White Noise - Don Delillo [92]
“How old were you when you first realized your father was a jerk?”
“Twelve and a half,” Grappa said. “I was sitting in the balcony at the Loew’s Fairmont watching Fritz Lang’s Clash by Night with Barbara Stanwyck as Mae Doyle, Paul Douglas as Jerry d’Amato and the great Robert Ryan as Earl Pfeiffer. Featuring J. Carroll Naish, Keith Andes and the early Marilyn Monroe. Shot in thirty-two days. Black and white.”
“Did you ever get an erection from a dental hygienist rubbing against your arm while she cleaned your teeth?”
“More times than I can count.”
“When you bite dead skin off your thumb, do you eat it or spit it out?”
“Chew it briefly, then propel it swiftly from the end of the tongue.”
“Do you ever close your eyes,” Lasher said, “while you’re driving on a highway?”
“I closed my eyes on 95 North for eight full seconds. Eight seconds is my personal best. I’ve closed my eyes for up to six seconds on winding country roads but that’s only doing thirty or thirty-five. On multilane highways I usually hover at seventy before I close my eyes. You do this on straightaways. I’ve closed my eyes for up to five seconds on straightaways driving with other people in the car. You wait till they’re drowsy is how you do it.”
Grappa had a round moist worried face. There was something in it of a sweet boy betrayed. I watched him light up a cigarette, shake out the match and toss it into Murray’s salad.
“How much pleasure did you take as a kid,” Lasher said, “in imagining yourself dead?”
“Never mind as a kid,” Grappa said. “I still do it all the time. Whenever I’m upset over something, I imagine all my friends, relatives and colleagues gathered at my bier. They are very, very sorry they weren’t nicer to me while I lived. Self-pity is something I’ve worked very hard to maintain. Why abandon it just because you grow up? Self-pity is something that children are very good at, which must mean it is natural and important. Imagining yourself dead is the cheapest, sleaziest, most satisfying form of childish self-pity. How sad and remorseful and guilty all those people are, standing by your great bronze coffin. They can’t even look each other in the eye because they know that the death of this decent and compassionate man is the result of a conspiracy they all took part in. The coffin is banked with flowers and lined with a napped fabric in salmon or peach. What wonderful cross-currents of self-pity and self-esteem you are able to wallow in, seeing yourself laid out in a dark suit and tie, looking tanned, fit and rested, as they say of presidents after vacations. But there is something even more childish and satisfying than self-pity, something that explains why I try to see myself dead on a regular basis, a great fellow surrounded by sniveling mourners. It is my way of punishing people for thinking their own lives are more important than mine.”
Lasher said to Murray, “We ought to have an official Day of the Dead. Like the Mexicans.”
“We do. It’s called Super Bowl Week.”
I didn’t want to listen to this. I had my own dying to dwell upon, independent of fantasies. Not that I thought Grappa’s remarks were ill-founded. His sense of conspiracy aroused in me a particular ripple of response. This is what we forgive on our deathbeds, not loveless-ness or greed. We forgive them for their ability to put themselves at a distance, to scheme in silence against us, do us, effectively, in.
I watched Alfonse reassert his bearish presence with a shoulder-rolling gesture. I took this as a sign that he was warming up to speak. I wanted to bolt, make off suddenly, run.
“In New York,” he said, looking directly at me, “people ask if you have a good internist. This is where true power lies. The inner organs. Liver, kidneys, stomach, intestines, pancreas. Internal medicine is the magic brew. You acquire strength and charisma from a good internist totally aside from the treatment he provides. People ask about tax lawyers, estate planners, dope dealers. But it’s the internist who really matters. ‘Who’s your internist?’ someone will