Infinite Jest Read Free Page B

a hydrant, in red PJ's with attached feet, holding out the mold, seriously, like the report of some kind of audit.
    O. says his memory diverges at this point, probably as a result of anxiety. In his first memory, the Moms's path around the yard is a broad circle of hysteria:
    'God!' she calls out.
    'Help! My son ate this!' she yells in Orin's second and more fleshed-out recollection, yelling it over and over, holding the speckled patch aloft in a pincer of fingers, running around and around the garden's rectangle while O. gaped at his first real sight of adult hysteria. Suburban neighbors' heads appeared in windows and over the fences, looking. O. remembers me tripping over the garden's laid-out twine, getting up dirty, crying, trying to follow.
    'God! Help! My son ate this! Help!' she kept yelling, running a tight pattern just inside the square of string; and my brother Orin remembers noting how even in hysterical trauma her flight-lines were plumb, her footprints Native-American-straight, her turns, inside the ideogram of string, crisp and martial, crying 'My son ate this! Help!' and lapping me twice before the memory recedes.
    'My application's not bought,' I am telling them, calling into the darkness of the red cave that opens out before closed eyes. 'I am not just a boy who plays tennis. I have an intricate history. Experiences and feelings. I'm complex.
    'I read,' I say. 'I study and read. I bet I've read everything you've read. Don't think I haven't. I consume libraries. I wear out spines and ROM-drives. I do things like get in a taxi and say, "The library, and step on it." My instincts concerning syntax and mechanics are better than your own, I can tell, with due respect.
    'But it transcends the mechanics. I'm not a machine. I feel and believe. I have opinions. Some of them are interesting. I could, if you'd let me, talk and talk. Let's talk about anything. I believe the influence of Kierkegaard on Camus is underestimated. I believe Dennis Gabor may very well have been the Antichrist. I believe Hobbes is just Rousseau in a dark mirror. I believe, with Hegel, that transcendence is absorption. I could interface you guys right under the table,' I say. 'I'm not just a creãtus, manufactured, conditioned, bred for a function.’
    I open my eyes. 'Please don't think I don't care.’
    I look out. Directed my way is horror. I rise from the chair. I see jowls sagging, eyebrows high on trembling foreheads, cheeks bright-white. The chair recedes below me.
    'Sweet mother of Christ,' the Director says.
    T'm fine,' I tell them, standing. From the yellow Dean's expression, there's a brutal wind blowing from my direction. Academics' face has gone instantly old. Eight eyes have become blank discs that stare at whatever they see.
    'Good God,' whispers Athletics.
    'Please don't worry,' I say. 'I can explain.' I soothe the air with a casual hand.
    Both my arms are pinioned from behind by the Director of Comp., who wrestles me roughly down, on me with all his weight. I taste floor.
    'What's wrong?’
    I say 'Nothing is wrong.’
    'It's all right! I'm here!' the Director is calling into my ear.
    'Get help!' cries a Dean.
    My forehead is pressed into parquet I never knew could be so cold. I am arrested. I try to be perceived as limp and pliable. My face is mashed flat; Comp.'s weight makes it hard to breathe.
    'Try to listen,' I say very slowly, muffled by the floor.
    'What in God's name are those . . .,' one Dean cries shrilly, '. . . those sounds?’
    There are clicks of a phone console's buttons, shoes' heels moving, pivoting, a sheaf of flimsy pages falling.
    'God!’
    'Help!’
    The door's base opens at the left periphery: a wedge of halogen hall-light, white sneakers and a scuffed Nunn Bush. 'Let him up!' That's deLint.
    'There is nothing wrong,' I say slowly to the floor. Tm in here.’
    I'm raised by the crutches of my underarms, shaken toward what he must see as calm by a purple-faced Director: 'Get a grip, son!’
    DeLint at the