Oblivion_ stories - By David Foster Wallace Page 0,161

concrete problem of finding the television’s remote control. For some reason, the controls on the TV itself were inactive, meaning that the remote was the only way to change channels or mute the volume or even turn the machine off, since the relevant plug and outlet were too far behind the dresser to reach and the dresser unit, like the excruciating print, was bolted to the wall and could not be budged. There was a low knocking at the door, which Atwater did not hear over the repetitive tune and message because he was at the sink with the water running. Nor could he remember for certain whether it was heat or cold that was effective for swelling after almost 48 hours, though it was common knowledge that ice was what was indicated directly after. What he eventually decided was to prepare both a hot and a cold compress, and to alternate them, his left fist moving in self exhortation as he tried to recall his childhood scouting manual’s protocol for contusions.

The second level’s ice machine roared without cease in a large utility closet next to Atwater’s room. His tie reknotted but the left leg of his slacks still rolled way up, the journalist had the Holiday Inn’s distinctive lightweight ice bucket in his hand when he opened the door and stepped out into the ambient noise and chlorine smell of the balcony. His shoe nearly came down in the message before he saw it and stopped, one foot suspended in air, aware at the same time that chlorine was not the only scent in the balcony’s wind. The “ HELP ME” was ornate and calligraphic, quotation marks sic. In overall design, it was not unlike the cursive HAPPY BIRTHDAY VIRGIL AND ROB, YMSP2 ’00, and other phrases of decorative icing on certain parties’ cakes of his experience. But it was not made of icing. That much was immediately, emphatically clear.

Holding the bucket, his ears crimson and partly denuded leg still raised, the journalist was paralyzed by the twin urges to examine the message’s workmanship more closely and to get far away as quickly as possible, perhaps even to check out altogether. He knew that great force of will would be required to try to imagine the various postures and contractions involved in producing the phrase, its detached and plumb straight underscoring, the tiny and perfectly formed quotation marks. Part of him was aware that it had not yet occurred to him to consider what the phrase might actually mean or imply in this context. In a sense, the content of the message was obliterated by the overwhelming fact of its medium and implied mode of production. The phrase terminated neatly at the second E’s serif; there was no tailing off or spotting.

A faint human sound made Atwater look hard right—an older couple in golfing visors stood some yards off outside their door, looking at him and the balcony’s brown cri de coeur. The wife’s expression pretty much said it all.

All salarymen, staff, and upper level interns at Style had free corporate memberships to the large fitness center located on the second underground level of the WTC’s South Tower. The only expense was a monthly locker fee, which was well worth it if you didn’t want to schlep a separate set of exercise clothing along with you to the offices every day. Two of the facility’s walls were lined with mirrored plate. There were no windows, but the center’s cardio fitness area was replete with raised banks of television monitors whose high gain audios could be accessed with ordinary Walkman headphones, and the channels could be changed via touchpad controls that were right there on the consoles of all the machines except the stationary bicycles, which themselves were somewhat crude and used mainly for spinning classes, which were also offered gratis.

At midday on Tuesday 3 July, Ellen Bactrian and Mrs. Anger’s executive intern were on two of the elliptical training machines along the fitness center’s north wall. Ellen Bactrian wore a dark gray Fila unitard with Reebok crosstrainers. There was a neoprene brace on her right knee, but it was mostly prophylactic, the legacy of a soccer injury at Wellesley three seasons past. Multicolored fairy lights on the machines’ sides spelled out the brand name of the elliptical trainers. The executive intern, in the same ensemble she’d worn for biking in to the Style offices that morning, had programmed her machine to the same medium level of difficulty as Ellen