David Wallace - Broom of the System

“Gak indeed. Material like this can simply immediately be put in the rejection pile, on Mavis’s desk, and she will Xerox a terse little rejection slip to go with the returned manuscript.”

“What’s with these titles? ‘Dance of the Insecure’? ‘To the Mall’? ‘Threnody Jones and the Goat from Below’? ‘The Enema Bandit and the Cosmic Buzzer’? ‘Love’? ‘A Metamorphosis for the Eighties’?”

“That last one is actually rather interesting. A Kafka parody, though sensitively done. Self-loathing-in-the-midst-of-adulation piece. Collegiate, but interesting.”

“ ‘As Greg Sampson awoke one morning from uneasy dreams, he discovered that he had been transformed into a rock star. He gazed down at his red, as it were leather-clad, chest, the top of which was sprinkled with sequins and covered with a Fender guitar strapped tightly across his leather shoulders. It was no dream.’ Hmmm.”

“Read it over at your leisure. There are some interesting ones. There’s one about a family trying to decide whether to have the grandmother’s gangrenous feet amputated — you should vibrate sympathetically with that one. There’s one about a boy who puts himself through prep school selling copies of the Physicians’ Desk Reference in the halls. One about a woman who hires herself out at exorbitant rates as a professional worrier and griever for the sick and dying…”

“ ‘Elroy’s problem was that he had a tender pimple, on his forehead, right in the spot where his forehead creased when he looked surprised, which was often.’ Gak. Rejection. ‘So it finally happened. Bob Kelly, busy checking out the rear end of his neighbor. Mrs. Ernst as she bent to retrieve a mitten, ran over his son, Miles, with the snowblower.’ Double gak. Double rejection.”

“Like those instincts, kiddo.”

“ ‘Santo Longine, having learned to shift with a cigarette in his hand, now smoked while he drove.’ ‘The morning that Monroe Fieldbinder came next door to the Slotniks’ to discuss Mr. Costigan was a soft warm Sunday morning in May.’ These seem prima facie OK.”

“Why not start with those. Why not go ahead and start with those — start with that last one. Read through about half the stack… like so. You can use Mavis’s desk until her return from lunch, then you can come in here. I have to run to the typesetter’s this afternoon, and I may be gone for some time. You can have free rein.”

“This one looks sort of interesting, at least potentially. At least

it’s not overtly sick.“

“Which one?”

“….”

“Just see what you think. Go with your feelings, is the vital thing. ”

“Do I get switchboard scale for this?”

“Readers make ten dollars an hour.”

“I’ll just be outside, reading.”

“Have things reversed, Lenore?”

“Hmmm?”

“Nothing. Go. Have fun. Be intuitive.”

“….”

/f/

“Come in. ”

“Good heavens.”

“Come down.”

“Dear me.”

“This way.”

“I’ve got to confess, I thought this was some sort of joke at—”

“It wasn’t. It isn’t.”

“My God, it’s boiling in here. How do you people live? And how am I to walk?”

“Bent over. This way. Hunch your shoulders.”

“Lord.”

“You notice I’m not complaining. We all bend this way naturally. Mrs. Beadsman told me to tell you that as space is bending you now, so time has bent us.”

“….”

“The pain of which you have no idea, God willing. God forbid you should ever be in our state.”

“Rather hope to be in just your state, actually, at some point in the very distant future. Otherwise I… Ow! Otherwise I expect I’ll be even worse off — specifically dead.”

“Well now that’s a very interesting point, which you can take up with Mrs. Beadsman.”

“Am I perhaps going to have a chance to speak to Mrs. Beadsman, then?”

“No.”

“Mrs. Yingst!”

“Hello, Dr. Jay.”

“Well, I must say it seemed difficult to conceive of, but this is—”

“Cut the guano.”

“… cozy, I must—”

“Here are the sessions’ transcripts back. Here is your money. Lenore instructs me to tell you you’re doing a competent job.”

“Competent?”

“That’s what she said.”

“And how long is this to go on? This is eventually going to kill her. You people and I are killing a person from the inside out.”

“That’s exactly wrong. It’s we who are keeping her alive. Can’t you read? You’re even more of an idiot than Lenore maintains.”

“I refuse to submit to this sort of abuse, madam. I am a distinguished professional, a graduate of Harvard University, a respected member of—”

“You’re a pathetic phobic neurotic whom Lenore used her influence to rescue from institutional commitment by your wife, who if you recall objected to being scrubbed with antiseptic every night before bed. We set you up and keep you in soap and peroxide and deodorant. You’ll do what Lenore tells you to do for precisely as long as you’re needed.”

“But this simply cannot keep on indefinitely. The Vigorous aspect, especially. He’s the real problem. Spoken things anger him beyond belief, and I know he’s eventually—”

“Lenore instructs me to instruct you simply to take care of Mr. Vigorous vis à vis Lenore. He’s getting on everyone’s nerves. Do it. You’ll find some material here on a person who—”

“Listen, though. This will only make it worse. He’s going to want to read something by Blentner. He’s a reader. He’s going to want to lay eyes on Blentner’s actual texts. And he’ll ask me for them, and he’ll find out that there is no Blentner, and then what am I to say?”

“There can be a Blentner if you want there to be, if you need there to be.”

“How’s that?”

“You’ll write something, you ninny. You’ll make something up and attach a name to it. What could be simpler? Are you completely dense?”

“Really, I see no need for this sort of—”

“Take your money and go. Here is the material on Vigorous. Go away.”

“Do you two notice anything smelling the tiniest bit peculiar down here? I—”

“Take your nostrils and go.”

“How am I to turn around? It’s too cramped to turn around.”

“Back up. Go backwards. Mrs. Lindenbaum will help you.”

“This way, dear.”

“Good God.”

LOVE

The morning that Monroe Fieldbinder came next door to the Slotniks’ to discuss Mr. Costigan was a soft warm Sunday morning in May. Fieldbinder moved up the Slotniks’ rough red brick front walk, through some damp unraked clippings from yesterday’s first-of-the-season bagless mow, and prepared to press their lighted doorbell, one with a “Full Housepower” decal beneath it, just like the former decal on Fieldbinder’s former home, and then paused for just a moment to extract a bit of grass from his pant cuff.

The Slotniks sat in their dining room, in robes and leather slippers and woolly footmuffs, amid plates with bits of French-toast scraps loose and heavy with absorbed syrup, reading the Sunday paper, with maple stickiness at thumbs and mouth-corners.

The melody of the Slotniks’ doorbell took time. It was still playing when Evelyn Slotnik opened the front door. Fieldbinder stood on the stoop. Evelyn’s hands went involuntarily to her hair, her eyes to her feet, in woolly footmuffs, beneath unshaved ankles. And then context came in, and she looked away from herself, at Fieldbinder.

Fieldbinder was dressed to harm, in a light English raincoat and razor slacks, black shoes, subway shine. There was a briefcase. Evelyn Slotnik stared at him. All this took only a second. There was a sound of the newspaper from back in the dining room.