Authors: Walter Kirn
The Unbinding (10 page)
24.
[Via courier]
Agent’s Memo: She’s gone to a place where I can’t follow her: The head farm. The wack house. The kookatorium. This development is frustrating in some ways, since her keepers have cached her phone and banned her laptop, but, overall, I consider it a win. Our civilization still teeters on the brink, but the brink is not as loose and crumbly—and there’s one fewer distracted driver on the roads.
The name of the place is the Center for New Integrity, and for just under $23,000 a month, not including charges for art supplies and personal sporting-goods equipment, it promises to help its inmates (whom its creamy vellum brochure calls “Formatives”) watercolor and canoe their way back to whatever passes these days for sanity (which the brochure calls “EmoPoise”). Her father, the bluestocking shyster, will foot the bill. Indeed, he’s already wired off the cash for princess’s first eight weeks of EmoFormatting. (Blue Cross refused to pay, probably after skimming the brochure, which is lavishly illustrated with patient “art” of the butterfly-over-a-rainbow-inside-a-moon-which-forms-the-eyeof-a-coiled-serpent school.)
Because the center’s forested perimeter is gated, fenced, video-cammed, and possibly mined, and also because the nearby gravel roads are haunted by a suspiciously large number of domestic four-door sedans driven by broad-shouldered chain-smokers in windbreakers, I expect that the current class of Formatives includes at least one or two daft British royals, the normal cohort of garbled Kennedys, several hallucinating Saudis, and maybe even a manic Bush-by-marriage. If single Miss Grant is scouting for a rich groom now that Selkirk has turned toad on her, she’s dancing at the right cotillion. I just hope the marriage yields no offspring. Cross that anorexic Yankee blood of hers with the warlord chromosomes of a Salvadoran plantation heir or the flyaway genes of a young Welsh viscount, and we’ll need
a new monkey house for the human zoo
.
I just wish I could get inside the place. Yesterday afternoon I walked its fence lines, summoning all my cunning to simulate the carefree gait of the average male, middle-aged wildflower picker who’s somehow forgotten to change out of his dress shoes or take the black ballpoint pen out of his vest pocket. I peered toward the sanctuary’s built-up middle. I strained. I squinted. But all I could see through the pines were yet more pines, arrayed in those staggered, tree farm–style rows that diagonally lure away the gaze. It’s
the infinity pattern of the tombstones in national cemeteries
, and not by accident, I’m sure, because it’s so hypnotic. I know it worked in my case. A school trip to Arlington. I’m seventeen. No big patriot, just a beerhead party guy. My dad says the army doles out money for college, but I’d rather be a deejay or a ski coach. And then I step off the bus and see them all.
“Come along into history,” they chant. “Follow us away. Follow us all the way, down into the dirt.”
Or, as it turned out, into the pinelands around a snazzy goonhouse, where I’m standing in mud-crusted brown oxfords holding a bunch of wilting bluebells when up revs a rent-a-cop on a Suzuki asking if I have a legitimate reason to be there.
“Legitimate?
Nyet. Nein.
No,” I say. Staring into the depths of offset trees and wondering what exactly I found so dazzling about that vast, white, geometric graveyard.
The money for college helped but wasn’t what did it.
But I do have a bit of good news, too. The Center for New Integrity, despite its fortified isolation, leaks. Twice a week it tosses a bursting Cinch-Sack of surplus patient dreamwork—hectic sketches, glum haikus, lumpy ceramics, occult collages—into the bed of a Dodge Ram pickup that carts the crap out the gate to a green Dumpster whose locked chain-link fence is missing the key fourth side that would make it a barrier, not just a screen.
So here you go, the jewel from my first haul: a poem by our favorite protosaboteur—who may never be charged but shall surely be oft detained, and perpetually sedated—that was initially written in silver glitter marker on mauve construction paper, but which I’ve typed out because the paper was wet. I’ve also repunctuated the verse, since I think it works best as one cascading sentence rather than a stack of fragments with both a period and a dash at the end of every line break, as “S. M. Grant” originally styled it.
PORTION CONTROL
Level by level, meat by meat,
Crab leg, chicken finger, eye of sirloin,
The pyramid rises to its protein peak,
While down its fruit-and-vegetable sides,
Its sloping apricot and broccoli sides,
Over its sturdy base of grains and cereals,
Stream the blood and oil
That darkly fill the broad Lake Michigan
Where I must swim behind my father’s
Chris-Craft
Before school, after school, for one full hour,
Commanded to slim down
For summer balls
We’ve drilled a shaft into her cortex now. Those phone taps were a silly waste.
(Next week I hope to scavenge a nice pastel.)
25.
Dear “Kent,”
I am all for “reinventing” oneself, but I am almost certain you are, or were, the earnest narcissist I spent a wearying evening with a year or so back. Am I right in thinking I know you? Does a little French place in the East Village after the gory Korean film at the Sunshine help?
I pride myself on being a game gal. But your colleagues and admirers should know that you are not always the aboveboard fellow you would have us believe. You did tell me—though not until the
tarte tatin
had come—that you were still very much involved with your ex. Remember what you asked me after telling me that? Remember you said, “What does that have to do with us?” I remember that I told you I would not see you again, that this hurt me, and I remember you told me not to be hurt. Remember that I then posed a multiple-choice question? I believe I said, “Kent Selkirk: A woman comes to see you in your apartment and says she is freezing. You a) get her a warm sweater from your closet, b) turn up the thermostat, c) build a toasty fire in the fireplace, or d) tell her not to be cold.”
Okay, maybe you are Kent, not “Kent.” But in the spirit of due diligence I feel I had to send this e-mail.
Yours,
Amy Hempel
Hey, Blake. Is this you? I was looking through old camp pictures the other day and I started to wonder how you were doing. It’s been forever. By the way, this is Logan, Scout Camp 1994; I know you will remember me if this is actually you. Two words for you: Team Biatchica, remember? and all the scout leaders thought it was an Italian word, ha ha! And the cow dung we put in Elias and David’s tent? Do you remember all that crazy stuff we did at camp?
Anyway, I found what I thought was you on MyStory.com; at first I wasn’t sure because the name said Kent, but once I got to the paintball stuff I knew it had to be you. I’ve been reading along with your exploits; are you okay? What’s all this talk about magnetism and celebrities? You really have finally taken the plunge, haven’t you. You went nutso on us, ha ha! Sounds like you are up to some crazy stuff again. Unfortunately your MyStory profile was changed to “private” the other day and I couldn’t access it. Luckily I found you again online and there were pictures this time. You look a little different but mostly the same ol’ Blake.
Holler at me if this is you. I miss those talks we had when you visited me in D.C. Hit me up when you get a chance.
Logan
P.S. If you check out
my porch account
you’ll see a picture of us when we visited the White House. I really do look like a young Drew Carey, don’t I?!
Kent,
This is the last e-mail I’ll be writing you. I thought we were friends, and I have given you so many chances to apologize for your actions. What you did to me was unacceptable, and I tried to give you a chance to apologize. You never did. Then the way you treated my sister is just unforgivable. Still, I gave you a chance to explain yourself and apologize once again. The only response I ever got was that fucking voice mail from when you called me drunk and started yelling and cursing at me. So now our friendship is over. I don’t know how we became friends in college; you were an insecure asshole even back then. I should have known. Please don’t call, write, or attempt to contact me ever again.
Brandon
P.S. If I ever hear about you trying to talk to my sister again you’ll need more than your paintball gun to protect yourself.
Hey there, “Active Angel.”
It’s Sarah Flick from Wisconsin. Remember me?
How could you? We spoke, but you never saw my face. I’m a nurse and a kidnapping victim. That ring a bell? My crankhead ex-boyfriend drugged me, duct-taped me, and drove me to California a couple of months ago—and you, I found out with a teensy bit of research (thanks to MyStory.com), were the operator who sent the cops who finally put Marcus (my ex) in the high-security lockup where he belongs (and which he’d just been released from when I started e-mailing him, which was a
major
mistake, I realized later).
I never forget a favor. Write me back, Kent.
Maybe we could meet up “in the flesh” someday.
I just hope this isn’t another
huge
mistake!
Sarah Flick
26.
[MyStory.com]
Despite all the junk mail it’s starting to attract from crackjobs whom I’m not sure I want to hear from and who may believe they know me but really don’t (so please stop spamming and harassing me—except for you, of course, slinky Sarah Flick, whom I’ll write back to ASAP!), I’m reopening my MyStory page and even sharing the password to my g-mail (“posies”) because I want the whole world to hear my news (and especially you, Rob, over at Vectonal, which won’t catch up with AidSat during this century, because you have neither the testes nor the technology).
So gather ’round, my far-flung global friends:
They’ve asked me to be
a corporate persona
!
It happened today at AidSat’s recording studio, where our new vice president of marketing took me aside in a hallway near the elevators following my redubbing of the radio spot about the New Hampshire toaster-oven mishap. He shook my hand so hard he popped a knuckle, then fixed me with both emerald contacts and began:
“According to a multiaxis, three-million-dollar, four-month study, Kent, the American consumer—particularly the American consumer with at least two years of college—perceives our company as remote and sexless.”
“How does sex figure in?” I said. “That’s dumb. No wonder the world’s almost had it with our culture.”
“It’s part of the brand’s penumbra.”
“Oh, yeah, that.” I rolled my eyes, still feeling cocky from my grand last take of the commercial’s partially reenacted call:
That mac and cheese in your oven is mostly oil. Oil burns hot. It also repels liquid. That pitcher of water is useless. Try baking soda.
The VP of marketing went on: “Robotic and sterile also. That’s not optimal. But here in the studio this afternoon I think we may have found our human voice.”
I pointed two index fingers at my chest as the VP of marketing beamed appreciation. His name is Miguel Veracruz. I’d heard him slandered around the office as an unqualified diversity hire who washed out at
OnStar
after just five years, but suddenly he was now my patron, and I liked him. I liked how he squeezed my left shoulder with the Spock grip and didn’t let go until I winced.
“GM brought things home with Mr. Goodwrench, Kent. I’m thinking that AidSat might bring things home with you.”
“As a character or as me?” I asked.
“You
are
a character. We all are, Kent. That’s the whole basis of
the new psychology
.”
“I mean like Betty Crocker. Invented. Fictional.”
“Based on the true Kent Selkirk and drawn from him, but heightened and broadened. ‘UltraKent.’ But not some ham actor. An authentic AidSat operator. What’s your middle initial?”
“O. Ormand.”
“KOS chimes with SOS. Intriguing.”
“If we changed my first name to Skip or Stone,” I offered, “it would come out as SOS exactly.”
“You’d adopt a new first initial for this campaign?”
“I might consider it, sir. ‘What’s in a name?’ and so on.”
“A reputation. A lifetime of accumulated personhood.”
“Besides that. Joked Kent Selkirk.”
“That’s all there is.” The VP of marketing blammed me with a frown that showed he was more than a token Nicaraguan; he was possessed of abundant managerial tractons. “I’m lunching with our new ad people on Friday. I’ll toss some ideas out; we’ll see what flies, what dies, and maybe in a week or two we’ll coach-class you out to Seattle for a meeting. We’re contemplating the Space Needle.”
“How so?”
“It’s an aging icon. A dated pinnacle. We see it as ripe for renaming and relicensing. ‘SliverSat.’ ‘SatMast.’ Veracruz adlibbing here.”
“SkyKent? CloudKirk?”
“AidPeak, maybe. SatPoint.”
“Does Mr. Goodwrench have a costume? The Maytag Repairman definitely has one. Would my guy wear a costume?”
“Would he like to?”
“I don’t rightly know. I’ll buzz him on the KentPhone. ‘UltraKent…’?”
“Anyway, son, don’t crap your khakis if I call you later on next week. Magnificent voice work this morning. A star is born.”
“Or a born star is finally recognized.”
“Quipped Kent.”
“Will you contact me at the office or at my home, sir? I’ll give you my unlisted number.”
“Why unlisted?”
“Wild guess,” I said.
“Most wild guesses are wildly wrong, I’ve learned. Prudent businesspeople avoid them.”
“Women.”
“Well, I’m glad it’s just that.”
“And American Express.”
“At least you qualify for one of those.”
“They
told
me I did. Not so much, it’s turning out. I’m more a low-limit Discover Card type.”
The VP of marketing closed his eyes in thought. “Veracruz improvising again. If our ‘UltraKent’ wore a cape and tights, say, and if he was clearly on wires as he flew—a dinner-theater Peter Pan effect, with maybe a
Sputnik
ish fake satellite zapping his headset with cartoon lightning bolts representing cries for help—it might have a sort of campy, retro charm along the lines of the Taco Bell Chihuahua. It’s a tricky aesthetic for a large tech firm, but it certainly neutralizes ‘sterile’ and maybe it turns ‘robotic’ to goofy advantage. Though it might be a job for Claymation. Or for puppets.”
“I don’t think I follow.”
“If we animate.”
“But you have
me,
” I said. “Why animate?”
The VP was backing toward an elevator whose doors his assistant had been keeping open by holding one hand across the sensor ray.
“I’ll be in touch,” the VP said.
“And vice-a-versa.”
“No vice-a-versa, Kent. From me to you.” His management tractons swept over me again, raising the frizzy hairs inside my thighs. “And please have your boss overnight me your HR files. I’ll need to review them. To start the vetting process.”
“Why?” I said.
“We’re conjoined. You’re in our ad now.” He laced his fingers together and squeezed them pale.
“How long does this
vetting process
normally take?” I asked.
“That depends on what’s in your HR files. Not long, I hope. I’m anxious to air this spot.”
“And the countless hundreds that will follow.”
“An optimist. You’ve read
The Seven Habits.
”
“I
am The Seven Habits. Sí, señor.
Now—”
“I’m late for my flight. Just overnight those files.”
The VP of marketing smiled and thumbs-upped me, took a tiny, blind step back, and his silent assistant lowered his right hand, allowing the elevator doors to shut and the lighted numbers just above them to start counting down from thirty-two to one. They stopped changing at ten, though, which puzzled me. Cabs to the airport don’t wait on the tenth floor—though harried bigwigs do tell white lies sometimes when it’s the lunch hour and they’re growing peckish.
If AidSat’s human resources department didn’t share the tenth floor with the executive dining room, I would have felt more comfortable, however.
Tonight, after writing Sabrina a get-well card at the Center for New Integrity (
You watch—your troubles will all come down to serotonin levels, the way they did with me a few years back, when I shocked the Iowa state fair by threatening to stick a pinkie finger into a Vita-Mix blender I was demonstrating
) and deleting several nuisance g-mails (including one with a MySpace link I clicked on that brought up the page of some bozo, “The Living Bubba,” who may or may not have hazed me once at scout camp by filling my Adidases with pickerel guts), I sat up in bed reflecting on my prospects as the Ronald McDonald of satellite assistance. Whatever they ultimately renamed the Space Needle, its antenna would make a sweet “base camp,” I decided. And wearing a costume would be fine, I felt, as long as I could consult on its design. No cape, though. No tights. And no comic-book lightning bolts.
I’m not a defenseless Seattle skyscraper. I’m Kent Selkirk. A man.
I have my dignity
.