawn to a nose quite so powerfully. I can't explain it.”

  “Does sound unusual, sir.”

  “If I understood Freud or had actually read Freud, I'd say it was some kind of transference, having recently had my own nose altered.”

  “Perhaps, sir.”

  “But that doesn't fully satisfy me…. It may be that her nose is in the shape of a female body. The nostrils are like haunches.”

  “Really, sir?”

  “Sorry, Jeeves, I don't mean to be vulgar. I'm trying to understand its power over me. Maybe it's like getting two women in one.”

  “That is certainly a possible psychological explanation, sir. But have you considered that it is merely an attractive nose and you find it appealing?”

  “It goes beyond that, Jeeves…. You know, I once read about a nose fetishist in Krafft-Ebing's Psychopathia Sexualis. I don't remember the details, but I remember being fascinated…. I wonder if by reading that years ago, I've caused myself to have the same condition. I've heard of novelists and screenwriters who read some book as a young boy, forget about it over time, and then years later produce a book or screenplay which is a twin to the original, not realizing they've stolen the whole basic plot and theme.”

  “I've also heard of this phenomenon, sir.”

  “Maybe I've done that with the case history of this nose fetish—except I've stolen a perversion, a mental problem…. I'm such an idiot! It would be much more lucrative to steal a book. I can't do anything right! … I used to read Krafft-Ebing as a boy to arouse myself. Probably wasn't healthy to be reading cases of sexual psychosis for that purpose and now I'm paying the price. I was a twentieth-century Jewish boy in New Jersey reading about nineteenth-century German sexual deviants; I might as well have been reading Mein Kampf.”

  “I understand, sir.”

  “I can't believe this has happened to me, Jeeves. This is worse than what Oscar Wilde went through. His was a love that dare not speak its name. My love doesn't even have a name that it can't speak…. Nose-love? Nose-sex? That's ridiculous…. I won't even think of the implication of the word nasal…. I wish I had Psychopathia with me now … lost it some time ago. I'd like to read that case history again and get to the bottom of this.”

  “Could be very instructive, sir.”

  I tried valiantly to remember the specifics of the nose-fetish case, but couldn't bring it to mind. All I could vaguely recollect was an assault on a tram, but that was it. Then I had an excellent idea.

  “Jeeves, let's go to the library,” I said, “and find the Krafft-Ebing. If I'm going to fall in love with this woman and her nose, I need to understand everything that is motivating me. I just hope the library has the book and that some teenager hasn't stolen it for the same reasons that I once used it…. If they don't have it, Skidmore College is hiding around here somewhere.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  “Maybe I can incorporate it into my novel somehow. Make one of my characters have a nose fetish.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  And with that, we made our way to the Caprice and drove into town in search of the library and Dr. Richard von Krafft-Ebing's masterwork of human eros, Psychopathia Sexualis.

  CHAPTER 24

  An extract from Krafft-Ebing's Psychopathia Sexualis A discussion with Jeeves about fetishes and AAI do some reading, and Jeeves disappears into the stacksA contemplation of my ignorance, but then I give myself a pat on the backJeeves and I discuss an idea for a new novel

  Case 88. (Binet, op. cit.) X., aged thirty-four, teacher in a gymnasium. In childhood he suffered from convulsions. At the age of ten he began to masturbate, with lustful feelings, which were connected with very strange ideas. He was particularly partial to women's eyes; but since he wished to imagine some form
of coitus, and was absolutely innocent in sexual matters, to avoid too great a separation from the eyes, he evolved the idea of making the nostrils the seat of the female sexual organs. Then his vivid sexual desires revolved around this idea. He sketched drawings representing correct Greek profiles of female heads, but the nostrils were so large that insertion of the penis would have been possible.

  One day, in a bus, he saw a girl in whom he thought he recognized his ideal. He followed her to her home and immediately proposed to her. Shown the door, he returned again and again until arrested. X. never had sexual intercourse.

  Nose fetishism is but seldomly met with. The following rare bit of poetry comes to me from England:

  “Oh! sweet and pretty little nose, so charming unto me;

  Oh, were I but the sweetest rose, I'd give my scent to thee.

  Oh, make it full with honey sweet, that I may suck it all;

  T'would be for me the greatest treat, a real festival.

  How sweet and nutritious your darling nose does seem;

  It would be more delicious, than strawberries and cream.”

  Hand-fetishists are very numerous. The following case is not really pathological. It is given here as a transition one:

  Case 89. B., of neuropathic family, very sensual, mentally intact …

  I showed this remarkable passage to Jeeves. We were alone at a desk in the very nice Saratoga Public Library. “What do you think of it?” I asked him.

  “A sympathetic portrait, sir, of a troubled person.”

  “And using that poem! Brilliant, don't you think?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And isn't the prose delightful?”

  “Very well written, sir.”

  “Granted it's in translation, but still … God, I love this stuff. No wonder I imprinted this perversion on my psyche and now suffer from it…. But I don't have it as bad as this fellow. I mean I'm attracted to the entirety of Ava's body. And as soon as I get to know her person, I'll be attracted to that as well. At least I hope so. So I'm not as bad off as X., right, Jeeves?”