Don DeLillo - Americana

"There have been rumors to that effect. Somebody wrote something to that effect on the wall in the thirty-seventh-floor men's room."

"I'd like to take a look at that."

"It's not there anymore," I said. "This was last week. It was written with a red crayon above the urinals. It looked like Quincy Willet's handwriting. Those two don't exactly hit it off, you know."

"What precisely did it say? This may be important."

"I don't think I care to repeat it, Weede."

"Was it rough?"

"The roughest."

"We're two mature people, Dave. I'll tell you why I brought this up in the first place. I know I can trust you to keep any privileged material within the four walls of this room."

"Shall I close the door?" I said.

"By all means. I should have thought of that myself."

As I swung the door shut Quincy passed my office and gave me a questioning glance. Weede went over to the sofa and I returned to the chair behind the desk.

"As you know, Dave, we hire people on the basis of ability alone. This has always been the network's policy. Personally I have no interest in a man's private life. What a man does in his free time is no concern of mine, within reason."

"I can attest to that, Weede."

"But there's another issue at stake here. The State Department doesn't want any queers working on the China thing. Far be it from me to challenge the thinking of people whose most vital concern is our own national security. A meeting was held in a midtown hotel last week. For the most part it was inconclusive. Reeves is a married man, you know."

"Sometimes that happens," I said.

"Exactly, Dave. Those people at State are sharp. They tell some amazing stories. We spent a whole afternoon discussing it."

"It's a shadow world. It's a sickness. It can happen to anyone.

"Did you know that Reeves sleeps in his office two or three nights a week? Something like that makes you wonder. What does his -wife think about something like that?"

"There's a rumor going around that Jones Perkins might be bisex. I don't necessarily mean he goes both ways. It's just that some of his secondary sexual characteristics are thought to be a bit suspicious. He might actually be both ways if you get the distinction. But it's just a rumor at this point."

"I give no credence to stories like that."

"Only a fool would."

"Well, I just wanted to get your thinking on the subject, Dave. I hope it turns out to be nothing at all."

"Weede, one of the very best ways to arrive at some kind of conclusive determination in a situation like this with a man's whole future at stake is simply to think back on it. Think back on Reeves. Think of small incidents, anecdotes he's told, his reactions to certain words or phrases, the way he holds those little cigars of his, favorite expressions he uses, his sensibilities, his literary preferences, the amount of time he spends in the John, the kind of shoes he wears. It all has a bearing. Now then. Can I work on the Navaho thing on my own?"

"Quincy giving you trouble?"

"He has marital problems. His mind is preoccupied."

"I'll take it under advisement, Dave."

"Thanks much."

"Let you know more when I get back from the Coast," he said.

"Maybe we can break bread."

All the doors were open. I felt I was going insane. The entire conversation seemed to be taking place in a dream and I truly could not believe what we were saying to each other. The headache had become a ringing numbness, like that caused by a shot of Novocain. I had ceased to exercise the slightest control over my remarks and I didn't care anymore. It was neither a good nor a bad feeling. It was hardly a feeling at all. My head seemed to be a telephone delivering an endless busy signal.

"Are you sure you can't tell me what the red crayon said in the bathroom? It may be important."

"Reeves Chubb climbs palm trees to suck off sleeping apes."

I took the elevator down and walked the two blocks to the Grand Prix. I didn't wear a coat. I never wore a coat when I went to lunch, no matter how cold it was. JFK.

The restaurant's decor was automotive. My father was already there, sitting at a corner table. His stocky figure, in fine British tweeds, seemed to dominate that part of the room. He was shouting friendly abuse to someone at a nearby table. I watched for a moment. He ran his hand over his head, over the thinning hair, then toyed with the cutlery. He had a new pair of glasses, I noticed, black-rimmed and intimidating. His face did not have the strength of sharp definition, being fairly anonymous, but there was a blunt authority in his eyes which could not be ignored. We did not look at all alike.

My father had just turned fifty-five, a fact which seemed to have transformed him, virtually overnight, into a role of elder statesman. Prior to our meeting in the restaurant I had seen him just once since his birthday. On that occasion, a drink after work, he had seemed very conscious of his elbows. When he spoke he would pivot on the barstool and lean toward me with both elbows flung out and up like delta wings. At other times, head hanging loosely over his drink, he would raise his right index finger and then use it to tap his left elbow, which lay bent on the bar. He did this only when making an important point and I wondered whether the significance of his remark might be fully uncovered only by opening up the elbow and picking with a delicate surgical instrument among its connective tissues. That evening he had made me think of John Foster Dulles and Casey Stengel, two elder statesmen who knew how to use their elbows.

"Sorry I'm late, dad. Merry Christmas."

"I hear Stennis is in trouble," he said. "I never liked that son of a bitch. How much does he make? Squatez-vous, kid. We can have only one drink. I've got a two o'clock client meeting."

"I didn't know you knew Stennis."

"We're agency-of-record for the mental illness series everybody's talking about. Stennis told us the ten-second spots we've been running are in bad taste considering the subject matter of the program. He said the network has been getting complaints. You know what I'm talking about, the animated jingles. We'll have two dry martinis on the rocks, waiter. Then wait ten minutes and bring us the boeuf Bourguignon. We won't have time for dessert or coffee."

"What are your plans for Christmas day?" I said. "I thought I might drive up to the house."

"Fine, sport, do that. Bring a girl along. We'll have a few drinks and drive up to the Admiral Benbow for some turkey. Your mother used to make a swell turkey. I should sell that house but I can't. How's Merry these days? I miss that girl. Damn sweet kid."

"She's fine, dad."

"Listen, I don't deny I've done some screwing around in my time. Man's not worth much if he doesn't get the urge now and then. But how can I marry some big-hipped peroxide bitch after all those years living with your mother? I married your mother when I was twenty-two years old. We lived in a cold-water flat on upper Broadway. When Mary was born I went out and got drunk. Forget the nostalgia. Those were rotten days, pally. Now I've reached the age when a man feels he has to make some kind of summing up. But screw golf. It's sure death for someone like me. Everybody wants me to go out and play golf with them. The last seven, eight years, since your mother's death, all I hear is golf. I work all weekend, either home or in the office. Work is better than death. Look, I've got a little thing going with my secretary. What good does it do? Can I depend on something like her for the long haul? I said on the rocks, waiter."

"How old is she?" I said.

"I don't know, about twenty-four. When you get to be my age, they all look the same. If you want to go out with her, I'll fix it up."

"What's she like?"