Chapter 13 Section 11

I woke up from the nightmare of death, sweating profusely.I was terrified and in pain, but defenseless.It was a pause at the center of my being.I should get out of bed and walk through the dark house holding on to the walls and banisters and feel my way out to bring my soul back into my body and re-enter the world.But I lack both the will and the physical strength to do so.Beads of sweat trickled down my sides.The digital clock on the radio read 3:51.Such moments are always odd, what's the point?Is death an odd number?Are there life enhancing numbers and life threatening numbers?Babette murmured in her sleep, and I moved closer to her, smelling her heat.

I finally fell asleep and woke up to the smell of burnt toast.That should be a good thing Steffi did.She used to burn the bread on purpose no matter what time of day it was.She likes the burnt smell and is addicted to it.It was her baby smell, and she got a kick out of it; it was the smell of charcoal smoke, snuffed candles, or gunpowder all over the streets during Fourth of July fireworks that couldn't satisfy her.She had already arranged the order of her preferences: first the burnt rye, then the burnt egg whites, and so on. I put on my bathrobe and go downstairs.I'm always walking somewhere in my bathrobe to give the kids a serious lecture.Babette was in the kitchen with her, which surprised me, and I thought she was still in bed.

"Would you like some slices of toast?" Steffi said. "Next week I shall be fifty-one." "That's not old, is it?" "I've felt the same way for twenty-five years." "It's not good. How old is my mother?" "She's still young. She was twenty when we first got married." "Is she younger than Babe?" "Almost the same age. That's why you shouldn't think I'm the kind of man who keeps looking for younger women." I didn't know whether my answer was addressed to Steffi or to Babette.It happened in a kitchen, which Murray might say is a place with a lot of data and a lot of depth.

"Is she still with the CIA?" Steffi said. "We shouldn't be talking about it. She's just a contract agent." "what is that?" "It's just now that people are taking part-time jobs to earn a second income." "What exactly does she do?" Babette said. "Brazil makes a call and she's about to act." "And what to do?" "She was running around Latin America with a suitcase full of money." "Is that all? Then I will do it too." "Sometimes they send books to her to review." "Have I seen her?" said Babette.

"No." "Do I know her name?" "Dana Breedlove." Steffi's lips mouth it when I say the name. "You're not going to eat that, are you?" I said to her. "I always eat my own toast." The phone rang and I picked up the receiver.A woman's voice screeched "Hello."The voice said it was computer-generated as part of a sales survey to determine the current level of consumer desire.It also said to ask a number of questions, each of which would be followed by a pause to allow me to respond. I hand the microphone over to Steffi.I spoke to Babette in a low voice when she was clearly busy answering the synthesized voice.

"She likes to plot." "Who?" "Dana. She likes to get me involved in gossip." "What kind of right and wrong?" "Cliques. Turning some friends against others. Family intrigue, work intrigue." "Sounds like the same old stuff." "She spoke English to me and Spanish or Portuguese on the phone." Steffi turned and pulled the jumper away with his free hand to see the label. "Acrylic," she said into the microphone. Babette checked the tag on her jumper.It started to rain lightly. "What's it like to be fifty-one?" she asked.

"It's not the same as being fifty." "But one is even and one is odd," she pointed out. Murray treated us to an unusual meal in his gray and white room that night by stewing a froggy Cornish hen on a double-eyed gas stove.Then, one by one, we got up from the metal folding chairs and moved to the bed to drink coffee. "When I was a sports reporter," Murray said, "I traveled a lot, lived in the dust of airplanes, hotels and stadiums, and never felt at home in an apartment. Now I finally have a nest." "You've done a great job," said Babette, her eyes scanning the room in despair.

"It's small, dark, and ordinary," he said with self-satisfaction, "a container for ideas." I gestured to the dilapidated four-story house on a few acres of vacant land across the street. "Can you hear the commotion in that madhouse?" "You mean the beatings and the shouting? It's funny that people still call it a madhouse, and that's probably because of the peculiar architecture of it—steep roofs, tall chimneys, columns, quirks here and there. Or the sinister little curlicues—the impression it makes, but I can't tell. Anyway, it doesn't look like a sanatorium or mental institution, but like a madhouse."

His suit trousers were scuffed to a shine at the knees. "It's a pity you didn't bring the children. I want to know about the little ones. This is a society of children. I say to the students that they are too old to be considered the backbone of society. Every day they Minutes are parting ways.' Even as we sit here,' I tell them, 'you are moving away from the core, no longer seen as a group, as advertisers and producers of mass culture What to chase. Kids are a group that really has universal behavior patterns. But you are greatly outdated, have begun to fall behind, and feel disconnected from the products you consume. Who are these products designed for? You are a part of the entire marketing plan What status? Once you leave school, it's only a matter of time before you feel the boundless loneliness and dissatisfaction of consumers who have lost the identity of the group." Then I tapped my pencil on the table to indicate that the time is on Gone so ominously."

Because we were both sitting on the bed, Murray had to lean forward and look over the coffee cup hanging in my hand to talk to Babette. "How many children do you have in total?" Babette seemed to hesitate for a moment. "Wilder, of course. And Denise." Murray took a sip of his coffee and squinted at her before the cup left his bottom lip. "And Eugene, he and his dad live in Western Australia this year. Eugene is eight years old. His dad is doing research in the remote outback of Australia, and he's also Wilder's dad." "This boy is growing up without a TV," I said. "Murray, that might turn him into a wild boy worth talking to, a wild man rescued from the bush. He's smart and can read." Writing, but deprived of the deep codes and information that marked his unique race."

"Television only became a problem when people forgot how to watch and listen," Murray said. Parents and countries. I tell them they have to go back to seeing things like children. Finding content. Finding codes and information, in your words, Jack." "What did they say about it?" "Television is just another name for spam. But I told them I disagreed with that statement. I told them I've been sitting in this room for more than two months, watching TV until midnight, carefully Listening and taking notes. Let me tell you, it was a grand and therefore small, almost mystical experience." "What's your conclusion?" He sat primly with his legs crossed, coffee mug in his arms, looking straight ahead, smiling. "Wave and radiation," he said, "I finally understood that the media was a primary force in the American family. It was closed, timeless, independent, self-referential. It was like a myth born in our living rooms, Like something we perceive in our dreams and subconscious. I'm very interested, Jack." He looked at me, still tittering mysteriously. "You have to learn how to see. You yourself have to face and accept the data. Television provides unbelievable amounts of spiritual data. It opens up ancient memories of the birth of the world, it welcomes us into the system The grid, the network of buzzing dots that form a pattern. There's light, there's sound. I ask the students, 'Is there anything else you need?' Look at the data-rich network, the brilliant TV Programs, commercial lyrics, commercials as slices of life, products slammed in the dark, coded messages and endless repetitions that sound like hymns and prayers. 'Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola.' If we Being able to remember how to respond with a clean mind, forgetting about regret, boredom and revulsion, there is actually a solemn formula in the media." "But your students don't think so." "Television, they say, is worse than spam, just a human outlet for the death anguish of consciousness. They're ashamed of the TV they've ever seen. They like to talk about movies." He got up to refill our cups. "How do you know so much?" said Babette. "I'm from New York!" "The more you talk, the more sinister you look, like you're playing tricks on us." "The best words are seductive." "Have you ever been married?" she said. "Once, it's over. I was interviewing the Jets, the Metropolitans, and the Nets. I must look queer to you now, a lone eccentric." , holding a TV, and passing the day among dozens of dusty comic books. Don't you think I don't like two or three o'clock in the morning," he told her, "with stilettos and slits A dramatic visit from a clever woman in a dress, ding-dang-dang, and jewellery?" We walked home with my arm around her waist.It was drizzling and the streets were empty.The shops on both sides of Elm Street were dark, the two banks were dimly lit, and the eye-shaped neon lights in the windows of the opticians cast a peculiar light on the sidewalk. Polyester, Orlon, Stretch Synthetic. "I knew I was forgetful," she said, "but I didn't know it was this serious." "That's not the case." "Didn't you hear Denise? When was that—last week?" "Denise is shrewd and demanding, no one will notice." "I dial a number on the phone and forget who to call; I go to the store and forget what to buy. Someone tells me something and I forget it; they tell me it again and I forget Yes; the third time they told me, there was an awkward smile on their face." "We all forget things," I said. "I forget names, faces, phone numbers, mailing addresses, appointments, directions, directions." "It happens to everyone in one way or another." "I forgot that Steffi didn't like being called Stephanie. Sometimes I called her Denise. I'd forget where I parked my car, and forget about it for a long, long time. What does the car look like." "Amnesia has permeated the air and water, it has entered the food chain." "Maybe it's the gum I'm chewing—is that off the mark?" "Maybe it's something else." "What do you mean?" "Are you taking anything other than gum?" "Where did you come up with such an idea?" "I got it from Steffi." "Who did Steffi hear that from?" "Denise." She paused, acknowledging the possibility that if the rumor or speculation came from Denise, it was very likely true. "What did Denise say I was taking?" "I want to ask you before I ask her." "As far as I know, Jack, I'm not taking anything that could cause memory loss. On the other hand, I'm not old, I've never had a head injury, and I don't have any genetic disorders in my family other than cervical polyps." "You said maybe Denise was right." "We can't ignore that." "You mean, maybe something you're taking has the side effect of impairing your memory." "Either I'm taking something and I don't remember, or I'm not taking something and I don't remember. My life is 'either...or...'. I'm either regular gum or sugar free I either chew gum or I smoke. I either smoke or I gain weight. I either gain weight or I run stadium steps." "Sounds like a boring life." "I hope it stays that way forever," she said. The streets were soon covered with leaves, billowing and scraping off the roofs.There are always several hours of the day when the wind blows, making the trees even more bare.Retired men with curly-tooth rakes appeared in the backyard and the small front lawn.Black garbage bags lined the curbs unevenly. Hordes of terrified-looking kids came to my door, begging for Halloween treats.

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