The speaker out up by the clock in the cement hall by the sauna crackled to life for the start of weekly WETA, with its glass-shattering Joan Sutherland theme. Pemulis put his street-sneakers on his street-shoe shelf. ‘Buck up, T.P. It’s just an angst-spasm. You’re just reeling from a temporary paternal kertwang. Philosophical truth’s jutting out all over the place. Disney World or no. Nose or no. Eschaton lives on, believe me. Underground or no. You have a calling, a talent. A missileman of your caliber. Reach down and rally, me little button.’
Possalthwaite had taken his face from his hands and was staring stonily up somewhere past Pemulis, lips moving in the habitual sucking reflex for which he took so much guff. His face had the pink scrubbed look of a crying child all right. His hands had left brown spiders of tincture of benzoin on his cheeks. He had two little smudges of bruise under the eyes. He sniffed meatily through a nose still covered in horizontal strips of surgical tape. ‘I ab dot a little button.’
‘That’s what all the little buttons say, kid,’ the Viking said levelly, removing something from a nostril with tweezers. Pemulis’s sinuses felt like four-laners and his sense of smell was a lot keener than a man in a locker room might wish. Freer’s locker next to Gloeckner’s next to good old Inc’s was agape, the bolted colposcope gleaming in the overhead lights and his Fox large-head sticks a nauseous West-Coast fluorescent orange with the trademark fox-glyph painted on the strings.
Possalthwaite scratched at one foot with the nails of the other foot. ‘If you can’t trust your folks…’
‘Let me both validate and remind you that the kertwang you’re reeling under is emotion-based and not fact-based.’
Possalthwaite opened his mouth.
‘You’re getting ready to say if you can’t trust the ostensively loving patriarchal bosom you can’t trust anyone at all, and if you can’t trust people what can you trust, in terms of unvarying dependability, Postal Weight, am I right?’
‘Oh Jesus H. Christmastree here it comes,’ the Viking said to his forehead’s reflection.
Pemulis was putting on a sock and a shoe, his mouth right down by Postal Weight’s ear. ‘This is not a bullshit problem. This is a like serious emotiono-philosophical deal you’re confronting. I think it’s a good sign you’re coming to me instead of holding it all impactedly inside.’
‘Who’s coming to you?’ Freer turned the big face this way and that. ‘He was already in here having his little wa-wa-dinkle.’
Pemulis tried envisioning Keith Freer being bent over the net by Bedouins in purple turbans and roundly buggered, making the sort of sounds Leith’s historical b/w J. Gleason made when in pain. To Possalthwaite he was saying ‘Cause I can remember staring down the exact same-type thing, though from a more like philosophicalized kertwang than emotions.’
Freer said ‘Do not ask him what he means, kid.’
Then a couple of 16s came in, G. (‘Yardguard’) Rader and a marginal Slavic kid whose first name was Zoltan and whose last name nobody could pronounce, and ignored Freer’s advice to run for their lives because the good Dr. Pemulis had been prescribing for himself again and was going to begin to rant, and threw down their gear and proceeded immediately to get fresh towels from the dispenser over by the showers and to snap them at each other.
‘What do you mean?’ said Possalthwaite.
‘The snare closes, the trap closes, here it comes.’
Rader rolled his wrists and spiraled the towel for what he called maximum painage. The Viking turned and said if he felt so much as a terrycloth breeze on this personal ass right here they were toast, the two. Pemulis was taking racquets out. E.T.A.’s male 16s were as a group inbent, conspiratorial, glandular, cliqueish. They excluded anyone not in their set. They had techniques and strategems of exclusion way more advanced than the 18s or 14s. (They tended to exclude Stice, mostly because he roomed with Coyle and drilled a lot of the time up with the 18s, and mixed with them, and more recently Kornspan, excluded, basically because he was cretinous and cruel and now consensually suspected of having tortured and killed the two collarless cats whose burnt corpses had been found on the hillside during pre-drill sprints a couple weeks back.) They had their own dialect and codes, in-jokes inside in-jokes.f And at E.T.A. only 16s snapped towels, and only for a year or two, but they went at it with a vengeance, towel-snapping, a brief flared genuflection to jock-stereotype, a stage where there’s this primate-like passion for red-assed bonding in steamy rooms. They were the age staring down the barrel not of Is anything true but of Am I true, of What am I, of What is this thing, and it made them strange.
Then 18’s-B/C fence-sitter Duncan van Slack, the kid who carried a guitar around with himself everyplace but never played it, and refused all late-night-sitting-around-someone’s-room requests to play, and who was suspected of not being able to play the thing at all, and whose own Da was supposedly a redoubted gene-sequencer in Savannah, poked his head and guitar’s neck in the door and said to come quick and then withdrew his head before anybody could ask what was up.
‘If you didn’t have such a way with a launch-vector I wouldn’t be sure you’re ready to hear this, Postalscale.’
‘It occurs to me this is your boring man’s true talent: the talent for ensnaring,’ says the Viking. ‘Flee while you can, kid.’
Possalthwaite blew his nose in the crook of his elbow and left it there.
Pemulis, who still used genuine catgut strings, zipped the two sticks he’d chosen into their Dunlop covers. He put an arch-support shoe up on the bench by Postalweight’s bottom, looking quickly right and left:
‘Todder, you can trust math.’
Freer said ‘You heard it here first.’
Pemulis compulsively zipped and unzipped one of the covers. ‘Take a breather, Keith. Todd, trust math. As in Matics, Math E. First-order predicate logic. Never fail you. Quantities and their relation. Rates of change. The vital statistics of God or equivalent. When all else fails. When the boulder’s slid all the way back to the bottom. When the headless are blaming. When you do not know your way about. You can fall back and regroup around math. Whose truth is deductive truth. Independent of sense or emotionality. The syllogism. The identity. Modus Tollens. Transitivity. Heaven’s theme song. The nightlight on life’s dark wall, late at night. Heaven’s recipe book. The hydrogen spiral. The methane, ammonia, H2O. Nucleic acids. A and G, T and C. The creeping inevibatility. Caius is mortal. Math is not mortal. What it is is: listen: it’s true.’