Mark Leyner - Et Tu, Babe

“Not really.”

“Todd, I want you to think very carefully. Is there anything — I don’t care how trivial or silly you might think it is — that you do with your hands or wrists repeatedly every day?”

“Well … there is … I’m kind of ashamed … I …”

Todd made a loose fist and gestured up and down.

“Masturbation, Todd?”

“Yes, Dr. Williams.”

“That’s what I thought, Todd. Todd, there’s absolutely nothing wrong with masturbation in and of itself. It’s perfectly normal behavior. About how often do you masturbate?”

“A lot.”

“What’s a lot?”

“Well, it’s hard to count — maybe thirty or forty times a day. I do it all day. I ejaculate and then I just keep stroking until I get an erection and then I stroke until I ejaculate and then I start all over again.”

“All day without stopping?”

“Well, I break for meals, but if it’s a food I can eat with one hand …”

“Todd, do you have a girlfriend?”

“No, Dr. Williams. It’s really been tough finding someone I can really talk to. I’ll meet a girl who’s really into chemical weapons but she won’t know anything about Norse mythology and then I’ll meet a girl who’s really up on the mythology — she’ll know everything about Odin and the Valkyries and Rodmar and Thor and Valhalla — but then she’ll think that mustard gas is something you get from eating too many hot dogs.”

Dr. Williams smiled.

“Todd, have you ever heard of something called carpal tunnel syndrome?”

“No, Dr. Williams.”

“Carpal tunnel syndrome is a repetitive motion injury. It’s also called a cumulative trauma disorder. I’ll be giving you some literature about this so you don’t have to remember all the jargon. In carpal tunnel syndrome, a fast repetitive motion, over time, damages the nerves and tendons in the hands and wrists. Come over here and let me show you on this model. The tendons over here, which pass through this narrow channel of wrist bones — the carpal tunnel — swell and press on this nerve here, which is called the median nerve. That’s what’s causing your pain and numbness. This disorder is found most frequently in people who work in meat-packing plants and poultry slaughterhouses — employees in chicken-processing plants, for instance, must make difficult cuts 60 or even 90 times a minute. And more and more, we’re finding carpal tunnel syndrome in word processors — people who are hitting keys tens of thousands of times an hour. Given the frequency and duration of your masturbation, you’re making the same forceful strokes 180 times a minute. That’s 10,800 forceful strokes an hour …”

He tapped the multiplication out on his calculator.

“… and that’s 86,400 forceful strokes a day, given an eight-hour day of masturbating, which may be conservative in your case, Todd.”

“Is there anything they can do about it? I mean, pills or an operation?”

“I’m going to schedule an appointment for you with my friend Herb Horowitz. He’s one of the best musculoskeletal men in the business. And if, having examined you, he agrees, I’d like to schedule you for surgery.”

“Surgery?” Todd said, looking frightened.

“With surgery we can take some of that pressure off the nerve — remember the median nerve I showed you? — and that can relieve the numbness and pain that you’re experiencing. But that’s not going to solve the problem entirely. We’ve got to eliminate or at least drastically cut down the forceful repetitive strokes you’re making.”

Todd looked glum.

“I don’t think that’s going to be easy, Dr. Williams.”

“Look, Todd — first of all, I’d like to get you into a group. Y’know, you’re not the only one going through this.”

Dr. Williams handed Todd a glossy brochure entitled “The Auto-Erotic Repetitive Motion Disorder Association of America.” It had a photo of a bunch of nerdy guys sitting around with various sorts of bandages and slings and splints on their hands, wrists, and arms.

“Dr. Williams, what if the therapy doesn’t work and I can’t stop? What then? What’s the worst-case scenario?”

“We’ll have to have you fixed.”

“Fixed?” Todd said, his voice cracking.

“Relax, Todd. You said it yourself — it’s a worst-case scenario. Now let’s take this one step at a time. I want you to see Herb Horowitz next week and let’s see what our next move is, OK?”

“OK, Dr. Williams. Thanks.”

Todd walked out of Dr. Williams’s office with the brochure under his arm.

William Carlos Williams, respected physician and distinguished poet, turned to the computer keyboard at the side of his desk and began to type, trying to compose a few lines — perhaps even a stanza — before his next patient arrived.

“That was great, Mr. Leyner! Really great!” Joe Casale said, tucking a flipper under his pillow and nestling into a fetal curl. “What book is that from?”

“That’s from a book called Lives of the Poets ,” I said, showing Joe the cover before I turned off the lamp on his night table.

“Mr. Leyner, do you think I could borrow it sometime?”

“I’ll tell you what, babe — tomorrow I have to be at a store downtown to sign some books. I’ll pick you up a copy of your own.”

(The book I was scheduled to sign — which had just been published by Rizzoli — was a $75 oversized volume of nude photographs of myself taken by a spy satellite in geostationary orbit over New Jersey. Annie Leibowitz, famed Rolling Stone photo-journalist, upon learning that the satellite was capable of providing high-resolution images down to the brand name on a golf ball, contacted the Department of Defense and suggested that they collaborate with her on a book of photographs of me lolling about the headquarter’s rooftop patio, au naturel, basted with oil, and flexing.)

Joe started getting out of bed. “Mr. Leyner, let me give you some money.”

“Forget about it, babe. It’s on me. It’ll be a token of appreciation for the job you’re doing here at headquarters. Don’t think I haven’t noticed. You’re up every morning at five A.M. walking Carmella, helping Trezz train the bodyguards, making sure Baby Lago has everything she needs for the commissary. You’re taking care of business … and I’m proud of you.”

“Thanks, Mr. Leyner.”

“Bon soir, babe.”

Arleen was in bed listening to a Fordham lacrosse game on her Walkman. There were a couple of fan letters on my pillow. I receive a tremendous amount of fan mail every day. It’s one of Baby Lago’s responsibilities to screen the letters, respond to those that are simply requests for nude photos and swatches of unwashed T-shirts and Jockey briefs, turn any threats over to Joe or Trezz and the security team, and pass along to me those that require a personal response. I slid into bed and began perusing my mail. A fan from Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, wrote:

I am a psychic Italian-American woman who recently had cosmetic breast-and-buttock-augmentation surgery. I became psychic as a teenager after suffering from accidental carbon monoxide poisoning when I was a guest on “American Bandstand.” For a period of time I was the Vatican. I am a zealot by nature and tend to become fanatically obsessive about my activities. These activities have included LSD research and Hummel collecting. During the period in which I was doing a lot of acid, I supported myself by ghost-writing poetry for some of the most acclaimed poets in the country including Randall Jarrell and Robert Lowell. When it was discovered that John Kennedy was obsessed with my body during the Cuban Missile Crisis, the CIA had my breasts and buttocks surgically reduced. Today I live on a quiet tree-lined suburban street. My husband is a kind man and a good provider, but I find him terribly insipid. His way of trying to be more romantic is to be more obsequious and I find that a real turnoff. While he’s away at work during the day, I’ve begun seeing a large black policeman with a shaved head. My question is this: The policeman (whom I’ll call “Nightstick” to protect his family) knows all about a sexual fantasy that a number of years ago I’d sent to Nancy Friday for her book