John Irving - The World According to Garp

“Mr. Garp?” one of the policemen asked.

Garp dressed in running gear for his walks; he didn't have any notes on him, but he nodded, yes, he was Mr. Garp.

“You know this kid?” the policeman asked.

“Of course he does,” the young man said. “You cops don't ever believe anybody. You don't know how to relax .”

It was the kid in the purple caftan, the boy Garp had escorted from the boudoir of Mrs. Ralph—what seemed to Garp like years ago. Garp considered not recognizing him, but he nodded.

“The kid's got no money,” the policeman explained. “He doesn't live around here, and he's got no job. He's not in school anywhere and when we called his folks, they said they didn't even know where he was —and they didn't sound very interested to find out. But he says he's staying with you—and you'll speak up for him.”

Garp, of course, couldn't speak. He pointed to his wire mesh and imitated the act of writing a note on his palm.

“When'd you get the braces?” the kid asked. “Most people have them when they're younger. They're the craziest-looking braces I ever saw.”

Garp wrote out a note on the back of a traffic violation form that the policeman handed him.

Yes, I'll take responsibility for him. But I can't speak up for him because I have a broken jaw.

The kid read the note over the policeman's shoulder.

“Wow,” he said, grinning. “What happened to the other guy?”

He lost three quarters of his prick, Garp thought, but he did not write this on a traffic violation form, or on anything else. Ever.

The boy turned out to have read Garp's novels while he was in jail.

“If I'd known you were the author of those books,” the kid said, “I would never have been so disrespectful.” His name was Randy and he had become an ardent Garp fan. Garp was convinced that the mainstream of his fans consisted of waifs, lonely children, retarded grownups, cranks, and only occasional members of the citizenry who were not afflicted with perverted taste. But Randy had come to Garp as if Garp were now the only guru Randy obeyed. In the spirit of his mother's home at Dog's Head Harbor, Garp couldn't very well turn the boy away.

Roberta Muldoon took on the task of briefing Randy on the accident to Garp and his family.

“Who's the great big lovely chick?” Randy asked Garp in an awed whisper.

Don't you recognize her?

Garp wrote.

She was a tight end for the Philadelphia Eagles.

But even Garp's sourness could not dim Randy's likable enthusiasm; not right away. The boy entertained Duncan for hours.

God knows how,

Garp complained to Helen.

He probably tells Duncan about all his drug experiences.

“The boy's not on anything,” Helen assured Garp. “Your mother asked him.”

Then he relates to Duncan the exciting history of his criminal record,

Garp wrote.

“Randy wants to be a writer,” Helen said.

Everyone wants to be a writer!

Garp wrote. But it wasn't true. He didn't want to be a writer—not anymore. When he tried to write, only the deadliest subject rose up to greet him. He knew he had to forget it—not fondle it with his memory and exaggerate its awfulness with his art. That was madness, but whenever he thought of writing, his only subject greeted him with its leers, its fresh visceral puddles, and its stink of death. And so he did not write; he didn't even try.

At last Randy went away. Though Duncan was sorry to see him go, Garp felt relieved; he did not show anybody else the note Randy left for him.

I'll never be as good as you—at anything. Even if that's true, you could be a little more generous about how you rub that in.

So I'm not kind, Garp thought. What else is new? He threw Randy's note away.

When the wires came off and the rawness left his tongue, Garp ran again. As the weather warmed up, Helen swam. She was told it was good for restoring her muscle tone and strengthening her collarbone, though this still hurt her—especially the breaststroke. She swam for what seemed to be miles, to Garp: straight out to sea, and then along the shoreline. She said she went out so far because the water was calmer there; closer to shore, the waves interfered with her. But Garp worried. He and Duncan sometimes used the telescope to watch her. What am I going to do if something happens? Garp wondered. He was a poor swimmer.

“Mom's a good swimmer,” Duncan assured him. Duncan was also becoming a good swimmer.

“She goes out too far,” Garp said.

By the time the summer people arrived, the Garp family took its exercise in slightly less ostentatious ways; they played on the beach or in the sea only in the early morning. In the crowded moments of the summer days, and in the early evenings, they watched the world from the shaded porches of Jenny Fields' home; they withdrew to the big cool house.

Garp got a little better. He began to write—gingerly, at first: long plot outlines, and speculations about his characters. He avoided the main characters; at least he thought they were the main characters—a husband, a wife, a child. He concentrated instead on a detective, an outsider to the family. Garp knew what terror would lurk at the heart of his book, and perhaps for that reason he approached it through a character as distant from his personal anxiety as the police inspector is distant from the crime. What business do I have writing about a police inspector? he thought, and so he made the inspector into someone even Garp could understand. Then Garp stood close to the stink itself. The bandages came off Duncan's eye hole and the boy wore a black patch, almost handsome against his summer tan. Garp took a deep breath and began a novel.

It was in the late summer of Garp's convalescence that The World According to Bensenhaver was begun. About that time, Michael Milton was released from a hospital, walking with a postsurgical stoop and a woebegone face. Due to an infection, the result of improper drainage—and aggravated by a common urological problem—he had to have the remaining quarter of his penis removed in an operation. Garp never knew this; and at this point, it might not even have cheered him up.

Helen knew Garp was writing again.

“I won't read it,” she told him. “Not one word of it. I know you have to write it, but I never want to see it. I don't mean to hurt you, but you have to understand. I have to forget it; if you have to write about it, God help you. People bury these things in different ways.”

“It's not about “it,” exactly,” he told her. “I do not write autobiographical fiction.”

“I know that, too,” she said. “But I won't read it just the same.”

“Of course, I understand,” he said.

Writing, he always knew, was a lonely business. It was hard for a lonely thing to feel that much lonelier. Jenny, he knew, would read it; she was tough as nails. Jenny watched them all get well; she watched new patients come and go.

One was a hideous young girl named Laurel, who made the mistake of sounding off about Duncan one morning at breakfast. “Could I sleep in another part of the house?” she asked Jenny. “There's this creepy kid—with the telescope, the camera, and the eye patch? He's like a fucking pirate, spying on me. Even little boys like to paw you over with their eyes—even with one eye.”

Garp had fallen while running in the predawn light on the beach; he had hurt his jaw again, and was—again—wired shut. He had no old notes handy for what he wanted to say to this girl, but he scribbled very hastily on his napkin.

Fuck you,

he scribbled, and threw the napkin at the surprised girl.