Wake Up, Sir!: A Novel

by Jonathan Ames

  The man's little ego, his desire to be fit and maybe to be attractive to the females at the colony, his ruminating on his poems as he jogged, his vulnerable bald head, his bad posture, his poor running style, his mirroring of my own hopelessness—well, the whole thing came roaring at me like a comet. So I moved my head to the right and it scorched past me and shot out the other side of the room. I wondered if it would make it to the third floor and strike poor Tinkle.

  Jeeves entered a moment later. I didn't want to go into the whole thing, but I said, “Every now and then, Jeeves, I almost grasp the utter meaninglessness of life, but then it eludes me.”

  “I understand, sir.”

  I tried to rally. I ate my lunch and then took a bath. When I shaved, I leaned against the sink and felt a pain above my groin. I had bruised myself with Ava. I smiled for a moment. But then the sourness in my whole body took over and I went and lay back down.

  Jeeves brought me a glass of water. Stood over me.

  “Jeeves, can you go into the writing room and get me my Raymond Chandler novel. It's on the desk, under the Hammett collection. Chandler writes beautifully about hangovers. I think I need to be in the presence of a fellow sufferer.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Jeeves came back with The Long Goodbye.

  “You know, Jeeves, all I really need in life, reading-wise, is Raymond Chandler and Dashiell Hammett. I wish they had written more. I do love Anthony Powell, but I think it might be a temporary infatuation.”

  “I certainly am enjoying Powell, sir.”

  “Well, your forebears are from England, so he speaks to you.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “England is completely nuts, so he doesn't speak as coherently to me. I mean, what the hell is going on over there? I don't get it, really. It has too many names. Great Britain. Britain. The UK. England. Sometimes people are British or English or Britons. There's also the Irish and the Scottish, both of whom drink heavily to deal with the complexity of it all. And some people say they're from Wales. I think that might be an island, like Martha's Vineyard. They must be Welsh. So we have to add that to the mix. And let's not forget that their public schools are actually private. So what the hell do they call their public schools?”

  “I can try to explain everything, sir.”

  “No, I'm still reeling from your dissertation on time and the cinema, Jeeves. You nearly gave me a brain aneurysm with that one. But I'd be happy to hear your British lecture another time, though I'm not a very good Anglophile, I'm afraid. I just dress like one, which is doubly pathetic since an Anglophile is ostensibly dressing like someone English or British or whatever the hell they are, so I'm mimicking something once removed from the authentic as it is. I'm an Anglo-Anglophile. I hadn't considered this before…. So I don't know what I am anymore. I think I'm a Wandering Jew…. That would be a good name for a musical group, The Wandering Jews. Of course, they could only play at bar mitzvahs, but there certainly would be an income.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You know, Jeeves, if I wasn't Jewish, I would find the attention paid to Jews very annoying. In fact, I do find it annoying. There are definitely more articles and TV shows and movies and world crises about Jews than any other people, and when you consider our percentage relative to the human population, it's completely out of control. As far as news coverage goes, you'd think there were more Jews than Chinese…. I do wish, though, we Jews were more like the Chinese—have great frightening numbers but keep a low profile. I mean, I've seen more articles in The New York Times on klezmer music alone in the last five years than anything having to do with the Chinese…. I find it all very nerve-racking. The more attention the more hatred. And everything with time gets bigger, so can you imagine if the Holocaust is trumped?”

  “Try not to think of such things, sir.”

  “You're right, Jeeves … I'm awfully splenetic today…. I'm suffering from humors, but it's not very funny.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Jeeves, could you write down that last line? I may have to use it, but I'm too weak to hold a pen.”

  “Yes, sir.” Jeeves sat at the letter-writing desk and I repeated the line: “I'm suffering from humors, but it's not very funny.”

  Jeeves printed out the line on some scratch paper.

  “Thank you, Jeeves.”

  “You're welcome, sir.”

  “At least I got some writing done today. One good line isn't bad, especially for someone as sick as I am.”

  “I'm sorry that you are feeling ill, sir.”

  “No need to feel sorry, Jeeves. You and I both know I brought it on myself and that I'm utterly hopeless, so I won't bore us by claiming to get on the wagon…. I really did it last night, though. All my organs must be in a state of shock. My spleen has got its head in the toilet and is vomiting. My liver is passed out in front of a Bowery mission, and my kidneys are in the fifteenth round of a brutal fight and my opponent has illegally removed the stuffing from his gloves.”

  “Apt metaphors, sir.”

  “Thank you, Jeeves. But no need to jot those down. Not that good. I do like the idea of you taking dictation. I could be like Milton or Henry James.”

  I don't think this notion appealed to Jeeves, because he didn't say anything. So I read a little Chandler, and Jeeves effervesced over to my writing room. A few pages into The Long Goodbye, I fell asleep. When I woke up, Jeeves was standing over me again. It was around 4 P.M.

  “Would you like to go for a walk, sir? It might be good for you.”

  “I don't think so…. A glass of water, please.”

  Some H2O in the system, I squinted a yellow eye at Jeeves. He stood by the letter-writing desk, waiting for my next solicitation. But I had nothing to ask of him. I felt intolerably sad and pathetic. How dare I want anything for myself? I thought. How dare I even dream for a moment that I could have something with Ava beyond last night?

  It was probably the dreadful hangover, but I sensed a shadow over everything. Before it had even begun with Ava, I felt like it was over. There was no way I could be loved.

  “Jeeves, bear with me a moment. Please sit down.” He sat down. “I'd like to try to get to the root of today's melancholy, the psychological root, not the physical root due to last night's pollution…. I can almost put my finger on it.”

  “I am more than happy to listen, sir.”

  “Well … you see …” How could I convey what I was thinking and feeling? Then a parable of sorts came to me. “I think, Jeeves, this might explain it: One time I was baby-sitting—this was when I was living in Princeton—and I was looking after twins, a young girl and boy, about five years old. I was playing with them and then the young girl went into the bathroom. A few minutes later, she sang out, ‘I'm done.’ I had to go in there and help her off the toilet, which was perfectly fine. But what I've never forgotten is her saying, ‘I'm done.’ … It was her supposition that someone cared, that someone would come to her. She was still, of course, very much in the bubble of her parents' love, that when she went to the bathroom and called out, ‘I'm done,’ they'd come running and they'd praise her, make her feel important, make her feel like her little life was important. … So maybe it was seeing the birth of an ego … her use of the word I and how under the sway she was of the illusion of her own significance. And so I felt terribly sad thinking how life was going to crush her in the years to come.”

  “Maybe life won't crush her, sir,” said Jeeves.

  “I think life crushes everyone.”

  “I'm not sure I agree with you, sir…. Are you sure you don't want to go for a walk?”

  “You said you'd listen! … I'm almost done, Jeeves…. I know I'm a bore…. I just want to say that I think the word I is the saddest word in the English language. To me it means failure, disappointment, heartbreak, and death. Nothing good comes of being an ‘I.’ Know what the saddest word in French is? Je … I don't know any other words for I…. Wait, yo is I in Spanish. But yo doesn't sound sad. Maybe
that's why Latins are in a good mood most of the time. Ich is the German one. My grasp of foreign tongues is better than I thought. Ich sounds like they're disgusted with themselves. Maybe that's why Germans are so insane. They do seem to be better lately, though. I don't think they'll give the world trouble again, but you never know…. Almost all peoples have a dark period, though theirs was very dark. America is in a dark period right now, since we're leading the way in boiling the oceans and killing everything. … Even the Scandinavians, who are sort of perfect—clean streets, good health care, active sex lives—had a dark period, a brief Viking phase, but since then they've been very well behaved.”

  “A walk, sir?”

  “All right already, let's walk.”

  I hadn't quite expressed what I wanted to, but some bilious crap had managed to get out, which was helpful, I guess. It was just this overall feeling of despair, futility, and hopelessness, both universal and personal. It had started with the jogging Jew and culminated with my memory of the young girl on the toilet. Oh, well, I really am an idiot.

  We went for a stroll. We crossed paths with no one. I will say this for my fellow colonists: they may have been absolutely crazy but they were also quite serious about their work—hiding out all day in their studios and their writing rooms.

  As we made our way through the green woods, I felt a sugar attack coming on—the booze had my blood all messed up—so we sat on a fallen tree to give me a few moments to gather myself. Despite the sugar attack, the trees and the fresh air had me feeling a little better mentally, so I said, “The thing is this, Jeeves. The key to life is to not to want. If you want, you have pain. I picked that up off a tea bag…. So whenever you want something, you have to think of giving something instead. That's the way to have a good life.”

  “That sounds like a wise approach, sir.”

  “So I want Ava's love, but what I have to do is think about giving Ava love. That's something I can count on. The reverse I can't.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  “I haven't said anything to you, Jeeves, but last night Ava and I … well, something was consummated.”

  “I am pleased for you, sir.”

  “You don't think it's bad form for me to have said something?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Well, since I've alluded to this consummation, can I ask you something as a younger man to an older man?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Have you noticed that women like you to be rough with them in the boudoir?”

  “Very good, sir.”

  “‘Very good, sir’ is not an answer to a question, Jeeves!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “All right, stonewall me. Sorry to put you on the spot, Jeeves. I'm just full of nerves today, and I'm feeling concerned about the way I make love. I'm not always very tender. In fact, I'm a little violent. But I attack the woman to make her happy…. I guess what it comes down to is that they want to be defiled, like everyone else, which I can understand. They also like to be kissed and licked, but that's usually a buildup to defiling. Sylvia Plath said something about every woman loving a fascist who puts his boot on her throat. It's just that it's hard to feel good about yourself when you're the one playing the fascist, if you know what I mean.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Also, I explored things in the nose area. I kissed it several times. They say, ‘Once a philosopher, twice a pervert.’ But what if you do something three times or a thousand times? Are you a philosopher pervert, like a philosopher-king?”

  “I don't know, sir.”

  “I wouldn't mind that title—philosopher-pervert, though philosopher-king is better, of course.”

  “I agree, sir. Philosopher-king would be the preferred title.”

  “Well, my sugar seems to have stabilized, Jeeves. Let's head back to the Mansion.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  It was nearly time for the predinner drinks, but I was hit by a fresh wave of nausea, lay down, and skipped dinner. It really was an all-day hangover. Jeeves took off to fend for himself and around eight o'clock there was a knock at my door. I wondered for a gleeful, happy moment if Ava had returned early, and I said, propping myself up on my elbow, “Come in, come in.”

  It was Tinkle. He issued into the room and, upon seeing me lying in bed, said, “Are you all right?”

  “I'm still sick from last night, if you can believe it.”

  “It hits you hard,” he said. “Can I do anything?”

  “No, I'm fine…. Thanks for asking. How are you?”

  “I'm fine. Had a good day of writing and now the commander is coming up to my room for some whiskey, but I guess you're not up for it.”

  “It's tempting … I'd like to fly another mission with the Federation. … But maybe tomorrow?”

  “Sure.”

  “Any news or gossip? Anything on the slipper scandal?”

  “Nothing,” he said. “Everything is quiet. No fires or thefts.”

  “Well, have a good time with the commander. Tell him the sergeant is in sick bay, but will be ready for duty tomorrow.”

  “Okay,” said Tinkle. “Feel better.”

  He left the room. I missed being with him and the commander, and despite my feelings of foreboding, I missed Ava terribly. It was odd to miss someone I hardly knew, but I did miss her.

  I didn't eat anything, just drank water, which was probably healthy for my system, and I curled up in bed with Hammett, Chandler, and Powell. They were a wonderful substitute for living people, and for most of my life such fellows have been a substitute.

  It was quite rare—I usually only read one book at a time—but I read bits and pieces from all three authors, like sampling different wines.

  Jeeves came back around ten. He had probably been down to the fountain of nymphs with one of the cooks. I made a mental note to take Ava down there when she returned.

  “How are you, sir?” he asked.

  “To be honest, Jeeves, I'm still nauseous, and I'm also anxious, fearful, nervous, and ill at ease.”

  “I'm sorry, sir.”

  “Along with being physically unwell, I feel like I have homework that I'm avoiding and it weighs on me. But I always feel this way at my core. I think my nervous system still hasn't recovered from high school.”

  “Try your yoga breaths, sir.”

  “Good idea, Jeeves. I think I'll also pray. For an agnostic, I take a lot of comfort in prayer.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  “Well, good night, Jeeves.”

  “Good night, sir.”

  “You know, Jeeves, before I met you, I used to say, each night, before going to sleep, ‘Good night, cruel world.’ So it's much nicer to say good night to you.”

  “I'm pleased, sir.”

  Then Jeeves dutifully set out the slippers and closed my door. I read a little more, then went to sleep.

  When I woke up, rather early, there were lovely shafts of light filtering into the room. It was one of those summer mornings where you forget that the world is on the verge of environmental collapse. Outside my window, the green leaves were turning to face the sun, and I put my face out the window to get some sun, too. All dreary and gloomy thoughts from the day before had vanished, and my body felt splendid. I was so eager now for Ava's return that it was almost unbearable.

  I got dressed and headed out and the slippers were still there, unwanted, unstolen, which was a good thing—I had slept so heavily I wouldn't have heard anything anyway.

  I went down to the dining room and it was practically empty, it being Sunday morning and most people were sleeping in. Charles Murrin and I sat alone at one of the small tables and I ate a full and delicious breakfast, drank many cups of coffee, and he and I talked about the writing process. His advice to writers if they were stuck was to “Torture the heroine, torture the heroine. When in doubt, just give your heroine a hard time. It always jump-starts the plot.”

  “What if you don't have a heroine?” I asked, thinking of The Walke
r. “Can you torture the hero?”

  “Yes, that would work,” said Murrin.

  I thought this was very good advice, and I thanked him for his wise words. Then I finished my breakfast and was at my writing desk by 9 A.M. I tried to work on the novel, but couldn't. I was too nervous, thinking of Ava's return. I couldn't wait to kiss her. To squeeze her to me. So I wrote over and over again, like a lunatic, on my yellow pad, “I can't wait to see Ava. I can't wait to see Ava.”

  I did this almost like a chant or a spell to bring her back from New York as soon as possible.

  CHAPTER 34

  Foot-danglingA blowA startling discoveryThe Spa City Motel!Forgiveness?Tears

  Around 1 P.M., there was a knock on my door. I had long ago stopped my mad repetitive scribbling and had taken to just staring out the window or reading some Chandler. At the moment, I was practicing dangling my foot off the edge of the desk.

  “Come in,” I said.

  She walked in, more beautiful than ever, which was becoming a habit of hers—looking more beautiful each time I saw her. She was wearing a white skirt and a tight blue T-shirt. There was the expected radiant skin, love-object nose, green eyes, and lustrous dark brown hair. I stood up, smiling and excited.

  “Ava—”

  She stepped toward me and punched me with all her might in my stomach. My hands, reflexively, went to my abdomen. I was hurt, but not terribly. She hadn't knocked the wind out of me. She was no Hill.

  There was a real look of anger on her face, but I wanted to pretend that this blow to the stomach was her silly, affectionate way of greeting me, so I said with a smile, “Why'd you punch me?”

  “You know why, asshole.”

  Being called asshole was more painful than the shot to my stomach. Something had gone dreadfully wrong. So the part of me that always expects disaster came to the fore, like a ghost stepping out of a body it has inhabited.