Doctor Syntax

by Michael Petracca

  Too tired even to attempt to hold onto my board, I ditched it and dove to the bottom. The wave broke like a sonic boom over my head, and, while I was in deep enough water not to be caught and dashed senseless in its turbulence, it held me under until I had no choice but to claw my way up for breath. I knew that fighting up through the hissing, aerated whitewater would take everything out of me, and that I’d have no strength left to swim in to shore. Comprehending my utter helplessness—my engulfment by natural forces infinitely more powerful than my picayune self—should have terrified me, but as I rose tumbling and clawing there was no panic; instead I experienced a kind of emotional fermata, a strange relaxation of tempo, an unexpected calm at having lost any pretension to immortality, even an absurd gaiety in the face of this pointless recreational death. Tiny air bubbles, rising like carbonation in a fine aged root beer, sparkled in the aqueous light with random bursts of brilliance like fireworks on the eve of some saint’s birthday, and I was surrounded by a glowing nimbus of sunlit foam. I glided up effortlessly the last few fathoms, and when I broke the surface my board was lying in the water next to me, unaffected as a snoozing pet. It must have gotten caught by the wave, flipped straight up and settled on the still whitewater after the wave had passed. I straddle-sat on the board, laughing at my ridiculous deliverance by chance—the longest shot ever, like winning at gammon by rolling boxcars five times in a row-and rivulets of salt water ran down my face, some from my wet hair, some from my eyes. The big set past, I paddled feebly toward shore, got picked up by a small inside wave which had already broken and spent its violence, and I managed to belly onto the sand, where I rolled over on my back. Behind my closed lids the sunlight colored my world a vibrant rose. The heat hurt my eyes, and it felt good.

  Now, wedged between Sterne and Sweeney, in the back seat of an AMC Pacer that had the appearance of a plexi-bubbled family runabout from some futuristic TV cartoon, I was recreating that feeling of blithe, hyperconscious abandon I had when I was underwater at Zero. They were going to kill me over bad eighteenth-century poetry, there was no custom-built semibanana surfstick going to descend providentially and deliver me, and I watched with detached curiosity as unfamiliar valley scenery flashed by, a Carpet World, some filling stations out of business and boarded up, a vacant lot overgrown with sourgrass all emerald and lemon, empty storefronts with “Space for Lease” signs on unwashed windows, a body and fender shop, the neighborhood bar on the corner, closed until dusk. Van Nuys: You might find the same blighted beauty in Modesto or Gilroy, or enjoy an even purer nothingness underground while nudging up pansies. I smiled from time to time, a tourist observing myself rooted tuberously between a serene little fop, the undersized feet at the ends of his stubby legs not quite reaching the carpeted floor of the car (if the feet and legs are any indication of penile dimension, and many women insist they are, there was no telling how larval Sterne’s wand might be) and a hulking sloth-man with a revolver in his paw. All because of some craftless pentameter. It was priceless, if you didn’t think about it.

  Rick was driving, following instructions as Sweeney grunted them to her.

  “Hung a luft.” he said in his lazy Hermosa Beach gyro accent.

  “OK. Straight now?” asked Rick, making her soprano sound as husky as she could. I knew Rick wasn’t a guy, Sterne and Sweeney knew she wasn’t a guy, but Sterne and Sweeney didn’t know I knew she wasn’t a guy, and Rick didn’t know I knew she wasn’t a guy, so Rick had to keep up the act all the same, just in case they needed her to spy on me at some point in the future. I liked that. The old illusion versus reality theme. Once when I was teaching a poetry class I wrote a surreal poem called “Rods ’n’ Cones” under the pseudonym Elie Aperto and had it published in the college literary mag, Speculum. The magazine’s editors will accept anything incomprehensible, figuring it must be deep. Sadistically, I had the class write a formal explication/analysis of the poem, purposely neglecting to inform the class that it was my poem, so that they would be brutally objective in their judgment of it. A few days later I mentioned to Chainsaw at a poker game that my class was expecting Elie Aperto to come and answer questions; did he want to come and play the effete literato to my class.

  “Why?” he asked.

  “I want to give them a firsthand demonstration of the old illusion versus reality theme. It’s the only way they can really get it.” I said. “You’ll do it.” I added confidently, “because the class is mostly women. College women.”

  Chainsaw wanted to know if there were any sexy girls in the class, and I fed him the usual fabrication: The pheromones were so thick in the small room, the running shorts so brief, the tank tops so sheer, that the few men in the class were reduced to crawling on all fours and howling and humping air. He said, “I’ll be there.” There was never any doubt.

  I informed my class that a crazy pal of mine was going to pretend he was a poet, and that they should pretend they didn’t know he was an impostor and ask him the most inane questions they could think up, to demonstrate the old illusion versus reality theme to him. Chainsaw arrived dressed in a rumpled herringbone sportcoat and cords, so stoned that his eyes were mere happy slits behind his wire-rimmed glasses, and my class outdid themselves with questions that were even dumber than their usual ones. Chainsaw was having a great time, making grandiose pronouncements on the nature of the creative process while leering at Sally Rideanour, an ample brunette who always wore the sheerest tank tops of all and the briefest running shorts, and who always sat in the front row, her legs crossed and a pink wad of Bazooka in her mouth.

  When I finally announced to Chainsaw that the class was putting him on, that they knew all along he was a hoax, he was confused. He looked around at the class for some support, but they were all in hysterics at the spectacle. He looked to Sally Rideanour, who blew a bubble with pert nonchalance and uncrossed her bare legs, which disturbed him even more. At a loss for words, Chainsaw punched up my arm, bringing a red welt. The class roared their approval: How often, after all, do you get to see one of your profs attacked physically in the front of the classroom? Not often enough, for my money.

  “Don’t get mad.” I said to Chainsaw. “It’s just a little theater of cruelty to illustrate a point: the old illusion versus reality theme. It’s the best theme there is.” Having made my point, I bowed deeply to Chainsaw, like a magician who’s just performed a particularly rad trick, then to the class, and I swept out an open window. Luckily we were on the first floor.

  So here I was again, still dramatizing the old illusion versus reality theme, except this time with Rick in the role of Chainsaw, Sterne in the role of airhead underclassman, and myself in the role of—what?—how about a fly banging willfully against the glass of the window, or any other insect whose lifespan might be measured in ticks on a timepiece. “Ngh.” said Sweeney to Rick, and she straightened out the wheel.

  Because I was feeling so irrationally buoyant—and, more importantly, to gain a handhold on the twining convolvulus of the Sterne psyche so that I might discover some vital bud of information that would enable me to effect an escape—I tried to engage Sterne in conversation. I tried several openings: “How’s the family?” “Stolen any good books lately?” “Nice day if it don’t rain.” None worked.

  I resorted to flattery. “Awesome disguise. With the wig and beard you had me completely fooled.”

  “Of course I did, Mr. Nails.”

  “No, really, I thought I recognized you, but I said nah. But I should have known, when the fake antiques started arranging themselves around you and the books started fixing breakfast.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Never mind. What really amazes me is that you fooled Lissa.”

  “It’s not at all amazing if one considers that my stepdaughter probably would not have recognized me, even had I appeared before her with no disguise whatsoever. You must understand, I parted company with Miss Sterne and her mother when my stepdaughter was still quite young, an
d unless she had seen recent photographs of me … but of course I could not take that chance. Hence the disguise, which admittedly was, as you say, awe-inspiring.”

  “And Ernst—did you excuse him like you excused Dill?”

  “By no means. Mr. Gablonzer is an extremely valuable man. We have kept him, at considerable expense I might add, in the depository of my textbook firm, where he pursues his scholarship uninterrupted. That is the reason for which I had him abducted in the first place, and that is where we are taking you now, if you have no objection.”

  “I do have.” Sweeney jammed the muzzle of the gun in my ribs. It tickled. “Why take me there to kill me? Why not get it over with right here?” I demanded, rather intemperately I realize in retrospect. But you must understand: Sterne and Sweeney were abridging my basic freedoms, my human right not to spend time in textbook depositories if I so chose, and there’s nothing more infuriating than having your freedoms abridged, especially where textbooks are concerned.

  Sterne paused thoughtfully, as though considering a business offer. “I never attend Mr. Sweeney’s eliminations, just as I never supervise the slaughter of cattle whose steaks I consume. Besides, I have no intention of killing you, Mr. Nails.”

  “You don’t?” I was starting to feel giddy, as I did when my board landed next to me. Sterne put the damper on my mood.

  “Oh, no, I have no intention of harming you at all.” he said. “I intend to put you to work.”

  THIRTY

  Kennedy’s assassination gave the textbook depository a sinister association it will never shake, an implication of unseen diabolical superpowers preying on vulnerable little men with telescopic gunsights and seducing them—the weak little men, I mean, not their gunsights—with intimations of dark fame. Textbook warehouses mean madness and violent death to the millions who caught every repeat of those shaky home flicks, like junior’s birthday preserved in super-eight only instead it was a president’s head going nova in gleaming skull fragments and brain stuff. We suffered the ceaseless video panning across that grassy knoll, because we all wanted reasons, and if you stare at something hard enough and long enough maybe sense will emerge, like strep colonizing in lab agar. In the case of JFK’s murder it never did, and it never has. Nevertheless we memorized every sharp-edged shelf and dusty packing crate of the sniper’s vantage point, we saw the warehouse from every angle inside and out, so that the book depository now resides in the collective dreamscape as a stark tower in which man proves his suggestibility, his willingness to do evil for vague motives, his boundless, squinting, self-righteous compulsivity, and as a shadow upon grassy fields where love proves itself as easily and permanently dispatched as an electronic tone beamed into dead space.

  I articulated this poignant observation to my captors, hoping for some speculative intercourse on the subject. Sweeney said, “It’s jest a fuckin wurrhouse.” which effectively stifled any intercourse. Rick seemed more interested but dubious. She studied me quizzically. Sterne was still climbing. I could hear him panting, petite shoesteps ringing out in the hollow stairwell. When he reached the top of the stairs he bent at the waist like an orchestra conductor after a particularly volatile final movement, put his hands on his knees and, catching his breath, said, “Welcome to your new home, Mr. Nails. I trust you find the surroundings agreeable.”

  “Peachy. Books are my friends.”

  “As are they mine. I sensed all along that we were kindred spirits.”

  “Please, you’ll give me a fistula. Are all these yours?”

  “Actually, most of these books are in transit. You see, in addition to my activities as a collector of rare books, I deal wholesale in public school texts. I began this enterprise as a showcase of honest endeavor behind which I could conduct my more covert dealings. Besides solidifying my good name in the community, the business has turned out to be not a paltry source of income. Additionally, it puts me in touch with other book enthusiasts, who often have information concerning rare first editions and such. The connections can be most rewarding. Come, I’ll show you.” Sweeney pushed me roughly in the small of the back.

  This level of Sterne’s warehouse was divided into a number of walled-off areas. They led me to a room filled with what appeared to be authentic old tomes, including whole shelves full of original Combes. Rick came, too.

  “So why such a big deal over my Syntax copies? You have millions of them.”

  “To be accurate, hundreds. In fact, I have most of the works of Mr. Combe that are extant. There is an old adage in business, one which I learned early in my career and which I have followed scrupulously ever since: If one controls every single unit of a given commodity, then one can command whatever price he decides to fix for that item. Toward that end I have endeavored to collect all of Combe’s works, along with the original editions of a number of other authors. Most of these volumes are relatively inexpensive reprints, but the first editions which you see here.” he motioned toward several shelves jammed with antiquated, leatherbound volumes from the Syntax series, “are considerably scarcer. Their price has risen dramatically every year since I have cornered the market on Doctor Syntax. Your inheritance, however, is exceptional, Mr. Nails, and when you brought it to me for appraisal, I knew at once that I had to possess it.”

  “They all look the same to me.”

  “In that assumption you could not be more erroneous.” Sterne disappeared from the room for a moment. He returned with my books. I could tell they were mine. There was the corner of a piece of newsprint sticking out of one. Impulsively I lunged at it. “My books.” I said. “Gimme.”

  Sweeney blocked my way by gingerly shifting the vast biomass of his hip, like Dawkins setting an illegal back pick. I ricocheted off his meaty rump and into some cartons, which fell down. Sterne corrected me, “They were your books, Mr. Nails, and if you had relinquished their ownership more gracefully, you wouldn’t be in this inglorious position now. The reason I wanted this particular set of Syntax books so badly was this.” He let one of the volumes fall open to no particular page and pointed to some handwritten notes in the margin. He riffled carefully through the fragile old pages. There were notes on almost every page. “This set of Doctor Syntax is unique, Mr. Nails, because it contains annotations by my ancestor and namesake, Laurence Sterne, and a handwritten inscription to Sterne by his friend, the author, William Combe. There is no other volume like it in the world. Therefore it is priceless on the open market, and of considerable interest, personal as well as financial, to me. Your bringing your inheritance to me was a miracle, a godsend if you will.”

  “We’re all Combists here. Let’s call it a gift from the child Genus. A Johnnysend if you will.”

  “Very good, a Johnnysend, ha ha ha ha, I stand corrected. I had heard of the existence of such an annotated Syntax, but it was out of circulation for many years, apparently in the care of your grandfather. When you brought your inheritance to me, I had no choice but to arrange the little farce of a robbery, in which you were unfortunately injured. My involvement in the case would never have come to light, had you not interfered.”

  “Sorry.” I said. “Let’s pretend it never happened. Let bygones be, and all like that.”

  “I’m afraid it’s far too late for bygones now, Mr. Nails. We have covered our tracks thoroughly, and you are the only unresolved issue. But I have a resolution which I believe will be mutually beneficial to both of us. You are going to join Mr. Gablonzer in the very comfortable and very secure study we constructed for him, so that he would be at ease to pursue his classical scholarship. You are going to live, and as repayment for my kind consideration in sparing your life, you are going to make me famous.”

  “I? At what?”

  “Why, at literary criticism, of course.”

  THIRTY-ONE

  The fourth and top floor of the warehouse was barred from entrance and egress by a thick metal trapdoor which lay horizontally across the head of the stairwell. Holding the trapdoor shu
t was a steel rod which ran through a series of iron rings welded to the bottom of the door, and which abutted at one end in a hole bored raggedly into the bare concrete wall of the building. From the looks of the door, it would be impossible for an elderly man like Ernst to lift it, even without the steel rod. But Sterne was a cautious, thorough man, and he didn’t like to take chances. You had to admire him for that. He was also out of his mind.

  As Sweeney worked the steel rod out of its fittings with one hand, the shotgun in the other, Sterne explained the nature of my prospective employment. “All I’ve ever wanted.” he explained in a candid tone, as though this were an encounter session and he had some material about a juvenile impropriety to share with the group, “is to make my name as a man of letters, to follow in the footsteps of my illustrious forebear Laurence Sterne, as a famous novelist or critic. It was noted many times that I had verbal promise when I was prepping, but as I grew older I came to the tragic realization that I am tragically flawed. I simply do not have the patience to write.”

  “Hey. Me neither.”

  “Perhaps, but our lives are not comparable, Mr. Nails, because you have mongrel bloodlines, while I descend directly from the pure stock of literary legend. Whenever I meet someone, I tell him my name is Laurence Sterne, and he inevitably quips, ‘Oh, you’re the man who wrote Tristram Shandy. What have you written lately?’”

  It occurred to me that few people, if anybody, would make that obscure authorial connection, but I wasn’t about to accuse Sterne of paranoid delusional ideation, since Sweeney had his hands on a steel rod he’d probably enjoy working into a tight Windsor around my neck. Sweeney had worked the bar loose from the trapdoor and was presented with an intellectual dilemma. He had a shotgun in one hand, a rod in the other, and he needed both hands free in order to push the trapdoor up and open. He stood with a perplexed look on his face and turned several uncertain circles, the rod and gun describing an elliptical orbit around his largeness. It was pathetic low comedy, like watching an unusually pea-brained Irish setter with a can tied to its tail. At length, and with admirable ingenuity, Sweeney set down the rod. He passed the gun to Rick, who apparently had never touched a firearm before. She took it in both hands and held it out at arms’ length, as though it were a fishing pole and she was preparing to cast over a pier railing. She aimed the shotgun unsteadily in my direction, although it was actually pointing at a point in space which had most recently been materially occupied by the metal rod as it revolved around Sweeney. Sterne was still blathering.