Rick Moody - Demonology

Meanwhile, the fourth and final theory of party topographics held that the center of the event was unstable, was always elsewhere from where you found yourself no matter the room, the mood, the company. A seeker of the center of the party was according to this theory never at the center of the party himself or herself, by definition, and all party-goers, by definition, were seekers of the party. The essence of the party was migratory, impermanent, provisional. You felt you were there, at the party, your glass was newly filled, and right across the undulating sea of witnesses you saw a teenager with whom you knew you were destined to have exquisite romance — her eyeliner like the lines in Picasso drawings, just as certain, just as enduring — but as you began to cross the room, knowing that this was the place and this was the time, you began to feel the center of the party spiraling away. The party tacked upwind, came about. Suddenly, you were lost. Suddenly, you were having a conversation with Glen Dunbar about standardized tests. What ’ s the best model for taking standardized tests? Do you think it’s best to rule out one of the questions definitively, and at what point? Or should you really try to work out each answer before you give up on a particular question?

But Gerry was alone and therefore certain that he was missing whatever it was he was supposed to be experiencing. He was in the Fosters’ dining room. The table, draped in a white silk tablecloth, was laden with confections. Not with the individually wrapped Tootsie Rolls or two-packs of Devil Dogs or Twinkies, boxes of Dots, holiday servings of Jujyfruits, M&M’s, Mars bars, Snickers, Three Musketeers, Charleston Chews, Bazooka Joe gum. No, the table was piled high with baked goods, with eclairs and cupcakes and Tollhouse cookies. Repulsive. Who wanted to eat homemade crap? Nick Foster had probably hacked up rhinoviral gobs into the batter, laughing, before stirring vigorously. On a silver serving tray however, Gerry found a single bottle of German imported beer. How had it come to be here, this German beer, illegally proffered to minors, and why did it seem to be the solution to the difficulties inherent in the Fosters’ party? The chairs had been removed from the table, to permit party-goers to circulate, but there were no party-goers. At least until Dinah Polanski crawled from under the table, drunk.

Dinah Polanski. She already wore bifocals. Behind her spectacles, the lenses of which resembled bulletproof Plexi-glas, her eyes wandered in contrary directions. And yet even wall-eyed Dinah was wearing the obligatory nondescript corduroy trousers, along with a gray cardigan sweater from the Lands End catalogue. In her case, the look was fashion abomination. Dinah had apparently donned it in imitation of Nancy Van Ingen and her crowd. She had not arrived at her outfit through the adventure of personal expression. Maybe it was the fact that Dinah was hefting an extra eight or ten pounds and had dun brown locks that ruined the effect of her reliable and understated garb. And beyond the fashion problem there was the further deep historical indignity that Dinah had been following Gerry around Fairfield County, turning up as regularly as a Connecticut raccoon, since they were six years old. She’d been trying to get his attention for some reason, even when, because of his unremitting neglect, it was self-destructive to do so. Her motives were unclear. In the last year, however, these efforts had been focused almost exclusively on recounting for Gerry the intricacies of a certain science-fiction novel entitled Dune. In the present instance, Dinah launched in immediately with only the briefest introduction —

— I was over next door, and I noticed that they had all the books of H. P. Lovecraft. And Edgar Allan Poe. Stories of Poe, and also the works of H. G. Wells. I like all of those books. Just really wonderful, you know? Then I noticed that they had a copy of Dune.

Dinahs face was aglow, and close to his now, as he attempted to work a church key on his imported German beer. Gerry backpedaled to achieve a requisite conversational twenty-four inches of distance from Dinahs rheumy face, and so that he might prevent salivary driblets from showering upon him, but as he retreated she followed, always closing in to a range of twelve to fourteen inches, a distance more frequently associated with conversational styles of the Mediterranean nations. He could see a patch of dermatitis on her brow. She was in need of a cream of some kind.

— Beyond a critical point within a finite space, freedom diminishes as numbers increase. That’s Pardot Kynes, first planetologist of the planet called Arrakis…. He dies in a landslide. Well, the House of Atreides, you know, comes to this desert planet, and there’s only these worms, gigantic worms, miles long, and these smugglers and their spice. The spice is called melange. And there’s this tyrant. Baron Harkonnen.

Gerry found himself against the east wall of the dining room, against the throne that Lamb and Rich had helpfully built for Nicky Foster’s great-grandfather when he sat at table, and Gerry actually climbed up onto this high seat, as described in the plans for the house. He repeated words he had used before, Sure, yeah, great, I’ll definitely read it, while plotting to flank Dinah, the clamorous science fiction commentator, and make for the door, but then a really awful thought hit him. Since Dinah was the first girl he had spoken to here at the party, and since he had already agreed to a competition with Peltz having to do with conquest of as many girls as possible, did this not imply that he needed to attempt some kind of seduction of Dinah Polanski?

An enumeration of the girlfriends of Gerald Callahan Abramowitz up to this moment is now essential. Happily, this history is brief, because in spite of Gerry’s reputation for amiability, he had little experience with the fairer sex. Ginny Williams, for example, who lived up the block, was really good at weaving. This is what his mother said, Ginny Williams, she’s a sweet kid. Her mom says she’s crazy about weaving. Ginny also drew pictures of insects. The two of them had nothing to talk about, though they had often shared rides to school. She had never watched a baseball game even once. She had a permanent excuse from physical education because of scoliosis. She had a pet rabbit. Gerry had never seen Ginny’s neck. It had never been displayed. Perhaps she was a lupus sufferer. Her wrists were lovely, though. Like carvings of ivory. Anyway, he had asked her to go out with him, when he was thirteen, because he had heard from older adolescent males that this was what you were supposed to do. You were supposed to ask this particular question of girls, though he had no idea where he would go with Ginny if she said yes. He was very nervous when he posed the question. She was too. They were in front of her mailbox. Ginny Williams, with her beautiful coppery hair, yanked the mouth of the mailbox open and looked in. Closed it. Yanked it open. She would have to take time to think about his question, she told him. He was surprised at the warmth this exchange heated up in him. Then she started to cry. Why are you crying? He said. Inever expected anybody to ask, she said. She retreated into her house. And never did reply.

Later, there was Lisa Talmadge. He had liked watching Lisa Talmadge play soccer, but he never really got to know her. Lynn Skeele rebuffed him, as described above. Susie Harris was sweet on him in band. She offered him cigarettes during breaks. He played the acoustic bass, quite badly. She played trombone. In spring, band adjourned. She had urged that they swap instruments. But he had no embouchure. Later, on a trip to Jamaica with his family, Gerry had met a girl at the pool. When you’re an only child, you meet kids at the pool. Every day, at the pool, she was there, in a green French bikini. Anne, surname unknown. She was incredibly smart in addition to being beautiful. She lived in Scarsdale, which, by ten-speed bicycle, was far away. There was a common theme to his encounters with these girl schoolmates. He suspected it had to do with his Ashkenazi gene pool. Late at night, he suspected this, though his father lectured him contrarily, My kid is not going to let this stuff get him down, correct? My kid is going to persevere.