Wake Up, Sir!: A Novel

by Jonathan Ames

  “No, sir, I don't believe you are as afflicted as the person discussed in this history.”

  “I think what I have is the kind of fetish you can live with. You know, where it doesn't dominate your whole life and sexuality and you have to go to support groups and conventions and even vote for certain politicians. Cross-dressers, S-and-M people, and the men-who love-boys are all the sexual equivalent of the NRA…. Foot fetishists aren't as well organized, I don't think. Then again, they can just go to a beach and have their fill. But with those other three, there are all sorts of meetings, newsletters, legal fees, expensive gadgets, dues … It's a big hassle, I imagine, to have a serious fetish. I mean, look at Uncle Irwin. The NRA has completely brainwashed him. I just have a mild case of nose fetishism. I don't have to change my whole life.”

  “I would agree, sir.”

  “So I feel better about this nose thing now, but I do need to change some of my life, Jeeves. I'm not really hungover, thank God, but I have to arrest this drinking. It's really getting out of hand. First a broken nose and then a blackout. And I blacked out the night my nose was attacked, now that I think of it. That's just not normal. I have to accept this and quit the booze. No more empty promises about getting on the wagon. I'm not a frontiersman. I'm an alcoholic!”

  “I am in firm agreement, sir.”

  “I should call AA or something. Maybe go to a meeting here in Saratoga. There's something crucial I missed when I went to a few meetings at Montesonti's gulag and then in Montclair. This business about how not to pick up the first drink. Do you know anything about it, Jeeves? Could save me from calling AA.”

  “I'm afraid, sir, I don't. I do think a telephone call to AA would be helpful. I believe its methods are efficacious for abstention from spirits.”

  “All right, I'll call them later. Probably listed in the phone book. Smart of them to name it AA. I wonder if AA comes before all those companies with three A's. Do you think that was their reasoning, Jeeves? Good placement in the phone book?”

  “It seems unlikely, sir, but it is a possibility.”

  “Or do two A's come after three A's?”

  “I will have to consult a phone book, sir.”

  “Don't bother. I'll do it later….You know, if you have a drunk-driving accident, what's good is, you can look up Triple A and AA and kill two birds at once…. They should call AA, Double A. More catchy…. Then again it might conjure up notions of ordering a double, which probably isn't very helpful.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  It was not quite 10 A.M. and I spent the next delightful two hours reading Psychopathia, though I made sure to keep its cover flat on the table, which was a little difficult since it was a paperback and the book was rather thick, but I didn't want some Saratoga senior citizen or an impressionable child to glance at the cover and read what was written above the title: “The only newly and completely translated edition of the classic work on sexual aberration.” It would give people the wrong idea about what I was doing in the library on a Friday morning. As it was, my bruised face was sure to arouse some suspicion, though my jacket and tie probably acted as a nullifying agent to a certain degree, making me appear to be the trustworthy character that I am, or, at least, aspire to be.

  While I read, Jeeves lost himself in the stacks; he was probably boning up on plant life and fauna in the Saratoga region, something improving like that. Meanwhile, I was having a Proustian experience with the Krafft-Ebing. Reading the case histories again, I was transported back to my childhood home and the nights I had spent as an adolescent with a flashlight under the covers soaking up the beautiful narratives of Psychopathia Sexualis. The strange yearnings and acts of Krafft-Ebing's patients had thrilled me as a teenager, but I had also loved how Krafft-Ebing magnificently explained with great compaction and efficiency the lives of his subjects.

  I can see now there was a certain parallel to my reading of the case histories and what had preceded that—my boyhood adoration of baseball cards. From the back of a card, from the player's statistics, you could tell if he was great, lousy, or mediocre; if he'd had potential but had fallen short and would forever be disappointed; if he was a late bloomer who could live with himself when his playing days were over; if he'd had one freakish year and never produced again; or if his numbers were piling up in a way that was admirable, perhaps Hall of Fame-ish.

  The trajectory of the player's life and his career was all laid out, year by year, just as Krafft-Ebing had tried to show what had happened to the people in his book over the course of their lives, over the course of time. In both instances, I was drawn to the notion of human lives as understandable narratives, and from a young age, I was trying, like most people, to make sense of my own story, my own life, and must have subconsciously wished to see it explained on the back of a baseball card—my childhood dream—or in some case history—my potential adult reality.

  I do wish I had read Freud as much as I've read Krafft-Ebing. Interestingly enough, Krafft-Ebing was Freud's superior in Vienna, against whom Freud rebelled. Krafft-Ebing was just compiling the facts of perversion, kind of like a stamp collector; he didn't really probe why people were disturbed, except to theorize once in a while that maybe a poorly shaped skull or a weak liver may have set someone off. That kind of thing. So Freud looked down upon and ultimately surpassed Krafft-Ebing.

  Thus, I should know Freud inside and out. Every writer should. Instead, I only have watered-down knowledge of his theories from what I pick up in the culture, which is the intellectual equivalent of playing that telephone game. The same thing with Jung and Darwin. Especially Darwin. I haven't read a single word of the man's work—whereas with Freud I own a paperback edition of Interpretation of Dreams and I tried once to read the first paragraph—and yet I use Darwinian interpretations to inform much of my worldview. No wonder I'm always screwing up. I back up everything with rumor and insinuation and overheard gibberish! My knowledge of a major religion, Buddhism, comes from tea boxes. I have to say, though, I have a better grasp of Buddhism, because of those tea boxes, than I do of Freud, Jung, or Darwin. I wish they'd condense those gentlemen's theories on tea boxes.

  Having just said what I've just said, I realize, with great embarrassment, that I may not have been reading about Buddhism all these years. I can't believe my folly. I think it might be Hinduism. You don't hear much about Hinduism, so I assumed, as I drank all that tea, that it was Buddhism. But there's often a picture of a yogi on the tea box, and they don't have yogis in China. Yogis are from India, and I think the religion in India is Hinduism. And I'm pretty sure Buddhism was made in China, like so many other things, though the Buddha doesn't look Chinese. Confucius looks Chinese. But whatever happened to him? When did he go out of vogue over there? And what about the Koreans? What do they practice? Very little seems to be known about them, which may explain why we attacked them in the 1950s—fear of the unknown.

  Well, I have to say I just demonstrated that I'm more of an idiot than I had previously realized. I'm the worse kind of idiot. I think I know things, but I don't know anything. I'm so colossally stupid, I may have a negative IQ. At Princeton, a friend of mine got drunk and in the middle of the night knocked over an enormous volume of the OED and in the morning discovered that he had killed his little kitten. That's how I should be sentenced to death: I should have the OED or the Encyclopedia Britannica dropped on my head.

  Anyway, I had better go easy on myself. At least I make an effort to think about things. Have to give myself some credit.

  Jeeves returned to the library table around noon—I had more or less finished gorging myself on Psychopathia—and I had an idea for a new novel, which I wanted to share with him.

  “Know what's interesting about Krafft-Ebing's book, Jeeves?”

  “No, sir.”

  “It ends with Case 238. I love the fact that they're numbered. Wouldn't a great title for a book be Case 239? I would write it as if 239 was the long-lost missing case history, sort of like the Dead Sea Scrolls, a
nd this 239 would somehow solve the human dilemma of why everyone is so sex-crazed. You know, we make fun of rabbits, but there are a lot more people than rabbits.”

  “Very true, sir.”

  “I'll make it a grand philosophical book, masquerading as a case history. Kind of like what George Bernard Shaw or Thomas Mann would do—unrealistic characters who represent things, philosophical positions. In this case it would also be sexual positions. The book would be a sort of combination of The Kama Sutra and The Magic Mountain. I can also see it adapted as a musical, the way Pygmalion became My Fair Lady. The patient would be Everyman. He'd go by the initial E. I would try to write it in Krafft-Ebing's style … or it could be quasi-autobiographical. I could write my own case history, how my aberrant sexual behavior was my excessive reading as a teenager of Krafft-Ebing, which led me to having a nose fetish later in life. Something like that. Which makes it all very circular—how reading a book on perversion is a perversion, which also causes a secondary perversion. It's good when things in literature are circular. Gives the impression of profundity.”

  “I see, sir.”

  “I would write it as a letter to Krafft-Ebing. Some of the case histories are simply letters he received from people telling him of their abnormal behavior and begging for his help. And my letter would be extra forlorn since he's dead, and I'd be writing a letter knowing there'd be no response, no help.”

  “Excellent, sir.”

  “After I finish The Walker, I'll bang out The Homosexuals Are Coming screenplay, and then I'll tackle Case 239. It's good to think about future projects. Gives one hope.”

  “I would agree, sir.”

  “There is the possibility, though, that there may not be a whole novel in the concept. Or a musical. There may just be a title. Oftentimes that happens. If that's the case, all is not lost. I could have the narrator of The Walker think of himself as Case 239, a sort of interior, self-lacerating joke…. Of course, the narrator is based on me during the years when I was living with Charles and I've only just now come up with this 239 business, but I can take liberties since it's fiction…. And this Krafft-Ebing thing will be good, since in The Walker I'm making myself out to be a loony, unreliable narrator, which is the best kind of narrator to have, Jeeves. Allows you to get away with things, like not fact-checking. But he's not entirely unreliable. He's punctual and writes thank-you notes.”

  “Admirable traits, sir.”

  “Let's head back to the Rose, Jeeves. I've done enough research for today. I think I'll go for a swim in the pool. The cold water will be good for my nose. Then I'll spend the afternoon laboring with great industry. My reward will be seeing Ava at dinner.”

  “A healthy plan, sir.”

  “I think so, Jeeves.”

  On our way out of the library, I made a stop in the restroom and encountered this bit of graffiti over the urinal: FREE THE BOUND PERIODICALS! I was struck by the brilliance of this remark, and when I came out of the bathroom, I reported to Jeeves what I had read.

  “Very interesting, sir,” said Jeeves.

  “Saratoga has hidden depths,” I said as we left the library and walked to the Caprice. “There are subversive elements present here. Graffiti like that is better than any real estate brochure. We might consider settling down here after our tenure at the colony is finished.”

  “A promising notion, sir.”

  “Any town that promotes that kind of thinking is the place for us.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  CHAPTER 25

  A religious discussionA poisoned letterA cowardly impulse; a brave responseA brave impulse; a cowardly responseMan, woman, animal, fruit, or vegetable?A rigorous interrogation

  The gods don't like to let my nerves untangle for too long. Why this is, I don't know. They gave me some peaceful moments in the library, but it had been nearly four hours since Beaubien had me craving insulin, so I was more than due for another disaster, which this time came in the form of a note. I had parked the Caprice, Jeeves was off on a nature walk in the woods, and I was sailing through the mudroom, all set to charge to my room and don my bathing trunks for a dip in the pool, when my eye was drawn to the mail table, where a plain envelope bearing my name was waiting to be picked up.

  The old brain immediately squirted some serotonin into my system at the sight of the envelope, as it bore a resemblance to a letter, and letters, like dogs, always make me feel instantaneously happy. Unfortunately, I have very little contact with dogs and receive almost no letters. I should probably start a correspondence with a dog pound and combine the two pleasures.

  Anyway, I took hold of the envelope and carried it with me up to my rooms, delaying the pleasure of finding out who had written me. It was some kind of internal colony correspondence—there was no return address and no address beneath my name. So I was free to fantasize that maybe Ava had written me a note, confessing her profound attraction and love for me and inviting me to her room to ravish her … that she'd be waiting naked on her bed, a rose in one of her nostrils. This was unlikely, but until I opened the envelope, one could hope for the best, and so I stalled my great curiosity until I was at my desk.

  Happily seated, imagining myself rushing to Ava's boudoir, I pried open the envelope as carefully as I would a can of sardines; I don't think I've mentioned this but I've been prone to paper cuts all my life. Put me near something sharp and it's as if my skin begs to be assaulted. I can't even begin to tell you of the scars on my hands from actual sardine cans and kipper cans, which is why it's great to have Jeeves about—no more slitting my wrists on those things. I did have to give up tennis at a young age since opening a new can of balls was such a hazard, but maybe now with Jeeves around I can take the sport up again.

  Anyway, unfortunately, it was not a note from Ava to come ravish, though things began pleasantly enough—the epistle was typed on Rose Colony letterhead, which featured, embossed at the top, a large red rose twined around a miniature line drawing of the Mansion. But after this bit of stationery artwork, things took a decided turn for the horrible and the tragic. It was a lightning bolt from the gods. Curse them! Believe me, I understand well when good old Hamlet says that thing about “the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to.” At the Rose Colony alone, I was well on my way to filling out my quota. Mental patients in the fifties didn't have as rough a time as I was having at a so-called peaceful artist colony.

  Herewith, I reproduce the lightning bolt in question, sans rose and line drawing, I'm afraid:

  THE ROSE COLONY

  Alan,

  Please come to my office as soon as you can; I'd like to discuss Sigrid Beaubien's slippers.

  Dr. Roderick Hibben

  As you can well imagine, I reeled at the sight of those words. My desk, with me seated at it, was suddenly in a tornado; we spun around the corners of the ceiling and I got a good look at the molding. Then we slammed back into place in front of the window.

  My thoughts then went immediately to the two bottles of wine that had been in my bag when I left New Jersey. What had Jeeves done with them? I went to my bedroom and looked in both suitcases, but the bottles weren't there. And they weren't in any of the dresser drawers. Jeeves must have stashed them somewhere or shared them with the kitchen staff. This is one problem with having valets—they do all the packing and unpacking. He may have saved my hands from sardine tins and kipper tins, but now I didn't have access to my booze when I needed it. To hell with AA. To hell with the pioneer life of climbing on the wagon. I needed alcohol if I was going to face Dr. Hibben.

  Then the other rational alternative, besides drinking, presented itself—fleeing. I'd start packing, and when Jeeves came back from playing Daniel Boone in the woods, we'd leave the colony, pronto.

  I glanced out my window to see if Jeeves was visible and coming toward the Mansion, and thus our departure could be hastened, but I didn't see him. I did see Ava, though. She was striding in the direction of the barns, one of which was probably her studio. She was in t
he cotton dress she had been wearing the night before. From my second-story perch, she looked as beautiful as ever. Well, as beautiful as the other two times I had seen her.

  Suddenly, I wasn't ready to flee. Seeing Ava, I was emboldened. I wasn't ready to throw in the towel or even a washcloth. I couldn't leave the Rose and give up my chance at Ava. So I'd go face this Hibben and declare my innocence. I'd even tell him my plan—well, Jeeves's plan—to snare the slipper thief.

  With great courage, I sallied forth out of my room. I was a classic lover—not to be confused with a lover of classics, though I do love the few classics I've read—on a mission. I was Romeo, Cyrano, Tristan, and Case 88, all rolled into one. Nothing was going to come between me and Ava and her nose.

  In the office, the three ladies were at their desks. They lifted their heads in unison at my courageous entrance; I stood in the threshold.

  “Alan,” Doris said, using my name as a form of greeting. Then she asked, “How are you feeling? How's your nose?”

  “The nose is coming along,” I said, and then I added with steel in my voice, “I have a note from Dr. Hibben; he wants to see me.”

  “Okay,” she said, “let's see if he's busy.”

  She came out from behind her desk. I knew full well that she was aware of the Beaubien situation—she had probably produced the note that was in my pocket, since Hibben's name had been typed and not signed—but she discreetly didn't say anything. And I could see in the faces of the other two women, old Barbara and young Sue, that they, too, were cognizant of the missing slippers and the charges against me. The Rose Colony, as I mentioned, was like a prison—everyone knew everyone's business, almost before it happened, and now I had an appointment with the warden. Martial law was probably in place. If Hibben thought I was guilty of stealing those slippers, he'd probably kick me out, and I'd lose my shot at Ava. I had to prove to him I was innocent. I was doing it for love!