Meanwhile, the fourth and final theory of party topographics held that the center of the event was unstable, was always elsewhere from where you found yourself no matter the room, the mood, the company. A seeker of the center of the party was according to this theory never at the center of the party himself or herself, by definition, and all party-goers, by definition, were seekers of the party. The essence of the party was migratory, impermanent, provisional. You felt you were there, at the party, your glass was newly filled, and right across the undulating sea of witnesses you saw a teenager with whom you knew you were destined to have exquisite romance — her eyeliner like the lines in Picasso drawings, just as certain, just as enduring — but as you began to cross the room, knowing that this was the place and this was the time, you began to feel the center of the party spiraling away. The party tacked upwind, came about. Suddenly, you were lost. Suddenly, you were having a conversation with Glen Dunbar about standardized tests. What’s the best model for taking standardized tests? Do you think it’s best to rule out one of the questions definitively, and at what point? Or should you really try to work out each answer before you give up on a particular question?
But Gerry was alone and therefore certain that he was missing whatever it was he was supposed to be experiencing. He was in the Fosters’ dining room. The table, draped in a white silk tablecloth, was laden with confections. Not with the individually wrapped Tootsie Rolls or two-packs of Devil Dogs or Twinkies, boxes of Dots, holiday servings of Jujyfruits, M&M’s, Mars bars, Snickers, Three Musketeers, Charleston Chews, Bazooka Joe gum. No, the table was piled high with baked goods, with eclairs and cupcakes and Tollhouse cookies. Repulsive. Who wanted to eat homemade crap? Nick Foster had probably hacked up rhinoviral gobs into the batter, laughing, before stirring vigorously. On a silver serving tray however, Gerry found a single bottle of German imported beer. How had it come to be here, this German beer, illegally proffered to minors, and why did it seem to be the solution to the difficulties inherent in the Fosters’ party? The chairs had been removed from the table, to permit party-goers to circulate, but there were no party-goers. At least until Dinah Polanski crawled from under the table, drunk.
Dinah Polanski. She already wore bifocals. Behind her spectacles, the lenses of which resembled bulletproof Plexi-glas, her eyes wandered in contrary directions. And yet even wall-eyed Dinah was wearing the obligatory nondescript corduroy trousers, along with a gray cardigan sweater from the Lands End catalogue. In her case, the look was fashion abomination. Dinah had apparently donned it in imitation of Nancy Van Ingen and her crowd. She had not arrived at her outfit through the adventure of personal expression. Maybe it was the fact that Dinah was hefting an extra eight or ten pounds and had dun brown locks that ruined the effect of her reliable and understated garb. And beyond the fashion problem there was the further deep historical indignity that Dinah had been following Gerry around Fairfield County, turning up as regularly as a Connecticut raccoon, since they were six years old. She’d been trying to get his attention for some reason, even when, because of his unremitting neglect, it was self-destructive to do so. Her motives were unclear. In the last year, however, these efforts had been focused almost exclusively on recounting for Gerry the intricacies of a certain science-fiction novel entitled Dune. In the present instance, Dinah launched in immediately with only the briefest introduction —
— I was over next door, and I noticed that they had all the books of H. P. Lovecraft. And Edgar Allan Poe. Stories of Poe, and also the works of H. G. Wells. I like all of those books. Just really wonderful, you know? Then I noticed that they had a copy of Dune.
Dinahs face was aglow, and close to his now, as he attempted to work a church key on his imported German beer. Gerry backpedaled to achieve a requisite conversational twenty-four inches of distance from Dinahs rheumy face, and so that he might prevent salivary driblets from showering upon him, but as he retreated she followed, always closing in to a range of twelve to fourteen inches, a distance more frequently associated with conversational styles of the Mediterranean nations. He could see a patch of dermatitis on her brow. She was in need of a cream of some kind.
— Beyond a critical point within a finite space, freedom diminishes as numbers increase. That’s Pardot Kynes, first planetologist of the planet called Arrakis…. He dies in a landslide. Well, the House of Atreides, you know, comes to this desert planet, and there’s only these worms, gigantic worms, miles long, and these smugglers and their spice. The spice is called melange. And there’s this tyrant. Baron Harkonnen.