The V8 Incident or Delayed in the Lobby
by Martin Perlman
In memory of J. Barth
ENIAC Atlas routed me, on foot, through glassy double doors, whereupon my gaze skipped the nearby neutral persons and locked upon a bold, mahogany desk implanted in the bare, high-ceilinged lobby. Drawing closer across sage-tinted carpet, I perceived block letters hanging over the desk spelling INFORMATION. A tweed-jacketed gentleman occupied the chair behind. There was something celebrity-familiar about him: the full-enough frame, the black horn-rimmed glasses, smooth shaven, bald as a roc’s egg—of course, that cunning novelist, the last of the formalists. Yet why would a writer, and such an accomplished one, abase himself by assuming this pedestrian (siterian) function?
I had rolled within hailing distance when a nearby security guard motioned to gain his attention, at which the author turned my way and said in a clear, matter-of-fact voice, “Take over for a minute, sport, would you?”
Before I could reply (and kindly beg off due to a fast-approaching, long-awaited appointment), he had deftly arisen and begun moving at a medium gait toward an internal set of glass doors separating the lobby from hallways beyond. Willing to honor his wishes for a squeezed minute, I assumed his warm seat—nice padding—and with a cursory glance, followed by a longer confused stare, tried to make sense of his desk. Not surprisingly topped with piles of loose papers (a juicy manuscript, no doubt), pencils, and other odds and ends, these items were positioned on the left third of the table, the other two-thirds dominated by a canvas, a painting in chiaroscuro, whose thick layered oils formed mountain ranges rising inches in altitude. One peak wore the twisted, ghostly face of a wizened peasant with a long creviced nose, the summit.
Curiosity returned my eye to his collection of notes, although further investigation could only be considered unmitigated snooping. Drumming fingers on the desk, I surveyed the clean, functional lobby, the implications (or absence of implications) of my new position flickered into shape. The author’s growing absence increased my concerns and heart rate: Was I responsible for directives as to the building and its contents, i.e., location of offices, hours of business, access code to restrooms, Or, via a different role, meant to assimilate literary data of some sort? And whyfore such a bizarre painting? Even so, how many graduate students in the humanities would covet my temporary chimeric position?
Howsoever, would it not be obvious to any objective observer I was not a cohesive part of, nor affiliated in any way with, said lobby desk? And yet I felt improbably linked to this time and place, even as stolid businessmen and businesswomen, perky administrative assistants (‘secretaries’ in olden times) or maybe interns, a sly satyr or two sailed by, none stopping, a few employing quick, empty glances.
After tedious minutes of stuckness, of vaguely watching people on- and off-load from the nearby bank of elevators, I was approached by a pin-stripe suited, middle-aged man exhibiting just enough silver-grey about the temples and a patrician’s air. Admittedly ill prepared, your narrator nevertheless quickly developed a plan fuzzy of action. I would be happy to try and aid him, I would say, while be it known only substituting for the actual (or acting?) desk person, in reality an acclaimed wordsmith. Did the gentleman require an immediate answer or prefer to leave a query?
“This is to be exchanged.” The speaker positioned a dented forty-six ounce can of V8 cocktail vegetable juice peripheral to my face.
“Well, I see, and I'm certain this matter can be properly handled when—”
“Yes, yes. Just have a look in the desk drawer.” His voice managed to conjoin helpfulness with condescension.
“It's alright, lad,” offered the aged guard.
Opening the heavy drawer, I discovered an undented forty-six ounce can of V8 juice. We managed the trade.
“Thank you,” he said perfunctorily, already walking briskly toward the elevators.
“Giles, anything happen during my time away?” The author seemed to have materialized like a genii of legend. Adapting/adopting/adjusting to the name just given, I explained—with concise introduction, stirring development, and partial conclusion—the V8 incident.
“Of course, that’s Mr. Horner. Effects said action on weekdays.” He raised dark eyebrows above the rims of his glasses. “By the by, can you name the eight vegetables blended to make V8 juice?”
“Tomatoes, definitely.” I was standing and leaning away. Politeness versus pressure of departure.
“Carrots,” added the guard.
“That’s two,” chimed the author. Several passersby pointedly ignored our group.
Noting the time on a massive clock, a huge dangling medallion dominating the lobby’s far side, I said, “I really should be going.”
The author faced me from the desk’s frontal edge. “Comfortable enough seating? Do any perusing of the notes? Want to buy this intriguing painting?”
“Yes, yes, and no. I’m beyond late.”
“Thank you for your honesty. We all have a bit of the snoop in us.”
As I attempted a retreat, the author circled round and floated into his seat. “The question is,” he began and paused. We were now in University. “The question is: Can art be birthed within the house of mammon.”
I thought about offering, ’tis better to be formed within a funhouse, but what came out was the banal: “I’ve enjoyed your books.” He accepted my compliment with a practiced nod.
We three—the gracious author, the guard who volunteered he was presently going off duty, and myself—all said goodbyes, six goodbyes in all. The writer tilted his head paper-ward and commenced to shuffle the loose pages with ease of motion. I needed a moment to locate the exit doors and trotted away, offering only a respectful backward glance. Outside, among downtown vibrations of traffic and construction and a haunting siren—now pondering whether to follow a cemented pathway or give urban bushwhacking a try—I caught myself straining to recall those eight juicy vegetables. Tomatoes, carrots, celery. . . appointment missed (due to happenstance). . . and worth it. . .