One semion that still works fine is holding your fist up and cranking at it with the other hand so the finger you’re giving somebody goes up like a drawbridge. Though of course Hal’s mocking himself at the same time. Everybody agrees it speaks volumes. Idris Arslanian’s shoes and incisors appear briefly in the doorway’s steam, then withdraw. Everyone’s reflection is sort of cubist in the walls’ shiny tiling. The name handed down paternally from an Umbrian five generations past and now much diluted by N.E. Yankee, a great-grandmother with Pima-tribe Indian S.W. blood, and Canadian cross-breeding, Hal is the only extant Incandenza who looks in any way ethnic. His late father had been as a young man darkly tall, high flat Pima-tribe cheekbones and very black hair Brylcreemed back so tight there’d been a kind of enforced widow’s peak. Himself had looked ethnic, but he isn’t extant. Hal is sleek, sort of radiantly dark, almost otterish, only slightly tall, eyes blue but darkly so, and unburnable even w/o sunscreen, his untanned feet the color of weak tea, his nose ever unpeeling but slightly shiny. His sleekness isn’t oily so much as moist, milky; Hal worries secretly that he looks half-feminine. His parents’ pregnancies must have been all-out chro-mosomatic war: Hal’s eldest brother Orin had got the Moms’s Anglo-Nordo-Canadian phenotype, the deep-socketed and lighter-blue eyes, the faultless posture and incredible flexibility (Orin was the only male anybody at E.T.A.’d ever heard of who could do a fully splayed cheerleader-type split), the rounder and more protrusive zygomatics.
Hal’s next-oldest brother Mario doesn’t seem to resemble much of anyone they know.
On most of the nontravel days that he doesn’t Big Buddy with his charges, Hal will wait till most everybody’s busy in the sauna and shower and stow his sticks in his locker and stroll casually down the cement steps into E.T.A.’s system of tunnels and chambers. He has some way he can casually drift off and have quite a while go by before anyone even notices his absence. He’ll often stroll casually back into the locker room just as people are slumped on the floor in towels discussing fatigue, carrying his gear bag and substantially altered in mood, and go in when most of the littler kids are in there peeling Pledge-husks off their limbs and taking their turn showering, and shower, using one of the kids’ shampoo out of a bottle shaped like a cartoon character, then hike the head back and apply Visine in a Schacht-free stall, gargle and brush and floss and dress, usually not even needing to comb his hair. He carries Visine AC, mint-flavored floss, and a traveller’s toothbrush in a pocket of his Dunlop gear bag. Ted Schacht, big into oral hygiene, regards Hal’s bag’s floss and brush as an example to them all.
‘So tired it’s like I’m almost high.’
‘But not pleasantly high,’ Troeltsch says.
‘It’d be a pleasanter tiredness-high if I didn’t have to wait till fucking 1900 to start all this studyin’,’ Stice says.
‘You’d think Schtitt could at least not turn up the juice the week before midterms.’
‘You’d think that the coaches and the teachers could try and get together on their scheduling.’
‘It’d be like a pleasant fatigue if I could just go up after dinner and hunker on down with the mind in neutral and watch something uncomplex.’
‘Not have to worry about prescriptive forms or acutance.’
‘Kick back.’
‘Watch something with chase scenes and lots of stuff blowing up all over the place.’
‘Relax, do bongs, kick back, look at lingerie catalogues, eat granola with a great big wooden spoon,’ Struck says wistfully.
‘Get laid.’
‘Just get one night off to like R and R.’
‘Slip on the old environmental suit and listen to some atonal jazz.’
‘Have sex. Get laid.’
‘Bump uglies. Do the nasty. Haul ashes.’
‘Find me one of them Northeast Oklahoma drive-in burger-stand waitresses with the great big huge titties.’
‘Those enormous pink-white French-painting tits that sort of like tumble out.’
‘One of those wooden spoons so big you can barely get your mouth around it.’
‘Just one night to relax and indulge.’
Pemulis belts out two quick verses of Johnny Mathis’s ‘Chances Are,’ left over from the shower, then subsides to examine something on his left thigh. Shaw has a spit-bubble going, growing to such exceptional size for just spit that half the room watches until it finally goes at the same moment Pemulis breaks off.
Evan Ingersoll says ‘We get off Saturday for Interdependence Day Eve, though, the board said.’
Several upperclass heads are cocked up at Ingersoll. Pemulis makes a bulge in his cheek with his tongue and moves it around.
‘Flubbaflubba’: Stice makes his jowls fly around.
‘We get off classes is all. Drills and challenges go merrily on, deLint says,’ Freer points out.
‘But no drills Sunday, before the Gala.’
‘But still matches.’
Every jr. player presently in this room is ranked in the top 64 continen-tally, except Pemulis, Yardley and Blott.
There’d be clear evidence that T. Schacht’s still in one of the toilet stalls off the showers even if Hal couldn’t see the tip of one of Schacht’s enormous purple shower thongs under the door of the stall right by where the shower-area entryway cuts into his line of sight. Something humble, placid even, about inert feet under stall doors. The defecatory posture is an accepting posture, it occurs to him. Head down, elbows on knees, the fingers laced together between the knees. Some hunched timeless millennial type of waiting, almost religious. Luther’s shoes on the floor beneath the chamber pot, placid, possibly made of wood, Luther’s 16th-century shoes, awaiting epiphany. The mute quiescent suffering of generations of salesmen in the stalls of train-station Johns, heads down, fingers laced, shined shoes inert, awaiting the acid gush. Women’s slippers, centurions’ dusty sandals, dock-workers’ hobnailed boots, Popes’ slippers. All waiting, pointing straight ahead, slightly tapping. Huge shaggy-browed men in skins hunched just past the firelight’s circle with wadded leaves in one hand, waiting. Schacht suffered from Crohn’s Disease,[43] a bequest from his ulcerative-colitic dad, and had to take carminative medication with every meal, and took a lot of guff about his digestive troubles, and had developed of all things arthritic gout, too, somehow, because of the Crohn’s Disease, which had settled in his right knee and caused him terrible pain on the court.
Freer’s and Tall Paul Shaw’s racquets fall off the bench with a clatter, and Beak and Blott move fast to pick them up and stack them back on the bench, Beak one-handed because the other hand is keeping his towel fastened.
‘Because so that was let’s see,’ Struck says.
Pemulis loves to sing around tile.
Struck’s hitting his palm with a finger for either emphasis or ordinal counting. ‘Close to let’s call it an hour run for the A-squads, an hour-fifteen drills, two matches back to back.’
‘I only played one,’ Troeltsch injects. ‘Had a measurable fever in the A.M.,deLint said to throttle down today.’
‘Folks that went three sets only played one match, Spodek and Kent for an instance,’ Stice says.
‘Funny how Troeltsch how his health always seems to rally when A.M. drills get out,’ Freer says.
‘— like conservatively two hours for the matches. Conservatively. Then half an hour on the machines under fucking Loach’s beady browns, sitting there with the clipboard. That’s let’s call it five hours of vigorous nonstop straight-out motion.’
‘Sustained and strenuous exertion.’
‘Schtitt’s determinated this year we ain’t singing no silly songs at Port Washington.’