Joshua Ferris - Then We Came to the End

Everyone applauded when Hank rose and stood at the podium. We bucked a little at some microphone feedback. He readjusted the mic, gave us a sheepish smile, and began to speak with an endearing quaver in his voice. We could tell he was nervous. All at once, great swells of conflicted emotion flooded over us. One of our own had made good: we were proud, astounded, envious, incredulous, vaguely indifferent, ready to seize on the first hint of mediocrity, and genuinely pleased for him. We were all those things and more. Before sitting down, many of us had taken copies of his book off the display rack, and we thumbed through them now for errata. We read the acknowledgments page to see who he thanked. What was it about, anyway? And who, working our hours, had time to read books? We had to force ourselves to stop and pay attention, as he had finished thanking us for coming and was opening the book to read.

“‘The night before,’” he began. Suddenly he stopped. The room froze with anxiety. He was stiff-arming the podium with a white-knuckled grip and staring down as if trying to recall how to breathe. He cleared his throat. He took a sip of water. The glass quivered in his hand. Then he took a deep breath and resumed.

“‘The night before the operation,’” he started up again, to our great relief, “she has no association dinners to go to, no awards ceremonies, no networking functions. A plan comes to her impromptu in the back of the cab as she steps in and instructs the driver to take the Inner Drive. She envisions her sofa, her two cats, something good ordered in, and a bottle of wine she’s been saving. They ask you not to eat anything twelve hours before, but honestly, that’s unreasonable, isn’t it — your last chance at a normal meal for how long?’”

The room was silent but for a few hushed noises issuing from the faraway registers and Hank’s lone, crackling voice, amplified by the microphone, which accentuated the subtle cottony smacks of words formed within his dry mouth. We were so nervous on his behalf that, once he had started up again, it was hard to concentrate on what he was saying. We were just happy to see that he wasn’t going to faint.

He shifted his stance from one foot to the other, relaxed his arms a little, and read now with an easier, more pleasing rhythm. “‘. . better to see them with someone, though. Alone, there is that awkward ten minutes between the time you arrive and the time they dim the lights for the previews when against all reason you believe everyone in the theater is staring at you because. .’”

We kept looking around at the familiar faces. Plump Benny Shassburger and freckle-faced Jim Jackers sat together, and between them, Marcia Dwyer with a rather dated haircut. Carl Garbedian was there with Marilynn. He was hardly recognizable. His gut was gone and he was tan as an almond. He was wearing a dark blue linen blazer with an open-collared shirt and he’d done something with his hair. His legs crossed, he was focused on Hank with great curiosity, perfectly still, listening.

“‘. . walking the hallway toward some associate’s office. Is she really longing to be a part of that? She would replace these bright and open spaces full of the world’s best footwear, fashions. .’”

Karen Woo was there, which we had mixed feelings about. No Chris Yop that we could see. He’d apparently never forgiven us for that long-ago slight. No Tom Mota, either, and we guessed he was probably in the pen somewhere trying to convince the guards to let him grow tomatoes alongside the edges of the basketball court. Janine Gorjanc was changed. She wore a pair of leather chaps over her stonewashed jeans and had a matching leather vest. Dangling silver earrings, which might have been made in Santa Fe, flashed beside her hair, which she had allowed to grow long and turn gray. Before the reading, she introduced us to her boyfriend. He wore a leather vest as well and sported a bushy handlebar mustache. His name was Harry and he had shaken our hands much more timidly than his facial hair indicated he would. They had ridden to the reading on Harry’s hog and both carried vintage black helmets like those worn in World War II. It was kind of weird to see that Janine was into motorcycles now. When the reading began, she and Harry settled themselves in one of the back rows.

“‘. . inside now — the place had an airy, echoic atmosphere, rumbling low with hushed voices, and footsteps on marble stairs she could pick out one by one. He took the blindfold off and they spent an hour. .’”

If Old Brizz had been there, he probably would have cut out for a smoke break, as Hank’s reading was taking longer than we had anticipated. We had stopped paying attention altogether. Our long-suffering preoccupations got the better of us — family concerns, projects going on at work, the weekend and what it held in store, something funny said at lunch, the genius of the infield-fly rule, nice jacket there, bad shoes on her, could really use a drink — all that. Hank’s soft, steady voice floated over our heads like clouds drifting over the tops of buildings.

“‘. . watching the sky open at her window, it is magnificent, especially after all the work she’s put in. .’”

And we couldn’t stop wondering where Joe Pope might be. He had always appeared to like Hank. Odd for him not to come out and support him like the rest of us. And then we thought, wait a minute. Had five years been so unkind to our memories that we could forget where to find Joe Pope at that hour? He was still at the office, of course, working.

Finally Hank closed his book and said, “Thank you.” We applauded approvingly.

AFTER THE READING CONCLUDED, we milled about. We bought copies of Hank’s book. We went up to congratulate him. We were all handshakes and hugs and he signed our books with personal good wishes. Someone asked him if this book was the same book as the one he had talked about during our time together, his small, angry book about work. Thanks to being laid off and forced to find new jobs, we had discovered that every agency has its frustrated copywriter whose real life was being a failed novelist working on a small, angry book about work. Work was a fetishistic subject for some of our colleagues, but unlike Don Blattner, who wanted everyone to read his screenplays so long as they signed confidentiality agreements, the book writers played their cards much closer to the vest, and usually ended up folding. Howling screeds went mute inside desk drawers. Lovingly ground axes melted in fireplaces. We felt grateful on behalf of the world.

“No,” Hank replied. “This is a different book.”

“What happened to the old one?” someone asked. He had such ambition for it.

“That one was put down like an ailing dog,” he said. “But how about you?” he asked suddenly, looking around. “What’s new with you guys?”

We could tell he was eager to shift the spotlight from his failed novel onto something else, so Benny and Marcia announced that they were getting married in the fall.

“If he doesn’t piss me off before then,” she said, looking at Benny affectionately.

She wore an achingly modest diamond ring and threaded her arm through Benny’s just as Benny shared the equally incredible news that, for all intents and purposes, Jim Jackers was his new boss.

“Can you believe that?” he said. “This guy right here!”

He put his arm around Jim and bent his head down like he was about to give him a noogie. Jim raised his eyebrows in mute and modest capitulation and for a moment the three of them, Marcia and Benny and Jim, were linked physically as if they were a little family.

Carl told us the details of his landscaping company, Garbedian and Son, a modest outfit. “Come on, be honest,” Marilynn said. She turned to Hank. “It’s a phenomenon, is what it is.” “Is that true, Carl?” asked Hank. We all urged Carl to tell us more. Finally he admitted, “We do work in about twenty suburbs.” We thought, Holy shit! Twenty suburbs? The guy must be raking it in. “But you’re still no doctor, are you?” we expected Jim Jackers to say, but he said no such thing, and it didn’t even seem to be on Carl’s mind. He was smiling and nodding and he had his arm around Marilynn as if landscaping had changed his life.