Part III, Chapterlet 4

4.
Reason’s decision on a partner was almost exactly coincident with his acceptance of a job. He was familiar with seduction rituals and contractual exchanges with women, but he was uncertain how to actively seek a permanent relationship of what was considered the conventional sort, having never been in one where some form of commodity or currency was not exchanged. He was convinced that the most logical course of action was to announce his matrimonial intentions in the Tulsa World. A full-page add or a series of classifieds. David Branch, his lawyer, advised him against calling out “the crazies” or posting any personal information that would make him more of a target to social climbers than he already was, but, “just in case”, assured him that he would be preparing an iron-clad pre-nuptial agreement.
The public announcement method having been frowned upon by his advisors, Reason could not, however, bring himself to go to bars—the method his household staff assured him was common practice in Tulsa. “It’s either the bar or the prayer meeting,” Lucas had said late one night in his sitting room in what Reason was sure was a beleaguered tone, “and I think you would prefer the bars, or what passes for them around here.” Unconvinced, Reason sought information from the women on his staff.
That proved strangely uncomfortable in the long run, but he did end with the piece of information that social events were one way for men and women to find one another. Then there was so-called “blind” dating, a thoroughly unappealing process. Unwilling to play the Gatsby and offended at the very idea of being “fixed up”, Reason disseminated word amongst his staff that they were to procure him an invitation to a New Year’s Eve party somewhere, the more reliable sources assuring him that it was the next social event of the season that did not require already having family, close friends, or a country club membership—an option that Reason had foreclosed years earlier by calling one of the Ladouane family a repulsive, corpulent bigot on the 14th green at Southern Hills. He could always have bought his way back in, but Reason did not think his future mate was to be found amongst the starved, manicured, or desperate alcoholics that flirted and schemed in the club rooms, and pouring money back into such a system seemed a violation of Wiener’s noble principles of cybernetics. If garbage was what that system produced, then he sure as hell wasn’t going to feed value back in.
His staff had, without any delay, procured for him an invitation to what they assured him was an extremely exclusive end of the year party at the Marriott Southern Hills, the hotel overlooking the golf-course where he had been blackballed years before. The host was a man named Rickard Zweistein. He had apparently taken up temporary residence in the hotel, renting out every room on the top three floors.
Reason made the faux pas of arriving to the party on time. Zweistein was holding court in his suite on the top floor. As Reason hesitated in the threshold, Zweistein stopped what he was doing, pointed directly at Reason and shouted, “For God’s sake, get the fuck in here before the Fire Marshall comes and fines me.” As the night, and his relationship with Zweistein progressed, Reason noticed a tendency for the doctor—for Doctor he insisted upon being called, though Reason very much doubted the legitimacy of his “practice”—whenever he felt himself to be on the verge of losing the attention of those gathered around him to remedy the situation by the rapid introduction of several of the worldlier Anglo-Saxon verbs into his discourse. This usually had the desired effect. Reason immediately knew that this despicable man was going to be his friend.
That night moved quickly for Reason. Unable to find something to drink that would not destroy his palette, he decided to err in the other direction, adopting a bottle of Wild Turkey as his charge for the evening. Soon, it was 4:00 in the morning. The sofas, armchairs, and beds of all of the rooms were covered in sleeping forms or copulating pairs as Rickard and Reason walked around, putting the final touches on everything with a well-placed comment or an observation of some kind. Reason had come to understand that the doctor was, if not in love with the sound of his own voice, then at least very fond of it. He said the most bizarre things with the same gravitas that others used to discuss moral philosophy or the depredations of this or that art movement.
At arguably the most important moment in Reason’s life, for example, Rickard was saying: “—a social class that has fled its generations from city to city has not had the time to accumulate that toughness which produces the necessary obscenity, nor, after the crucifixion of its ideals, enough forgetfulness in—what?—a little over two centuries?—to create legend. Not legend in its proper sense. That is why the Golden Driller strikes me as the most vulgar misappropriation of iconic status that should belong to the Indians that still own this land in a way that these disenfranchised redneck farmers and nouveau riche can not—what?” Zweistein had finally acknowledged the bellboy who had been tugging at the black worsted sleeve of his jacket.
“Dr. Zweistein?” asked the bellboy in a relieved tone.
“Yes? What is it?” Zweistein said, rounding on him in the middle of the hallway. Sounds of vomiting and moans of pleasure or excess mingled with the three of them where they stopped.
“One of the guests is deathly ill, sir,” said the bellboy.
“Quite a few of the guests are ill, lad, what the fuck does that have to do with me?” Zweistein turned on his heel and began to walk away.
“I don’t know, sir, but the night manager told me to tell you that it was Star, sir. He said that you’d know what that meant.” This was relayed with confused glances back and forth between the departing doctor and Reason.
“Of course I know what it means,” snapped the doctor, turning back. “Shit. You call security and tell them that I want all of these assholes out of my rooms. And tell the night manager we’re on our way, right Destry?” Reason gave a small nod. He was not yet tired and approaching sober.
The bellboy looked hesitant, then said, “He said only to bring you, sir…”
“I know where it is, goddamn it, so you’re not bringing me anywhere. I told you to get security and get these people out of my rooms. Now, git.” The boy was already running for the elevators where the angle of the two branching halls had its vertex before the doctor had finished speaking.
“What’s this about, Doctor?” Reason asked, rocking back on his heels slightly. He couldn’t keep the amusement out of his voice.
“Wipe that damn smile off your face and come. I’ll tell you as we walk.” Turning back the way they had been walking before the interruption, Zweistein began to explain. Star was the name of the house girl. Apparently, whatever was going on was bad enough that the night manager wanted to avoid logging an emergency call. They walked in silence down stairs and around several corners. Soon, they were admitted to her room by the same bellboy. He was pale. As they passed into the room, he whispered something to Zweistein, who smiled and slipped him some money. The door was closed behind them.
The lights in the room were on, and a large, bluff man in a black tie and khakis was kneeling on the edge of the bed. The back of his neck and the skin of his scalp were red and the sweat stain spreading across his broad back seemed to be more from distress than any kind of physical effort, as the girl he was leaning over seemed to be peacefully asleep. The side of her face in the fluorescent light penetrated Reason, obliterating him. He backed away from the bed, flushed, nearly panting with desire, and kept backing until the backs of his thighs were pushing and rubbing against the marble counter next to the bathroom. He could feel the cold stone through the thin material of his slacks. He tried to fade into the mirror he knew was behind him as he watched the doctor go to work.
There was muffled conversation between the manager and the doctor that Reason might have been able to work out if he had been able to tear his gaze from the girl on the bed. She couldn’t have been more than twenty-two or three. She appeared from this difficult angle to be Asian—Japanese unless Reason missed his guess—and she was wearing a thin, white linen robe that seemed to flow out from the shadow under her chin like a direct response to the light eating blackness of her hair. She was perfect. Meanwhile the doctor roughly lifted an eyelid with his finger, moved his lips violently in what Reason might have recognized in another situation to be a curse and started to check her pulse.
The doctor looked around the room. His eyes alighting on the trashcan in the corner behind a small wooden table, he leaped at it. He emptied the contents out onto the floor and pushed through them with his toes until he found a large pill bottle, picked it up, read the label and put it into his pocket. A distinct “fuck” pushed through to Reason, and he managed to tune in on what the doctor was saying to the night manager: “Call an ambulance. I’m taking this with me. Destry, help me pick her up.”
Between the two of them, they picked her up. Halfway to the bathroom, her robe slipped open and Reason could not help a little shudder of disappointment when he saw that she was wearing a thin silk shift beneath it. He felt shame and stamped it down. There was no reason he shouldn’t be disappointed. She was beautiful.
They put her down in a sitting position, facing the tub. Zweistein opened her mouth by pulling down on her jaw with one hand, and Reason felt inclined to try to describe it. His first impulse was to describe that mouth as delicate, since its pale coloring so perfectly matched the paleness of her skin, but, upon close examination, he had to admit that the shape of the lips, the way they so suddenly thinned at the corners despite how thick and full they were made him suppose that the best way to describe her mouth was “hungry,” as long as the quality of the hunger connoted was sexual.
At that moment, Reason began to hear the confused sounds of some kind of confrontation in the hallway. The bellboy was refusing someone entrance, by the sound of it. Star’s teeth were even and sharp, which he had occasion to observe when Zweistein shoved the first two fingers of his left hand unceremoniously into the back of her throat, while slipping the thumb of his right hand over the lower teeth and hooking the tongue with his forefinger. It was an erotic sight for Reason. The edges of her mouth were stretched almost to tearing, and the lips drew up until it seemed they almost seemed to be kissing the meat of Zweistein’s palm for an instant before she bit down hard on the doctor’s fingers, the muscles in her temples bulging, causing him to curse under his breath. She shook her head slightly, her nearly paralyzed body trying to shake free of his grip, but Zweistein held her firmly over the edge of the tub. Reason pulled her hair back over her shoulders, where it hung to the floor. She then began retching, little protestant noises quieted by the fingers blocking her mouth. The doctor removed his hands just as three things happened simultaneously: the door to the room was kicked in, causing the night manager to bellow like an enraged beef; Star began to vomit copiously, whole pills plopping wetly into the marble tub in a pink, semi-viscous medium; and Reason decided that Star was the woman that he wished to marry.