The Bazaar of Bad Dreams Read online

  The women's basketball team, however, was exceptional in a good way, especially considering that most of the players were no more than five feet seven and were preparing for jobs as marketing managers, wholesale buyers, or (if they were lucky) personal assistants to Men of Power. The Lady Meerkats had won eight conference titles in the last ten years. The coach was Wesley's ex-girlfriend, ex as of one month previous. Ellen Silverman was the source of the spite that had moved Wesley to buy a Kindle. Well . . . Ellen and the Henderson kid in Wesley's Introduction to Modern American Fiction class.

  *

  Don Allman also claimed the Moore faculty was mediocre. Not terrible, like the football team--that, at least, would have been interesting--but definitely mediocre.

  "What about you and me?" Wesley asked. They were in the office they shared. If a student came in for a conference, the instructor who had not been sought would leave. For most of the fall and spring semesters this was not an issue, as students never came in for conferences until just before finals. Even then, only the veteran grade-grubbers, the ones who'd had permanently brown noses since elementary school, turned up. Don Allman said he sometimes fantasized about a juicy coed wearing a tee-shirt that said I WILL SCREW YOU FOR AN A, but this never happened.

  "What about us?" Don replied. "Jesus Christ, just look at us, bro."

  "Speak for yourself," Wesley said. "I'm going to write a novel." Although even saying it depressed him. Almost everything depressed him since Ellen had walked out. When he wasn't depressed, he felt spiteful.

  "Yes! And President Obama is going to tab me as the new Poet Laureate!" Don Allman exclaimed. Then he pointed at something on Wesley's cluttered desk. The Kindle was currently sitting on American Dreams, the textbook Wesley used in his Intro to American Lit class. "How's that little bastard working out for you?"

  "Fine," Wesley said.

  "Will it ever replace the book?"

  "Never," Wesley said. But he had begun to wonder.

  "I thought they only came in white," Don Allman said.

  Wesley looked at Don as haughtily as he himself had been looked at in the department meeting where his Kindle had made its public debut. "Nothing only comes in white," he said. "This is America."

  Don Allman considered this, then said: "I heard you and Ellen broke up."

  Wesley sighed.

  *

  Ellen had been his other friend, and one with benefits, until four weeks ago. She wasn't in the English Department, of course, but the thought of going to bed with anyone in the English Department, even Suzanne Montanaro, who was vaguely presentable, made him shudder. Ellen was five-two (eyes of blue!), slim, with a mop of short, curly black hair that made her look distinctly elfin. She had a dynamite figure and kissed like a dervish. (Wesley had never kissed a dervish, but could imagine.) Nor did her energy flag when they were in bed.

  Once, winded, he lay back and said, "I'll never equal you as a lover."

  "If you keep lowballing yourself like that, you won't be my lover for long. You're okay, Wes."

  But he guessed he wasn't. He guessed he was just sort of . . . mediocre.

  It wasn't his less-than-athletic sexual ability that ended their relationship, however. It wasn't the fact that Ellen was a vegan who ate Tofurky for Thanksgiving. It wasn't the fact that she would sometimes lie in bed after lovemaking, talking about pick-and-rolls, give-and-gos, and the inability of Shawna Deeson to learn something Ellen called "the old garden gate."

  In fact, these monologues sometimes put Wesley into his deepest, sweetest, and most refreshing sleeps. He thought it was the calmness of her voice, so different from the often profane shrieks of encouragement she let out while they were making love. Her love-shrieks were eerily similar to the ones she uttered during games, running up and down the sidelines like a hare, exhorting her girls to "Pass the ball!" and "Drive the paint!" Wesley had even heard one of her sideline screams, "Go for the hole," in the bedroom from time to time.

  They were well matched, at least in the short term; she was fiery iron, straight from the forge, and he--in his apartment filled with books--was the water in which she cooled herself.

  The books were the problem. That, and the fact that he had freaked out and called her an illiterate bitch. He had never called a woman such a thing in his life before, but she had surprised an anger out of him that he had never suspected. He might be a mediocre instructor, as Don Allman had suggested, and the novel he had in him might remain in him (like a wisdom tooth that never comes up, at least avoiding the possibility of rot, infection, and an expensive--not to mention painful--dental process), but he loved books. Books were his Achilles heel.

  She had come in fuming, which was normal, but also fundamentally upset--a state he failed to recognize because he had never seen her in it before. Also, he was rereading James Dickey's Deliverance, reveling again in how well Dickey had harnessed his poetic sensibility, at least that once, to narrative, and he had just gotten to the closing passages, where the unfortunate canoeists are trying to cover up both what they have done and what has been done to them. He had no idea that Ellen had just been forced to boot Shawna Deeson off the team, or that the two of them had had a screaming fight in the gym in front of the whole team--plus the boys' basketball team, which was waiting their turn to practice their mediocre moves--or that Shawna Deeson had then gone outside and heaved a large rock at the windshield of Ellen's Volvo, an act for which she would surely be suspended. He had no idea that Ellen was now blaming herself, and bitterly, because "she was supposed to be the adult."

  He heard that part--"I'm supposed to be the adult"--and said Uh-huh for the fifth or sixth time, which was one time too many for Ellen Silverman. She plucked Deliverance from Wesley's hands, threw it across the room, and said the words that would haunt him for the next lonely month:

  "Why can't you just read off the computer, like the rest of us?"

  "She really said that?" Don Allman asked, a remark that woke Wesley from a trancelike state. He realized he had just told the whole story to his officemate. He hadn't meant to, but he had. There was no going back now.

  "She did. And I said, 'That was a first edition I got from my father, you illiterate bitch.' "

  Don Allman was speechless. He could only stare.

  "She walked out," Wesley said miserably. "I haven't seen or spoken to her since."

  "Haven't even called to say you're sorry?"

  Wesley had tried to do this, and had gotten only her voicemail. He had considered going over to the house she rented from the college, but thought she might put a fork in his face . . . or some other part of his anatomy. Also, he didn't consider what had happened to be entirely his fault. She hadn't even given him a chance. Plus . . . she was illiterate, or close to it. Had told him once in bed that the only book she'd read for pleasure since coming to Moore was Reach for the Summit: The Definite Dozen System for Succeeding at Whatever You Do, by Tennessee Lady Vols coach Pat Summitt. She watched TV (mostly sports), and when she wanted to dig deeper into some news story, she went to The Drudge Report. She certainly wasn't computer illiterate. She praised the Moore College Wi-Fi network (which was superlative rather than mediocre), and never went anywhere without her laptop slung over her shoulder. On the front was a picture of Tamika Catchings with blood running down her face from a split eyebrow and the legend I PLAY LIKE A GIRL.

  Don Allman sat in silence for a few moments, tapping his fingers on his narrow chest. Outside their window, November leaves rattled across Moore Quadrangle. Then he said: "Did Ellen walking out have anything to do with that?" He nodded to Wesley's new electronic sidekick. "It did, didn't it? You decided to read off the computer, just like the rest of us. To . . . what? Woo her back?"

  "No," Wesley said, because he didn't want to tell the truth: in a way he still didn't completely understand, he had done it to get back at her. Or make fun of her. Or something. "Not at all. I'm merely experimenting with new technology."

  "Right," said Don Allman. "And I'm Robe
rt Frost, stopping by the woods on a snowy fucking evening."

  *

  His car was in Parking Lot A, but Wesley elected to walk the two miles back to his apartment, a thing he often did when he wanted to think. He trudged down Moore Avenue, first past the fraternity houses, then past apartment houses blasting rock and rap from every window, then past the bars and take-out restaurants that serve as a life-support system for every small college in America. There was also a bookstore specializing in used texts and last year's bestsellers offered at fifty percent off. It looked dusty and dispirited and was often empty.

  Because people were home reading off the computer, Wesley assumed.

  Brown leaves blew around his feet. His briefcase banged against one knee. Inside were his texts, the current book he was reading for pleasure (2666, by Roberto Bolano), and a bound notebook with beautiful marbleized boards. This had been a gift from Ellen on the occasion of his birthday.

  "For your book ideas," she had said.

  In July, that was, when things between them had still been swell and they'd had the campus pretty much to themselves. The blank book had over two hundred pages, but only the first one had been marked by his large, flat scrawl.

  At the top of the page (printed) was: IDEAS FOR THE NOVEL!

  Below that was: A young boy discovers that his father and mother are both having affairs

  And

  A young boy, blind since birth, is kidnapped by his lunatic grandfather who

  And

  A teenager falls in love with his best friend's mother and

  Below this one was the final idea, written shortly after Ellen had thrown Deliverance across the room and stalked out of his life.

  A shy but dedicated small college instructor and his athletic but largely illiterate girlfriend have a falling-out after

  It was probably the best idea--write what you know, all the experts agreed on that--but he simply couldn't go there. Talking to Don had been hard enough. And even then, complete honesty had escaped him. Like not having said how much he wanted her back.

  As he approached the three-room flat he called home--what Don Allman sometimes called his "swinging bachelor pad"--Wesley's thoughts turned to the Henderson kid. Was his name Richard or Robert? Wesley had a block about that, not the same as the block he had about fleshing out any of the fragmentary mission-statements for his novel, but probably related. He had an idea all such blocks were basically hysterical in nature, as if the brain detected (or thought it detected) some nasty interior beast and had locked it in a cell with a steel door. You could hear it thumping and jumping in there like a rabid raccoon that would bite if approached, but you couldn't see it.

  The Henderson kid was on the football team--a noseback or point guard or some such thing--and while he was as horrible on the gridiron as any of them, he was a nice kid and a fairly good student. Wesley liked him. But still, he had been ready to tear the boy's head off when he spotted him in class with what Wesley assumed was a PDA or a newfangled cell phone. This was shortly after Ellen had walked out. In those early days of the breakup, Wesley often found himself up at three in the morning, pulling some literary comfort food down from the shelf: usually his old friends Jack Aubrey and Stephen Maturin, their adventures recounted by Patrick O'Brian. And not even that had kept him from remembering the ringing slam of the door as Ellen left his life, probably for good.

  So he was in a foul mood and more than ready for backtalk as he approached Henderson and said, "Put it away. This is a literature class, not an Internet chat room."

  The Henderson kid had looked up and given him a sweet smile. It hadn't lifted Wesley's foul mood, but it did dissolve his anger on contact. Mostly because he wasn't an angry man by nature. He supposed he was depressive by nature, maybe even dysthymic. Hadn't he always suspected that Ellen Silverman was too good for him? Hadn't he known, in his heart of hearts, that the doorslam had been waiting for him from the very beginning, when he'd spent the evening talking to her at a boring faculty party? Ellen played like a girl; he played like a wimp. He couldn't even stay mad at a student who was goofing with his pocket computer (or Nintendo, or whatever it was) in class.

  "It's the assignment, Mr. Smith," the Henderson kid had said (on his forehead was a large purple bruise from his latest outing in the Meerkat blue). "It's 'Paul's Case.' Look."

  The kid turned the gadget so Wesley could see it. It was a flat white panel, rectangular, less than half an inch thick. At the top was amazonkindle and the smile logo Wesley knew well; he was not entirely computer illiterate himself, and had ordered books from Amazon plenty of times (although he usually tried the bookstore in town first, partly out of pity; even the cat who spent most of its life dozing in the window looked malnourished).

  The interesting thing on the kid's gadget wasn't the logo on top or the teeny-tiny keyboard on the bottom. It was mostly screen, and on that screen was not a video game where young men and women with buffed-out bodies were killing zombies in the ruins of New York, but a page of Willa Cather's story about the poor boy with the destructive illusions.

  Wesley had reached for it, then paused. "May I?"

  "Go ahead," the Henderson kid--Richard or Robert--told him. "It's pretty neat. You can download books from thin air, and you can make the type as big as you want. Also, the books are cheaper because there's no paper or binding."

  That sent a minor chill through Wesley. He became aware that most of his Intro to American Lit class was watching him. Wesley supposed it was hard for them to decide if he, as a thirty-five-year-old, was Old School (like the ancient Dr. Wence, who looked like a crocodile in a three-piece suit) or New School (like Suzanne Montanaro, who liked to play Avril Lavigne's "Girlfriend" in her Introduction to Modern Drama class). Wesley supposed his reaction to Henderson's Kindle would help them with that.

  "Mr. Henderson," he said, "there will always be books. Which means there will always be paper and binding. Books are real objects. Books are friends."

  "Yeah, but!" Henderson had replied, his sweet smile now becoming slightly sly.

  "But?"

  "They're also ideas and emotions. You said so in our first class."

  "Well," Wesley had said, "you've got me there. But books aren't solely ideas. Books have a smell, for instance. One that gets better--more nostalgic--as the years go by. Does this gadget of yours have a smell?"

  "Nope," Henderson replied. "Not really. But when you turn the pages . . . here, with this button . . . they kind of flutter, like in a real book, and I can go to any page I want, and when it sleeps, it shows pictures of famous writers, and it holds a charge, and--"

  "It's a computer," Wesley had said. "You're reading off the computer."

  The Henderson kid had taken his Kindle back. "It's still 'Paul's Case.' "

  "You've never heard of a Kindle, Mr. Smith?" Josie Quinn had asked. Her tone was that of a kindly anthropologist asking a member of Papua New Guinea's Kombai tribe if he had ever heard of electric stoves and elevator shoes.

  "No," he said, not because it was true--he had seen something called Shop the Kindle Store when he bought books from Amazon online--but because, on the whole, he thought he would prefer being perceived by them as Old School. New School was somehow . . . mediocre.

  "You ought to get one," the Henderson kid said, and when Wesley had replied, without even thinking, "Perhaps I will," the class had broken into spontaneous applause. For the first time since Ellen's departure, Wesley had felt faintly cheered. Because they wanted him to get a book-reading gadget, and also because the applause suggested they did see him as Old School. Teachable Old School.

  He did not seriously consider buying a Kindle (if he was Old School, then books were definitely the way to go) until a couple of weeks later. One day on his way home from school he imagined Ellen seeing him with his Kindle, just strolling across the quad and bopping his finger on the little NEXT PAGE button.

  What in the world are you doing? she would ask. Speaking to him at last.

 
Reading off the computer, he would say. Just like the rest of you.

  Spiteful!

  But, as the Henderson kid might put it, was that a bad thing? It occurred to him that spite was a kind of methadone for lovers, and better than going cold turkey.

  When he got home he turned on his desktop Dell (he owned no laptop and took pride in the fact) and went to the Amazon website. He had expected the gadget to go for four hundred dollars or so, maybe more if there was a Cadillac model, and was surprised to find it was considerably cheaper than that. Then he went to the Kindle Store (which he had been so successfully ignoring) and discovered that the Henderson kid was right: the book prices were ridiculously low. Hardcover novels (what cover, ha-ha) were priced below most of the trade paperbacks he'd bought recently. Considering what he spent on books, the Kindle might pay for itself. As for the reaction of his colleagues--all those hoicked eyebrows--Wesley discovered he relished the prospect. Which led to an interesting insight into human nature, or at least the human nature of the academic: one liked to be perceived by one's students as Old School, but by one's peers as New School.

  I'm experimenting with new technology, he imagined himself saying.

  He liked the sound of it. It was New School all the way.

  And of course he liked thinking of Ellen's reaction. He had stopped leaving messages on her phone, and he had begun avoiding places--The Pit Stop, Harry's Pizza--where he might run into her, but that could change. Surely I'm reading off the computer, just like the rest of you was too good a line to waste.

  Oh, that's small, he scolded himself as he sat in front of his computer, looking at the picture of the Kindle. That is spite so small it probably wouldn't poison a newborn kitten.

  True! But if it was the only spite of which he was capable, why not indulge it?

  So he had clicked on the Buy Kindle box, and the gadget had arrived a day later, in a box stamped with the smile logo and the words ONE-DAY DELIVERY. Wesley hadn't opted for one-day, and would protest that charge if it showed up on his MasterCard bill, but he unpacked his new acquisition with real pleasure--similar to the pleasure he felt when unpacking a box of books, but sharper. Because there was that sense of heading into the unknown, he supposed. Not that he expected the Kindle to replace books, or to be much more than a novelty item, really; an attention-getter for a few weeks or months that would afterward stand forgotten and gathering dust beside the Rubik's Cube on the knickknack shelf in his living room.