Infinite Jest Read Free

of the sheaf, at intervals. ‘You have been in
     residence at the Enfield Tennis Academy since age seven.’
    I am debating whether to risk scratching the right side of my jaw, where there is
     a wen.
    ‘Coach White informs our offices that he holds the Enfield Tennis Academy’s program
     and achievements in high regard, that the University of Arizona tennis squad has profited
     from the prior matriculation of several former E.T.A. alumni, one of whom was one
     Mr. Aubrey F. deLint, who appears also to be with you here today. Coach White and
     his staff have given us—’
    The yellow administrator’s usage is on the whole undistinguished, though I have to
     admit he’s made himself understood. The Director of Composition seems to have more
     than the normal number of eyebrows. The Dean at right is looking at my face a bit
     strangely.
    Uncle Charles is saying that though he can anticipate that the Deans might be predisposed
     to weigh what he avers as coming from his possible appearance as a kind of cheerleader
     for E.T.A., he can assure the assembled Deans that all this is true, and that the
     Academy has presently in residence no fewer than a third of the continent’s top thirty
     juniors, in age brackets all across the board, and that I here, who go by ‘Hal,’ usually,
     am ‘right up there among the very cream.’ Right and center Deans smile professionally;
     the heads of deLint and the coach incline as the Dean at left clears his throat:
    ‘—belief that you could well make, even as a freshman, a real contribution to this
     University’s varsity tennis program. We are pleased,’ he either says or reads, removing
     a page, ‘that a competition of some major sort here has brought you down and given
     us the chance to sit down and chat together about your application and potential recruitment
     and matriculation and scholarship.’
    ‘I’ve been asked to add that Hal here is seeded third, Boys’ 18-and-Under Singles,
     in the prestigious WhataBurger Southwest Junior Invitational out at the Randolph Tennis
     Center—’ says what I infer is Athletic Affairs, his cocked head showing a freckled
     scalp.
    ‘Out at Randolph Park, near the outstanding El Con Marriott,’ C.T. inserts, ‘a venue
     the whole contingent’s been vocal about finding absolutely top-hole thus far, which—’
    ‘Just so, Chuck, and that according to Chuck here Hal has already justified his seed,
     he’s reached the semifinals as of this morning’s apparently impressive win, and that
     he’ll be playing out at the Center again tomorrow, against the winner of a quarterfinal
     game tonight, and so will be playing tomorrow at I believe scheduled for 0830—’
    ‘Try to get under way before the godawful heat out there. Though of course a dry heat.’
    ‘—and has apparently already qualified for this winter’s Continental Indoors, up in
     Edmonton, Kirk tells me—’ cocking further to look up and left at the varsity coach,
     whose smile’s teeth are radiant against a violent sunburn—‘Which is something indeed.’
     He smiles, looking at me. ‘Did we get all that right Hal.’
    C.T. has crossed his arms casually; their triceps’ flesh is webbed with mottle in
     the air-conditioned sunlight. ‘You sure did. Bill.’ He smiles. The two halves of his
     mustache never quite match. ‘And let me say if I may that Hal’s excited, excited to
     be invited for the third year running to the Invitational again, to be back here in
     a community he has real affection for, to visit with your alumni and coaching staff,
     to have already justified his high seed in this week’s not unstiff competition, to
     as they say still be in it without the fat woman in the Viking hat having sung, so
     to speak, but of course most of all to have a chance to meet you gentlemen and have
     a look at the facilities here. Everything here is absolutely top-slot, from what he’s
     seen.’
    There is a silence. DeLint shifts his back against the