Wake Up, Sir!: A Novel

by Jonathan Ames

  I said in a very quiet voice, “I really don't know why you punched me.”

  “You have to,” she said, and she went to punch me again, but this time I blocked her fist with my hands, and I stepped back to put myself out of her range.

  “Please don't hit me,” I said. “I don't know why you're upset. … Are you pregnant?”

  It seemed inconceivable that this would be the case, that she would already know, but what else could it be?

  “I hope not,” she said in such a way that it was evident that carrying my child might make a good sequel to Rosemary's Baby.

  “So what's going on then?” I asked, desperate to understand.

  “You really don't know?”

  “I don't know. I swear.”

  “I don't believe you; you have to know…. You gave me crabs.”

  Crabs? For a very long moment, I didn't know what she was talking about. Then I had a very good idea what she was talking about.

  “You mean pubic lice? I gave you pubic lice? That's not possible.”

  “Well, I have crabs … and I haven't slept with anyone for six months. So there's only one person who could have given them to me and that's you.”

  “But I don't have crabs,” I said, pleading with her. “Maybe you're just itchy.”

  “I know what crabs look like. I had them in college. And when I woke up this morning, there was a nice little crab in there and a lot of eggs.”

  “Maybe you got them from a toilet seat.”

  “You're an idiot.” She looked at me. She could see that I was both sincere and frightened. “You really don't think you have them?”

  “I don't think so; I haven't noticed anything—”

  “Go to the bathroom and check.” Her voice was cold.

  I left her in my writing room and went to the bathroom. I recalled observing what looked like a bug bite or a pimple on my thigh two days ago, but I hadn't thought anything more of it. And then I did think that I had been rather itchy yesterday, but I assumed it was just my skin acting funny during a hangover.

  In the bathroom, I slowly lowered my pants and underwear.

  With dread, I examined myself.

  I had crabs.

  I felt the beginning of a mad panic coming over me.

  Tiny, crumblike sacs were at the base of my pubic hairs, and in the top left corner of my pubis, a miniature brown spider appeared to be embedded. Suddenly I felt very itchy. An itchiness I had mentally been dismissing as having no relevance or importance, such that it had barely registered. But it was there.

  I couldn't believe I had crabs. I had never had them before. I picked at the spider-thing with my nail; I couldn't get it out. Then I managed to get my nail under it and the thing lifted up and walked off, very easygoing and nonchalant, oblivious to the fact that it was destroying my life. It had several little legs and moved like … a crab! I had a sand crab in my crotch! It disappeared into the dense forest—relative to its size—of my pubis. Come back, you bastard! It left behind a red sore spot, like the sore spot on my thigh. This was all too disgusting.

  I pulled up my shorts and pants. My mind sought an explanation. I hadn't slept with anyone for months and months. Where had I been? What toilets had I sat on? Then the solution came to me: the Spa City Motel. The blankets had smelled of cigarettes. The place was a dive. They changed the sheets but not the blankets and not the coverlet. I had gotten crabs from a damn motel! And I had given them to Ava, to the girl I loved, and now she clearly hated me.

  I went back to the writing room.

  “I didn't know I had them,” I said weakly. “But you're right, I have them.”

  “How could you not know?”

  “I did feel a little itchy, now that I think of it … but it wasn't overwhelming…. I must have gotten them from the Spa City Motel. I stayed there the night before coming here. I had gotten my nose broken in Sharon Springs and then came here—”

  “I know about your stupid nose…. I don't care how you got them, but you gave them to me. I never should have slept with you. I wanted to be celibate for a year. This is really gross. You don't have any other diseases, do you? Any other surprises?”

  “No, I don't … I swear. I'm so sorry.”

  “I can't believe you didn't notice.”

  “I know … I'm an idiot…. What should we do?”

  “I don't know what you should do, but I've already shaved myself. I didn't want to bother with those shampoos. So I shaved my whole thing. And now I'm going to wash all my clothes and all my sheets and blankets; anything you might have touched…. If we're lucky, we'll give the whole colony crabs.”

  “I feel like a leper,” I said, and I actually started crying. I turned away from her, mortified with shame.

  She put her hand on my shoulder. I was too embarrassed to face her.

  “It's just crabs,” she said.

  “But I really like you…. I forgot to give you my book…. I've wrecked everything.” I couldn't stop crying.

  She was quiet. She took her hand off my shoulder.

  “You sort of did wreck everything…. But don't worry about it; it's not that big of a deal, if you really think about it. Just get some of that shampoo and wash everything you have in really hot water. I'm going to go do my laundry now. There's only one machine, so if you want to do a wash, you can probably find a place in town.”

  “I'm really sorry.” I still couldn't turn and face her. I tried to stop my tears with my hands.

  “Okay, okay. I accept your apology,” she said. “I was pissed. I thought you knew you had them and didn't care, that you just wanted to get laid. But I believe you didn't mean it…. I'm just really annoyed by the whole thing. I have a lot of problems at the moment and I didn't need this at all … but I can handle it. So let's just forget about Friday night.” Then she said with a greater urgency, “Please, please, don't tell anybody anything.”

  “Of course not,” I said. She was ashamed on many levels to have slept with me. I felt so bad that a numbing shock had set in and my tears stopped.

  I was able to turn now, but I looked down at her feet, couldn't meet her eyes. How embarrassing, on top of everything else, to have cried. I said, “I hope you can forgive me. I'm really sorry—”

  “I believe you.”

  She moved to the doorway to leave, then turned and faced me, though our eyes didn't meet. I was still looking down. She said, “So let's just act like we hardly know each other and get through the rest of our time here. I think that's the easiest way to go.”

  “All right,” I said with a quiet voice. I was heartbroken and wanted to ask for a second chance, but more than that I wanted to do whatever she asked of me, and she was asking me to become a stranger, and so that's what I would do.

  CHAPTER 35

  Jeeves is sparedA murder cover-up and a military occupationHello, Dorian GrayGood-bye, Douglas Fairbanks Jr. and Errol Flynn

  “Jeeves,” I whimpered. “Jeeves.”

  Ava had left. I was sitting at my desk with my head in my hands.

  Jeeves melted over from the bedroom to the writing room.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Oh, Jeeves.”

  “I know, sir.”

  “You know, Jeeves?”

  “Yes, sir. Your door was open and the relevant aspects of your conversation with the young woman were conveyed to me.”

  “Oh, Jeeves … what are we going to do?”

  “There are a number of necessary steps to take, sir.”

  “Fleeing and then suicide?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Don't you think we should just leave? We should go back to the Spa City Motel. That's the one place on earth where we'd fit in … well, where I'd fit in…. Oh, my God, Jeeves. What about you? Do you have the scourge?”

  “I don't believe so, sir.”

  “I didn't think I had it either, but I do…. Jeeves, you have to go inspect yourself.”

  “I am sure that is not necessary, sir.”

  �
�Jeeves!”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Poor Jeeves. Working for me had to be the worst assignment in the history of valetdom. First my alcoholism and now crabs.

  He retreated to the bathroom. I did some more temple squeezing. Then I looked out the window. A two-story jump probably wouldn't kill me, I thought. I'd most likely only break a leg, and when the paramedics came, I'd have to tell them I had crabs. So I can't jump, I mused, but I can break a windowpane and take the edge to my neck. That might work. And this would also be an effective way to kill the crabs, I reasoned; I didn't think they could exist on a corpse for very long, and if I was cremated, that would really show them.

  Jeeves came back.

  “I do not appear to be afflicted, sir.”

  “Your bed at the motel must have been all right…. Well, better me than you, Jeeves. Everything about me is a disaster, so one more thing doesn't really matter, whereas you're more or less perfect so you'd feel the effects of a disaster more dramatically…. So let's get the hell out of here. I say we go to the Spa City Motel and I rub myself all over the place. I'd like to give my crabs to the crabs. Can I recrab a crab? What can you give a crab as revenge? Fleas? I could pet a lot of dogs and rent a room at the motel and let the fleas and crabs go at it.”

  “What I suggest, sir, is that we take all your bedding and the clothing you've worn the last few days and do a wash in Saratoga. We can also go to a pharmacy and purchase the proper ointments and medications.”

  “Do they sell loaded guns at pharmacies? That's the only kind of medication I need. A forty-five in my mouth, ready to dispense a lead pill.”

  “Try to be reasonable, sir.”

  “But shouldn't we just leave this place?”

  “It's an honor, sir, that you were accepted here to pursue your writing. I think it would be a terrible waste to run away, to allow the current distressing circumstances to deprive you of an excellent opportunity. We can clear up this situation rather easily, and then you will have a few weeks to concentrate on and finish your novel. You're nearly done, aren't you, sir?”

  “Well, nearly … A few months of hard work and I'd be done.”

  “So it is my feeling, sir, that we should not flee, as you put it, but stay here, face things, and do the best we can. If you left prematurely, sir, I think you'd later feel that you had squandered something quite precious.”

  “I've already lost something quite precious…. I feel like I love Ava, even if it's too soon to feel that, and now she wants nothing to do with me.”

  “Her attitude toward you might soften, sir. She strikes me as a reasonable person, and once a little time passes, she may yet come around.”

  “You think so, Jeeves?”

  “It is certainly a possibility, sir. It is only a case of lice, which is exceedingly common throughout the world. There are far worse things that could happen to two people who feel affection for each other.”

  “I know, Jeeves, but it is pretty bad … but I'll do whatever you say. I can't really think straight. Maybe a crab crawled in my ear and is eating its way through my brain. Just tell me what to do.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Jeeves outlined a basic plan of action, and so the next several hours were like a combination of a military assault and a murder cover-up.

  First we had to get my clothes and bedding out of the Mansion without arousing suspicion. Jeeves directed us to a service exit, which I hadn't noticed, at the foot of my staircase. This saved us from having to traverse the mudroom, where we might be spotted. Using my two enormous suitcases and garment bag, like taking out parts of a dead body, we loaded the trunk of the Caprice with the incriminating evidence. While packing, I had forbidden Jeeves from handling any of my clothing.

  “A crab could alight on your wrist hair and find its way to where it wants to go,” I had explained to him.

  “If that were the case, sir, I would already be suffering from an infestation.”

  “But now that I know what's going on, Jeeves, I can't put you any more in harm's way.”

  After much back-and-forth, he acceded to my wishes, though I did allow him to help with carrying the bags, thinking that the crabs couldn't chew through canvas and plastic.

  I did suggest that we simply burn all my clothing, but Jeeves counseled against this.

  We found a Laundromat open near the library, and the place was empty—only one or two machines were making noise. Whoever was doing a wash was off somewhere else.

  My sport coats and ties couldn't be washed since it was a Sunday and all the dry cleaners were closed. So we left those in the garment bag, under quarantine. I would have to go a few days without wearing a jacket and tie, but I was prepared to make this sacrifice. I was even going to clean my spring, fall, and winter jackets; Jeeves felt, and I concurred, that it was best to conduct a Stalinesque purge of all my garments. And my blue linen jacket still needed to have the blood washed out from my beating in Sharon Springs.

  I loaded four machines with my clothing and the Rose Colony bedding and towels. I set the temperatures to boil. I still wouldn't allow Jeeves to touch anything, and this frustrated him, but he continued to comply with my wishes.

  While Jeeves watched and stood guard over the hypnotic machines, making sure no crabs crawled out and attacked any innocent Saratogans, I got in the Caprice and made my way to an enormous Rite Aid emporium. The place was indecent. Everything that is wrong with American culture can find its expression in the modern pharmacy.

  I wandered hopeless and lost through the aisles of shampoos, chocolate bars, power tools, crayon boxes, and hemorrhoid creams, but, naturally, I couldn't find the pubic-lice medicaments, which necessitated an unpleasant conversation with a terrifying pharmacist. He was in his forties and his eyes were unusually close together. His dead, lifeless hair was patchy; you might have called it brown in a black-and-white movie. His nose was wide at the bottom, and his nostrils were upturned, so regarding him was like looking into the barrel of a shotgun. He was probably taking one pill from every prescription he filled, like a chef sampling his own dishes, which may have explained his frightening appearance.

  “Excuse me, sir,” I said.

  “Do you need something for your nose?” he asked, curt and to the point, like most pharmacists I have encountered.

  “No, thank you, my nose is under control … healing and all that. … I know it's bruised, still, but it's getting better. I'm here because my nephew picked up lice at a summer camp, and we need to treat him. Where might I find the lice products?”

  “Head lice?”

  “Yes, the young boy has head lice.”

  “You know you have to wash everything in very hot water. All clothing, bedding. And spray the house, too.”

  “We were thinking of burning the house, killing the lice, and collecting the insurance.”

  “Are you being obnoxious?” The barrels of his nose dilated.

  “No, I'm sorry … a bad joke…. It's just that this poor boy is really suffering and it has me upset and not thinking correctly.”

  “Aisle five. There's nontoxic stuff, too. If you want. Works pretty well.”

  “Thank you.”

  I reasoned quite intelligently—I did go to Princeton, after all—that pubic-lice products would be next to their cousins the head-lice products, and I was correct. There were several brands to choose from and I was tempted to buy them all, fill the bathtub with the stuff, and bathe myself, or I could just find a nuclear reactor and jump into its waste pool. I settled on one product called RidX, which was a whole kit—shampoos, house spray, special comb, blowtorch, and a free piece of chewing gum. It was toxic as opposed to nontoxic. This was not the time to join the Green Party.

  I purchased this humiliating RidX product from a young, overweight teenage girl, who seemed to be taking no visible notice of what I was buying. I figured that high school illiteracy rates were as bad as the newspapers said. She lasered the thing with her fazer, I thought momentarily of Scien
ce Officer Tinkle, and a report was sent through the scanner to the FBI that Alan Blair had crabs.

  She gave me an enormous plastic bag for the lice kit, and my mind drifted back to good old Jerzy Kosinski with a bag over his head, but I decided to be mentally strong and just fight these crabs, not have them take my whole life, though having plastic bags around is like having a piece of rope with that elaborate noose knot all set to go.

  I returned to the Laundromat, and when everything was ready, I allowed Jeeves to make the transfer to the dryers, which we set to incinerate.

  We both reasoned that the hot water in the washing machines had probably made the clothes and bedding and towels safe for Jeeves to touch, and I didn't want to touch them and possibly recontaminate everything.

  I went out and got a newspaper and we passed the time reading, and I felt terribly itchy, physically and mentally. It was quite upsetting to think that my pubis was a nursery for dozens and dozens of crab eggs. During my inspection, I had only spotted that one crab, which must have been the mother, and when all her children were born, I would be vastly outnumbered. I wondered if they were hatching as we sat there in the Laundromat.

  Finally, the clothes were dry, and I didn't want to put them in the suitcases, which quite possibly were infected. We would have to spray them later. One has to think of everything when battling crabs. So I ran out and bought a bunch of black suicidal plastic garbage bags at a supermarket, and Jeeves loaded those up.

  We snuck back into the Mansion with just a few garbage bags, containing enough clothing and bedding to get by. As soon I was in my room, I stripped down and we put the clothes I was wearing in yet another plastic bag and sealed that, with the idea that later we'd put it in the trunk of the car with the other quarantined clothing.

  Crab kit in hand, I sprinted naked to the bathroom—didn't want to recorrupt any towels—and locked myself in there and went to work. I was lucky that almost no one else used my hallway and that I had the bathroom all to myself. First thing I did was read the voluminous instructions, which were terribly depressing—it was like a correspondence course on pubic lice; I learned about their nasty little life cycle, from nit to nymph to full-blown adult menace.