Where Was She?

Infinite Jest Re-edited for an Upmarket Audience

A while ago, inspired by the neverending discourse around David Foster Wallace’s Infinite Jest, particularly claims that it’s “overwritten” or “needs an editor,” I decided to see what would happen if I tried to edit one of its longer sections like an editor at a Big Four publisher might. I cut out as many adverbs and repetitive clauses and corrected as many intentional grammatical errors as I could, distilling the content and the action down to its essences, as if I was trying to maximize its salability for today’s supposedly impoverished reading culture. The following vignette, called “Where was she?” in reference to the sentence that opens this section in the book––“Where was the woman who said she’d come”––is the result.

Where was she? She had said she would come. Erdedy thought she’d have come by now. He sat and thought. He was in the living room. One window cast light across the floor. He kept looking over at an insect on one of the shelves. He was afraid to kill it.

He didn’t call the woman. If he tied up the line she would take what she’d promised him somewhere else. 200 grams of good marijuana for $1,250. He had tried to stop. He always lasted a week or two. He’d told every dealer he knew to cut him off, because he was proud. He was creepy when it came to dope.

He sat and thought and waited. The insect disappeared into the wall. It was past time. He gave in and called. A snatch of music. “We’ll call you back.” He didn’t leave a message.

He had been casual about it. She knew a guy in Allston who sold high-resin dope in bulk. Why not? She said the guy lived in a trailer, had a harelip, kept snakes. He sold to theater people in Cambridge. It had been so long, Erdedy had said. He’d frequently say he was getting dope for friends. Then when he got anxious he could say his friends were bothering him about it. But he hadn’t given her the $1,250 yet.

She was well off. That was how her condo was as nice as it was when she designed sets for a theater company. She didn’t care much about the money. She had said she would cover the cost. The arrangement made him anxious. It mattered. He should have made her take the money up front. Money created a sense of obligation.

The insect was back. It came out of its hole and sat. After a while it would disappear. He felt like he was similar to the insect, but he wasn’t sure how.

He had called in to the agency and said there was an emergency, that he was posting an e-note on a colleague’s TP asking her to cover his calls. He would be out of contact for days. He had put a message on his answering machine saying he would be unreachable. He had cleaned his room. Once he had dope he wouldn’t leave his room, except to go to the fridge or the bathroom. He had thrown out all his alcohol. He had gone shopping.

One of the insect’s antennae was protruding from the hole.

He had bought soda, Oreos, bread, sandwich meat, mayonnaise, tomatoes, M&M’s, Almost Home cookies, ice cream, a Pepperidge Farm frozen chocolate cake, and four cans of chocolate frosting. He had rented film cartridges. He had bought antacids. He had bought a new bong.

His refrigerator made its own ice. When he had dope he always drank soda. His tongue swelled at the thought. He looked at the phone and the clock. He looked at the windows. He had already vacuumed. Once the woman came, he would disappear into a hole.

It was three hours past when she said she would come. A counselor in outpatient treatment had told him he seemed insufficiently committed. He’d had to buy a new bong at Bogart’s in Porter Square. He’d laid in fresh supplies this morning. He couldn’t remember what color the new bong was. The last one had been orange.

He tried to decide whether the woman was pretty. When he smoked marijuana he tended to masturbate. Petroleum jelly kept him from getting sore. He decided to get Call Waiting.

No part of the insect was visible.

He was disgusted with himself. He didn’t even like marijuana anymore. It made his mouth and eyes dry and red and his face sag. He got self-conscious. He couldn’t even be around anyone else. Smoking gave him pleurisy.

He liked film cartridges where things blew up.

He pulled his necktie down smooth. He’d smoke so much so fast it would be unpleasant. He would never want to do it again. He would create a bad set of associations with the stuff. It wasn’t that he was afraid of dope, it was that smoking it made him afraid of everything else. He would smoke the whole 200 grams, over an ounce a day. He’d make it a mission, penance and behavior-modification all at once. He would smoke it all even if he didn’t want it.

When she came she would want to smoke, hang out, listen to his Tito Puente records, have sex. He had never had sex high. Two dry mouths bumping at each other, trying to kiss, thoughts twisting around while he bucked and snorted, eyes red and face sagging. He’d have her toss it to him, and then toss her the $1,250. He’d be so rude the memory would be a further disincentive.

He had never been so anxious for the arrival of a woman he didn’t want to see. The last woman he’d smoked with had been an appropriation artist. She copied other art. She had a radical feminist manifesto. One of her smaller paintings covered the wall over his bed, an actress and a less famous actor in a scene from an old film, with obscenities scrawled all over it in red. She had been sexy but not pretty. He had told her he was a former speed addict and marijuana kept him from using.

The insect was on the shelf. The shelves were green. The insect was dark and had a shiny case and antennae that protruded but didn’t move. He had to use the bathroom.

During sex the appropriation artist had sprayed perfume in the air. Later she’d mailed him a collage of a green plastic grass welcome mat, a flattering publicity photo of her, an unequal sign between them, and an obscenity in red along the bottom, with multiple exclamation points. He had seen her every day for ten days. When she got him 50 grams of dope he said she’d saved his life but she had to go because he had an appointment. He would call her later that day. They shared a moist kiss and she said she could feel his heart pounding through his suit. She drove away and he drew the blinds and changed the message on his answering machine. For three days he ignored over two dozen messages. He never contacted her again.

Outside a dumpster emptied into a barge. His shame made it easier for him to avoid her. He had had to wash his sheets twice to get the smell of the perfume out. He went to the bathroom.

Where was she?

The new bong was orange. The stem and bowl were stainless steel. The bong was half a meter tall with a false suede weighted base. The carb on the side had been cut so shards of plastic protruded from the hole. He left the door to the bathroom open to hear the phone or the buzzer. His throat closed and he wept for two or three seconds.

It had been over four hours now. The light through the window was coming in at an angle. He had thought he had to use the bathroom, but he couldn’t.

He tried putting a whole stack of film cartridges into the dock of the disk drive and turning on the teleputer in his room. He could see the piece of appropriation art in the mirror above the TP. He lowered the volume all the way and pointed the remote at the TP, sitting on the edge of his bed with his elbows on his knees. He scanned the stack of cartridges. He couldn’t watch any cartridge for more than a few seconds. The moment he recognized one he got the feeling there was something more entertaining on another one. He would have plenty of time to watch them.

The viewer hung on the wall, half as large as the piece of art. He scanned. The phone rang. He was up and moving before the first ring was over, but it was only a colleague. He was sick with disappointment. He got off the line. He stood over the phone trying to decide if the risk of someone else calling was enough to justify changing the message to something about an emergency departure this evening instead of this afternoon.

The barge was emptying dumpsters up and down the street. He returned to his chair. The disk drive and TP viewer were still on. He could see the lights blink and shift. He killed time trying to imagine the scenes on the viewer. The chair faced the room instead of the window. Reading was out of the question. He considered masturbating but didn’t. Desires watched but not acted on. The insect retreated back into its hole.

The phone and the buzzer sounded at the same time. He moved first toward the phone console, then over toward the intercom, then back toward the phone, and then somehow toward both at once. Finally he stood splay-legged, arms out, without a thought in his head.