David Wallace - Oblivion

Whether seemingly somewhat forebodingly or not, both all exterior or extraneous noise and my own neglected pager itself — as well as the swart, handsomely dressed Medical administrator’s audible imbibation or ‘slurping’ of his hot tea (a personal pet peeve of mine since childhood, followed as it was by the somewhat affected knuckle across the upper lip) — appeared at this point in time to cease, producing a sudden and somewhat dramatic or unsettling silence or distended ‘pause.’ Meanwhile, on the room’s Monitor, the video recording, which formed or comprised a diptych or ‘Split screen’ image, showed Hope and myself’s darkened Sleep chamber in a low amber light which was evidently distinctive of the appearance of low light film, the screen’s upper left and right corners displaying both the relevant date and ‘0204’ (or, 2:04 A.M. in scientific or ‘Zulu time’) along with each successive second and decimal increments of same, with the (from our perspective) dextral or right hand side of the video display being comprised of a sustained, Infra-red close up (or, ‘tight shot’) of myself in the bed, deeply asleep, supine on my back with my hands on my chest, and — far more unsettlingly — of my own face, asleep. I myself had, not, of course, surprisingly, never seen or observed my own ‘unconscious’ face prior to this time; and, in the Monitor’s diptych’s recto or, as it were, right or ‘starboard’ portion’s unblinking close up, it was now revealed as being not a face I in any way recognized or ‘knew,’ with its slack jaw and protrusive jowls, hands on my chest spiderishly twitching, lips fishily loose or agape; and, although there was (to the Sleep team’s consternation and whispered colloquy among the aides and technicians at the Monitor’s rear, with which there was evidently some technical ‘glitch’ or malfunction) no audible sound (Hope, gazing in rigid fascination or horror at the dextral display right along-side myself, herself was silently ‘frozen’ [or, ‘paralyzed’ ( “or hurt you if” )] in mid gesture, her pupils quite large and liquidly black), the flaccid mien, gaping mouth, slack jaw and puddled and quivering jowls I’d never ‘envisioned’ lying down (for, as with most husbands, I had, of course, only seen my face when seated or standing erect at the mirror, as in shaving, removing unwanted nasal or auricular hairs, masturbating with a saffron scented under-garment, tightening the knot of my tie and so forth), as well as, despite the recording’s defective audio portion’s absence of sound, the variably changing shapes and contortions of my unconsciously open mouth in the close up sleeping shot or wee hour ‘scene,’ as Hope and myself watched in rigid fascination (as when passing the wreckage and prone, twisted figures of a vehicular accident or ‘Crime scene’), signifying or ‘meaning,’ in other words, that the distinctive, alternating shapes of my image’s mouth’s slack lips, as well as the small bubbles of saliva or spit which alternately formed and dissolved at my open mouth’s corners (there was labial ‘film’ or paste in those corners, as well, gummy and sepia colored, distending slightly as my mouth changed shape), signified undeniably that sounds and noises of which I had no conscious or ‘voluntary’ awareness were in fact escaping my throat and mouth — no one with eyes could deny it — and, as the video camera’s focus ‘tightened’ or closed further in on my wholly unfamiliar, inhuman, unconscious visage, I either saw, hallucinated, ‘imagined’ (Hope at this juncture still rigidly or foetally ‘frozen,’ open mouthed and saucer eyed, as both the forbidding technician and Latin executive began to peel their respective faces off in a ‘top down’ fashion or manner, beginning at each temple and pulling downwards with sharp, emphatic, peeling or ‘tugging’ motions, the Cuban’s foreign wrist watch and hands a mass of amber lesions) or actually watched or literally ‘witnessed’ one sleeping eyelid open just a crack, ever so slightly, allowing a minuscule sliver or ray or ‘blade’ of light — as in, for instance, under a dark bedroom’s closed door when the hallway light outside is illuminated or ‘turned on’ as a heavy, familiar nocturnal tread slowly ascends the Victorian staircase to the bedroom door — from the rapidly moving and unconscious eye below, seeing as well in the Split screen’s right- or ‘off’ side’s shot my own wet mouth and slack, soft and spreading cheeks now begin to distend in a ‘grinningly’ familiar and sensual or even predatory facial ex

“ up. Wake up, for the love of.”

“God. My God I was having.”

“Wake up.”

“Having the worst dream.”

“I should certainly say you were.”

“It was awful. It just went on and on.”

“I shook you and shook you and.”

“Time is it.”

“It’s nearly — almost 2:04. I was afraid I might hurt you if I prodded or shook any harder. I couldn’t seem to rouse you.”

“Is that thunder? Did it rain?”

“I was beginning to really worry. Hope, this cannot go on. When are we going to make that appointment?”

“Wait — am I even married?”

“Please don’t start all this again.”

“And who’s this Audrey?”

“Just go on back to sleep now.”

“And what’s that — Daddy?”

“Just lie back down.”

“What’s wrong with your mouth?”

“You are my wife.”

“None of this is real.”

“It’s all all right.”

1.

‘But they’re shit.’

‘And yet at the same time they’re art. Exquisite pieces of art. They’re literally incredible.’

‘No, they’re literally shit is literally what they are.’

Atwater was speaking to his associate editor at Style. He was at the little twin set of payphones in the hallway off the Holiday Inn restaurant where he’d taken the Moltkes out to eat and expand their side of the whole pitch. The hallway led to the first floor’s elevators and restrooms and to the restaurant’s kitchen and rear area.

At Style, editor was more of an executive title. Those who did actual editing were usually called associate editors. This was a convention throughout the BSG subindustry.

‘If you could just see them.’

‘I don’t want to see them,’ the associate editor responded. ‘I don’t want to look at shit. Nobody wants to look at shit. Skip, this is the point: people do not want to look at shit.’

‘And yet if you —’

‘Even shit shaped into various likenesses or miniatures or whatever it is they’re alleging they are.’

Skip Atwater’s intern, Laurel Manderley, was listening in on the whole two way conversation. It was she whom Atwater’d originally dialed, since there was simply no way he was going to call the associate editor’s head intern’s extension on a Sunday and ask her to accept a collect call. Style’ s whole editorial staff was in over the weekend because the magazine’s Summer Entertainment double issue was booked to close on 2 July. It was a busy and extremely high stress time, as Laurel Manderley would point out to Skip more than once in the subsequent debriefing.

‘No, no, but not shaped into, is the thing. You aren’t — they come out that way. Already fully formed. Hence the term incredible.’ Atwater was a plump diminutive boy faced man who sometimes unconsciously made a waist level fist and moved it up and down in time to his stressed syllables. A small and bell shaped Style salaryman, energetic and competent, a team player, unfailingly polite. Sometimes a bit overfastidious in presentation — for example, it was extremely warm and close in the little Holiday Inn hallway, and yet Atwater had not removed his blazer or even loosened his tie. The word among some of Style’ s snarkier interns was that Skip Atwater resembled a jockey who had retired young and broken training in a big way. There was doubt in some quarters about whether he even shaved. Sensitive about the whole baby face issue, as well as about the size and floridity of his ears, Atwater was unaware of his reputation for wearing nearly identical navy blazer and catalogue slacks ensembles all the time, which happened to be the number one thing that betrayed his Midwest origins to those interns who knew anything about cultural geography.