“I guess it's more that I misfire without provocation,” said Tinkle. “Things set me off. I have orgasms when I don't want to.”
“So you're not shooting sideways?”
“No.”
“Why did you say sideways, then?”
“Maybe because it happens in my pants and I'm constrained.”
“So sideways does come into it, but not because of structural damage….What sets you off, then? A woman's perfume? That often arouses me. Or a hint of a woman's body odor?”
“No. Body odor could do it, but I usually don't get that close to a woman.”
“You don't always have to be so close. I once went into a stationery store and the girl behind the cash register had exposed armpits and was fumigating the place. But I loved the smell. Responded priapically. I nearly misfired, myself. I lingered in there for a long time, pretending to be interested in a fountain pen that was also a cigarette lighter. She was ordinary-looking but her smell was incredible. She may have known this and didn't bathe to compensate for her plain features. I did return there at least twice, wanting to just breathe in her fragrance, arouse myself, and rush home. Except she was never there again. Frustrating when things like that happen. Very difficult sometimes to figure out a stranger's schedule.”
“Like I said, a smell can trigger me. But it doesn't have to be as obvious as that. See that thermos lid?” asked Tinkle. There was indeed the lid of a thermos on the floor. It was upside down and could be used as a drinking cup.
“That sets you off?”
“It could.”
“What about it? The shape? That fact that it's a receptacle?”
“No. The shape doesn't matter. I sexualize everything. A shoelace. A lamp.”
I eyed the thermos lid, submitting it to a test of attractiveness, to see if I had the same condition as Tinkle, but I found it simply to be a lid, though I was intrigued by this notion of finding all things erotic. I don't know if it was the booze, but I sort of wished that I could find thermos lids sexy. I looked at it again. The oval nature was appealing, but that's as far as it went. I looked at his desk lamp. Nothing. I resumed my counseling session with Tinkle.
“You're not having an orgasm right now, are you?” I asked without judgment, like a scientist.
“No, whiskey dulls it. That's why I drink a lot.”
“How many orgasms a day do you manufacture?”
“Along with heavy drinking, I do preventive masturbation four or five times a day so that I can go out in public.”
This all sounded oddly familiar. Then I reassured myself: I might have shared some of his symptoms, but that can be said for most psychiatric illnesses.
“Why do you think this has happened to you?” I asked. “Maybe you should see Oliver Sacks. It could be neurological. Like the man who thought his wife was a cocktail waitress.”
“I don't get any sex. That's my problem. I'm thirty-one; I haven't had sex in nine years.”
What could I say to comfort him? Nine years was a terribly long time. One hardly goes nine years without doing most things, except maybe trips to the Far East. So nine years without something as meaningful to a person's sense of well-being as sex was a dire stretch. Poor Tinkle! I had recently gone about seven months—the duration of my posting in New Jersey—but that was nothing compared with what Tinkle had endured.
“What about going to a prostitute?” I asked.
“No. I'd fall in love.”
“You're a romantic. That's admirable. But you had better give it up. Going to a prostitute is better than walking around having orgasms because of thermos lids and lamps and shoelaces.”
“It would be too depressing that the only way I can have sex is to pay for it.”
“Listen, if everyone thought that way, a whole industry would collapse. It's not depressing! Well, maybe for a few minutes afterward, but it's worth it. Especially in your situation.”
“I can't. I'd feel bad for the woman.”
Tinkle was stubborn on this issue. What the hell could I do for him? I wished I could get Jeeves to help me figure this one out, though I didn't think the pulley system would work on such a severe case.
“Do you go on dates?” I asked.
“Sometimes, but I never get a second date, or if they go out with me at all, it's only out of pity. And now I'm liable to come if they even stand next to me or if I see them handling a fork. So I haven't gone on a date in a year. I'm dangerous.”
“You're a good-looking guy,” I said. “I don't understand.”
Tinkle just stared at me, imploring me with his eyes not to force him to bring up the issue of his height. He was fairly attractive—he had nice curly hair, the jaw of a longshoreman, and the stocky body of a wrestler. But, like Murrin, he was terribly short, though it hadn't made him homosexual, as far as I could tell; everything he said pointed to a desire for intercourse with females. Nevertheless, I did think of suggesting homosexuality to Tinkle, as a sort of temporary solution, but this struck me as an injurious proposal. Also, just because he was short didn't mean he couldn't get a woman, though it no doubt made things more difficult. After all, it's nearly impossible for a person of normal height to get a woman. But something had to be done for Tinkle. I decided to hammer away at him on the prostitute angle. He needed to know that he could function like a man and not a leaky water pistol. This would be the first step of his recovery.
“I really think going to a brothel would be the best thing for you,” I said. “Would demystify the whole act and recalibrate you so that you only find women appealing and not objects. And it will give you some confidence. If money is an issue, I'll happily advance you five hundred dollars. I received a settlement a few months ago and my wallet is bursting at the seams. Let's get a good one. This is a horse town. The racing season has started. There's bound to be beautiful women who will take care of you, get you working properly again. I stayed in a shabby place last night, but I saw some fancy hotels on the main drag. We'll go to one of those places, sit at the bar, drink, and discreetly ask the bartender how to proceed.”
I saw myself and Tinkle, my little companion, at an elegant bar, two beautiful women approaching. Perhaps I, too, would indulge. In the past, when I'd first moved to New York, I'd had a few experiences in that realm, mostly disastrous, but initially it's always pleasant, a sort of a revelation to cut right to the chase with a woman. Still, Tinkle was right: you felt bad for the prostitute, no matter how jaded she might be, and afterward you were terribly depressed. But maybe this time in Saratoga it would be better. That's always the lure, though, this time it will be better, different, which seems to be the hook with most vices. Gambling, sex, alcohol, drugs, Chinese food—you always give these things a second chance or a hundredth chance, but something healthy, like kayaking, if you don't go for it the first time, you never try again.
“I can't go to a prostitute,” said Tinkle. “I know I'll fall in love. I'm pathetic. Also, I have another problem which I should tell you about…. But the coming is getting worse. I have wet dreams every night, no matter how much I drink or masturbate. Last night I dreamt that I saw two dogs humping and that made me come. I'm afraid to go to sleep tonight. What if I dream of lobster claws?”
“More whiskey,” I said. My ability to empathize was getting the best of me; I couldn't take much more of Tinkle's misery. I felt a black depression inching around the edges of what had previously been a good mood. Lobster claws! The man's psyche was booby-trapped. He poured me two more inches of Wild Turkey. “Were you one of the dogs, or just watching?” I asked.
“Just watching. And when the dog finished, I finished.”
“What's your other problem?” I whispered. I inwardly shielded myself for another blow; I don't know how Freud and Jung did this for a living.
“I have hyperhidrosis,” Tinkle said.
“What's hyperhidrosis?” I asked.
“I sweat too much.”
“Were you actually diagnosed by a doctor?”
“Yes.”
“How do you get hyperhidrosis?”
“Genetics. And stress. Stress sets up the genetics.”
“All right, you sweat a lot. Extra showering and deodorant, that's all. Maybe a pill. They give incontinent people pills to dry them up. Maybe you could take one of those.”
“Nothing works. But it's just not sweating from the armpits. My hands are incredibly moist. It's disgusting. If I touch a woman, she'll think I'm a sponge.”
“What about nine years ago? Who did you sleep with then?”
“An older woman. A lesbian.”
“If she was with you, then she was bisexual, not a lesbian.”
“She was more lesbian than bisexual. She had never been with a man. I was a six-month experiment. Now she's back to being a lesbian.”
“Well, she reverted to form after a pleasant six months with you. More important, what did she think of your hands?”
“She didn't mind.”
Tinkle looked completely defeated as he recalled his love affair. I wondered if it had been the extent of his sexual experience. “Is she the only woman you've ever been with?”
“Yes. The only woman I've been with was a lesbian.”
“Listen, there are a lot of fellows who would die to be able to say that…. You have to focus on the positive: she didn't mind your hands. This hyperhidrosis can't be that bad. Let me shake your hand.”
He shook his head no.
“Come on. Please. I have to see if you're exaggerating.”
He went to wipe his hand on his pants. “No,” I said, stopping him. “I want the full effect.”
We shook hands. His hand was very slick and chilled. It did feel like a sponge. I said nothing. I didn't know how the guy could take it. I couldn't take it. I felt myself mentally crumbling. I finished my whiskey. Tinkle poured me some more.
“I have to use pens that aren't water-soluble,” he said. “I try to avoid shaking hands or at least give my pants a quick wipe…. One time I was on a date, it was winter, and I was in this woman's car. She kept asking me why my side of the windshield was fogging up. I said the defrost must be broken. This is what I live with.”
“The hyperhidrosis fogged up a window?”
“Yes.”
“You're like a superhero,” I said, trying to summon a smidgeon of enthusiasm for his affliction. “You cause windows to fog, ink to run. You're a force of nature. That's a positive way to look at it.”
“I do think positively about it. It's a curse and a gift…. God knew I would always be alone so he made me self-lubricating.”
Tinkle gave a maudlin smile, then said, “There's one more thing.”
I slumped deep into the chair. I nodded my assent, like a slave stoically taking another lash from his Roman master.
“I saw a spot the other day on the head,” said Tinkle, laying into me, not holding back. Cruel Tinkle! I wasn't cut out for this kind of treatment. “I think I have penile cancer. When something gets overused, the cells begin to fragment. That might be what's happening.”
“You need to see a doctor,” I lisped. My voice was barely audible. Tinkle had defeated me. I was psychically destroyed. I was no Hemingway. This latest announcement pushed me over the edge.
“They'll probably have to cut off my penis,” Tinkle said, reveling in his martyrdom and further destroying me mentally. “My life will be over before I've even had a life.”
“Don't speak this way; it's not healthy,” I croaked.
“Don't worry, I have a plan,” said Tinkle. “I'm going to turn into a bat. I'm going to burn a cork and put blackface on, like Al Jolson. I'm going to sneak into women's rooms here in the Mansion and they'll never see me.”
“Please tell me you're joking,” I pleaded. Tinkle was either insane or madly drunk or both.
“No, I'm going to become a bat. It will be a performance piece. Everyone is scared of the bats here.”
“You're not going to molest anyone, are you?”
“No, I'll just stand in the shadows unseen. They don't see me now. It'll be the same thing.”
“Listen, this is crazy. Forget this bat business and penile cancer business. I'm sure you're fine. I'm always seeing things on my penis that aren't there. Everyone does. It comes with having a penis…. Please … you don't have cancer and you don't have to impersonate a bat. You have to think about your work, your writing.” I waved my hand in the direction of his typewriter. “Live for that. I've had a number of setbacks myself lately—look at my face—but as long as I keep working on my novel, everything will be all right. So forget about sex and crazy performance pieces. What is it you're working on?”
“It's like Mangrove's book, but a little different.”
“What is it? Tell me,” I begged. The fellow's life had to have some purpose.
“A novel in the form of a suicide note.”
The pain came to an end right about then.
I blacked out.
CHAPTER 20
A talk with Jeeves about detaching with love, as opposed to detached retinasI give a speech on the possible interpersonal application of the lifeguard motto
“Oh, Jeeves,” I said. I was in bed. It was morning. My brain was a blister and my mouth was an old leather wallet without any money.
“Yes, sir?”
“Oh, Jeeves …”
“Yes, sir?”
“Stop it, Jeeves. Please. I'm sick. I'm not fit for a duet.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Please, Jeeves. No more yes, sirs.”
“Very good, sir.”
I closed my eyes. I thought I might vomit. I steadied myself with a yoga breath.
“Some water, Jeeves.”
Jeeves vanished. Went to the bathroom and returned with a glass of water. I propped myself on an elbow and got down all of that nourishing cocktail of two parts hydrogen, one part oxygen. Sunshine lit the edges of my thin, white curtains and gave the room a yellow, early-morning glow. I looked at my travel clock: only seven-thirty. I unpropped myself and lay down flat.
“Well, Jeeves, disaster has struck again.”
“I can imagine, sir.”
“I fell off the wagon.”
“I know, sir.”
“Do you hate me, Jeeves?”
“Of course not, sir.”
“But you should. I went back on the booze. It wasn't even forty-eight hours.”
“Your behavior, sir, is undeniably alcoholic.”
“Then you should hate me, Jeeves.”
“No, sir, I am detached.”
“Like a retina? You won't look at me?”
“Not exactly, sir. I once overheard your aunt Florence speaking to your uncle Irwin about the philosophy behind the Al-Anon meetings she attended. She told him that she was detaching from you with love.”
“What do you think that means, Jeeves?”
“That she loved you, sir, but there was little she could do for you. She was acknowledging that she felt helpless to aid you, but that your self-destructive behavior did not preclude her from loving you—at a safe remove.”
“So she didn't hate me for being alcoholic?”
“Correct, sir.”
“And you don't hate me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Yes, you do hate me, or, yes, you don't hate me?”
“I don't hate you, sir.”
“Sorry to make you spell things out, Jeeves. I've sawed my IQ in half with all the liquor I consumed.”
“I understand, sir.”
I felt dismal. Nauseous. Brain pinched by dehydration. Morally defeated. Nose throbbing.
Jeeves stood patiently by my side. Sunlight continued to illuminate the borders of the curtains, like a flame curling the edges of a piece of paper. I did some more yoga breaths, trying to heal myself.
But then suddenly a terrible ice pick of fear shot through my consciousness. I couldn't recall how I had got back to the room or what had happened after that insane Tinkle had driven me to the point of collapse.
Might I have gotten into some kind of mischief? It had happened before during my blackouts. In college, I had, according to my friends, smashed my head into the glass of a beautiful antique wall clock in one of the more elegant Princeton eating clubs and said, “Time has no effect on me!” Sober I would never have damaged an old clock or made such a vainglorious pronouncement.
And one time in New York, I had been in a bar in the East Sixties, watching a boxing match around 10 P.M., and that was the last thing I remembered until I came to a little after 4 A.M. when I was found beneath a parked car on Eldridge Street on the Lower East Side. It was November and quite frigid and I had lost my overcoat. All that was protecting me from the elements was my wonderful and faithful Brooks Brothers gray tweed. But what behavior: losing a coat, lying beneath a car!
The Eldridge Street bartender whose bar I had been patronizing—so I was later informed—had closed up for the night and was leaving with his Icelandic girlfriend when he spotted my feet comically and tragically sticking out from beneath the car's license plate, like a drunk witch.
He roused me, got me out from beneath the car—no easy task—and told me I could have died from exposure. Then I vomited, narrowly avoiding this kindly man, and he and his girlfriend took me to their home, where I continued to vomit for at least two hours, holding on to their toilet with what little strength and life force I had. The bartender went to sleep and his sweet blonde girlfriend attended to me. I kept apologizing, and I remember her saying, as she sponged my face with a wet towel, “You don't have to say you're sorry. I'm from Iceland. We do this all the time.”
A few months later, I read in the Science section of The New York Times that Iceland, a beautifully named country, has a high incidence of alcohol abuse. So the gods were looking after me, sending an Icelander to care for me when I needed one most.
Wake Up, Sir!: A Novel Page 17