Up in the Air

At Advanta I spoke to someone under Dwight who told me he must have called me from his cell, but refused to give out that number. I pointed out that the number on Dwight’s message was the number I was calling now. “I guess this line was supposed to forward then,” the underling said. “But it didn’t, did it? Shoot.” I suggested that he call Dwight on the road and pass on my number at Homestead. Silence. “Wait—I just found a note here. Are you ready? Can’t do Thursday SeaTac breakfast. Sorry. Will be in Phoenix on Wednesday. Can you come there? Wednesday is tomorrow.”

“Thanks for the tip. I already told him I can get to Phoenix. What’s the hotel name?”

“Had it, put it down, and . . . I can get it. It’s here. You’re the Garage guy?”

“Correct. You got the manuscript?”

“I read it. Your man in there, what exactly does he invent? I imagine he’s, like, a chemist.”

“It’s never stated.”

“Artistic. Cool. How big is his garage?”

“That’s up to you. It’s a metaphor. An image.”

“So it’s smallish, you’re saying?”

“Have you been listening? I’m saying its dimensions aren’t physical. What’s your boss’s opinion of the book?”

“He still hasn’t read it. He’s an editor. I take the first pass and then write up a summary. He decides from my summary whether he’ll read it, too.”

“You’re joking, right?”

“That’s the practice.”

“I’m stunned,” I say.

“Another question: The Second Dictum?”

“Yes?”

“It’s a lot like the Sixth. I don’t think you need the Sixth.”

“Tell Dwight I’ll be in Phoenix mid-day tomorrow and that I have some major concerns to share with him. Have you found that hotel name?”

“I had it, I put it down . . .”

“Does Advanta make a profit?”

“It’s publishing. Profits are secondary.”

“That’s what’s scaring me.”

I decide that my last call, to Linda, can wait awhile. What do you owe them once you’ve screwed them? Everything. You’ve been inside their skins. You’ve touched their wombs. The only question is whether they’ll make you pay, whether they’ll call in the note. Most don’t, thank goodness. But Linda, I’ve always feared, will want full value. This doesn’t mean I’ll have to pay, of course, just that I’ll have to live with having defaulted. And I can. I’ve done it with the others. It’s a matter of rolling over one personal debt into the pooled, collective, social debt that’s the business of governments and churches. Or I could refinance, amortize over centuries.

I lay down with my boots on for a nap. My sleep was not sleep but a paralytic trance. Asif was wrong: I know I get no rest. I dreamed abstractly, of multicolored grids unfurling to the horizon, a giant game board. The game pieces were familiar from Monopoly—the cannon, the shoe, the Scottie dog, the iron—but they floated over the board like space debris. Every few moments, a thin blue laser beam would arc from the board and turn a piece to ash.

Now I’m awake, in the bathroom, gargling Listerine. The membranes inside my cheeks feel ragged, scorched. I touch my forehead. Its neither chilled nor feverish; it’s the disturbing no-temperature of paper. I need vitamins. I need certain enzymes. The lack of them is visible on my skin. I tan with the slightest sun, but in the mirror now my face can barely muster a reflection.

The only good news: my credit card is back. They slipped it under the door while I was napping. The identity thief has been cut off, presumably. I’m whole again, with nothing hanging out. My first purchase will be a pair of shoes, and I have a whole hour to buy them—a rarity. According to Pinter’s autobiography, he sleeps in two four-hour shifts from 10 to 2, A.M. and P.M., and takes his meals at three. He writes in the book that all humans lived this way before the dawn of agriculture, but he gives no evidence. That’s typical. In management, it’s the stimulating assertion, not the tested hypothesis, that grabs folks.

I call Pinter’s house to confirm and get directions. Margaret answers, his so-called co-domestic. Pinter’s contempt for matrimony springs from his belief in male polygamy, which he refrains from practicing himself only because it’s currently illegal, but which he doesn’t rule out for the future. Maybe when he’s a hundred they’ll loosen standards.

“He’d like to come pick you up,” says Mrs. Pinter. “He bought a new car he’s eager to show off.”

“That’s fine. I can’t wait to see your lovely home.”

“It’s under renovation, I’m afraid. We’re down to two inhabitable rooms.”

“Maybe you’d like to eat out tonight.”

“Of course not. Sandy needs his food prepared just so. He doesn’t trust these restaurants. They overheat things and screw up the protein chains.”

“When should I expect him?”

“Five, ten minutes.”

“I thought he ate at three?”

“This year it’s two. Sandy corrected for daylight saving time.”