Don Delillo - Players

Pammy had written the brochure months earlier. Ethan, in one of his moments of feigned grandeur, had called it "a classic of dispassion and tact." There were others in the office who considered it too "nuts-and-boltsy," like a four-page insert for radio condensers in some dealer publication.

"Death is a religious experience," Ethan had said. "It is also nuts-and-boltsy. Something fails to work, you die. A demonstrable consequence.”

In a context in which every phrase can take on horribly comic significance, she thought she'd done well. Her job, in the main, was a joke, as was the environment in which she carried it out. But she was proud of that brochure. She'd maintained a sensible tone. There was a fact in nearly every sentence. She hadn't let them print on tint. If people wanted to merchandise anguish and death, and if others wished to have their suffering managed for them, everybody could at least go about it with a measure of discretion and taste.

"Say it, say it.”

"Maine.”

"Again," he said. "Please, now, hurry, God, mercy.”

"Maine," she said. "Maine.”

There was activity on the floor. Lyle left post 5 and stopped at the Bell teleprinter. A young male carrier went by, blond shoulder-length hair. Lyle pressed the E key, then GM. Feed him to Ethan. Paper slid along the floor before settling. There was a second level of noise, very brief, a clubhouse cheer. He stepped back to get a look at the visitors' gallery. Attractive woman standing behind the bulletproof glass. He looked at the print-out as he walked back to his booth. Range for the day. Numbers clicked onto the enunciator board. Eat, eat. Shit, eat, shit. Feed her to us in decimals. Aggress, enfoul, decrete. Eat, eat, eat.

V.R. GM-12.33 2524

106.400 10.10 69 12.30 70 10.12 68% 12.33 +70+ i%

He went to the smoking area, where he saw Frank Mc-Kechnie standing at the edge of a noisy group, biting skin from his thumb. Lyle isolated two members of the group and began doing a routine from a comedy record he'd recently bought. It was something he felt he did particularly well. It suited his careful stance, the neutral way his eyes recorded an audience. He could read their delight at his self-containment, the incongruity of enclosed humor. They began to lean. They actually watched his lips. When a third member of the group edged in, drawn by the laughter, Lyle ended prematurely and went over to McKechnie, who looked off into the smoke that rose above the gathering.

"So where are we?”

"Who knows?”

"We're inside," Lyle said.

"That's for sure.”

"It's obvious.”

"It's obvious because if we were outside the cars would be climbing up my back.”

"The outside world.”

"That's it," McKechnie said. "Things that happen and you're helpless. All you can do is wait for how bad.”

Lyle didn't know exactly what they were talking about. He exchanged this kind of dialogue with McKechnie often. He'd watch his friend carefully throughout. McKechnie seemed to take it seriously. He gave the impression he knew what they were talking about.

"I want to ask you about this man who shot Sedbauer.”

"Huge page in today's paper.”

"Sedbauer's guest.”

McKechnie made a motion with his thumb and index finger, indicating a headline.

"Mystery of Stock Exchange Murder Unraveling Slowly.”

"So far I like it.”

"Gunman, obscure background, dum dum dum, carrying, get this, a bomb on his person, dum dum. Suspected terrorist network. Confusion over identity. Links being sought, dumdy dum. The guy refuses to talk, see a lawyer or leave his cell.”

"He had a bomb when on his person?”

"When he was caught. After he shot George. He was standing right over there. A miniature explosive package. I quote.”

"Nice.”

"Where are we, Lyle, as you put it so beautifully yourself?”

"We're inside.”

"Where do we want to be?”

"Inside.”

"Those both are right answers.”

"I prepared.”

"Wait and see how bad," McKechnie said. "That's all you can do. I'm getting ready to raise the barricades. There's a serious health problem in the family. There's my brother piling up gambling debts and making midnight phone calls complete with whispering and little sobs. Bookies, loan sharks, threats. Very educational. Interest compounded hourly. Then there's my oldest, who has a hearing problem to begin with and now out of nowhere who's found sitting on the floor in his room just staring at the wall. Twice last week. Has trouble moving his arms. Doesn't want to talk. He's too young to take drugs. It's not drugs. We had him to the doctor. They did these scans they do. Nothing definite. So now we're thinking of a shrink for kids. Did you ever feel you were in a vise? I walk around thinking what happened.”

"Let's try to have lunch next week.”

McKechnie reduced his cigarette butt to a speck of tobacco and a speck of paper. He dropped these on the floor. Then he jumped about a foot in the air, landing on the specks.

"Enjoy that?”

"Very advanced," Lyle said.

"I used to be better. You should have seen me.”

"It's something you couldn't do in the outside world. They'd point and say ya ya.”

"Why don't we have lunch right now as a matter of fact? We'll go upstairs.”

"I don't eat up there anymore.”

"Why not?”

"I don't know, Frank.”

"There has to be a reason.”

"I suppose.”

"You don't know what it is.”

"I just haven't been up there in a while.”

"Lyle, I'm not exactly a promoter of tight-ass social customs. I don't have decanters full of sherry that I wheel out for my guests with their Bentleys parked outside. But there's nothing wrong with eating at the Exchange. It's halfway civilized and that's something.”

"It's inside.”

"It's inside, right. It's convenient, it's quick, it's good, it's nice and it's halfway fucking gracious, which is no small feat these days. So stop being stupid. You're talking like a jerk.”

"No pissa me off, Frank.”

Pammy had dinner with Ethan and Jack. They went to a place in SoHo. She was excited. Dinner out. Somewhere in her waking awareness there were glints of anticipation whenever Ethan and Jack walked into a room or when she picked up the ringing phone and it was one of them on the other end. Most people in her life were dispiriting presences. She looked forward to being with these two. If Ethan ever left his job, she'd sink into stupor and mutism.

The restaurant was full of hanging plants. A young woman arrived with the wine, telling them their food order would be delayed.

"There's a smoky fire in the basement right now. The kitchen staff is down there arguing over whether or not they want to pee on it. I opted out, unless they rig a swing, I told them. Distance is not my thing. There's Peter Hearn the conceptualist and his dog Alfalfa. I can never uncork without rupturing myself in the worst places, unless you don't consider sex important. Do you ever see how they uncork, with the knees? I'm sorry but I refuse to do that. It's degrading. I give a little bend, which is gruesome enough. More than that, forget about, you'll have to go somewhere else.”

They started on the wine. Smoke seeped into the main room but nobody left. There was no food being served. Everybody felt obliged to crack jokes and to drink a little faster than usual. A situation such as this could not be allowed to evolve without comic remarks and a trace of sophisticated hysteria. Ethan's mouth slid gradually into a secret grin. A woman at the other end of the room coughed and waved a handkerchief. Jack took the empty wine bottle to the waitress, who returned eventually with another, which Jack opened. Pammy wondered if her face was blotched. Wine did that. The man with the coughing woman ordered another round. Another man came out of the basement and began carrying plants out the front door. A two-inch needle, a sect ornament of some kind, was embedded in the flesh beneath his lower lip, pointing downward, its angle of entry about forty-five degrees. Jack hit the table and looked away, trying to suppress his laughter. The man left plants on the sidewalk and came back in for more. Wine squirted out of Jack's mouth. The room was filling with smoke. There was noise in the street, then wide beams of interweaving light. About ten firemen walked in. Pammy started to laugh, chewing at the air, her face blazing and clear, transcendently sane in this rose-stone glow. The firemen waddled around, bumping into each other. Ethan finished off another glass. The room seemed physically diminished by their entrance. They were outsized in helmets and boots, stepping heavily, lifting themselves like men on skis. Pammy couldn't stop laughing. The firemen cleared the place, slowly. Everybody was coughing, bottles and glasses in their hands. They trooped out, disappointed at the lack of applause.