Bound to Last by Sean Manning

Author:Sean Manning
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
ISBN: 9780306819391
Publisher: Da Capo Press
Published: 2010-09-29T10:00:00+00:00

DFW, in his sleep: “It’s fun to read.”

“Doctors can’t say ‘Oops,’” the doctor said. “Doctors say ‘There.’”

The doctor had his costume—the same one Dr. Drew wears, except a little more realistic. I don’t know why I was so fixated on his wardrobe, but when I phoned him the morning of the Incident, I imagined he had just put the costume on. Pleats, gabardine, weirdo tie, loafers made to glide soundlessly across filthy linoleum. It was so early. I had made other, harder calls, but the police had strongly advised me to make this one, ASAP. I told him his patient had killed himself. That’s not exactly what I said. He said nothing. I heard his kids playing in the background. Other than that, silence. I asked after his kids! I suggested he go play with them!

Months later I paid the doctor his hourly rate to ask him exactly what he was thinking when I talked to him that morning. One of the thoughts he admitted to: “Oops.”

I review these things that will figure in the retelling: a kiss through surgical gauze, the pale hand correcting the position of the wig. I noted these gestures as they happened, not in any retrospect—though I don’t know why looking back should show us more than looking at.

So the job I had on the cruise ship last week was called “photo stylist,” and what I did was dress up models and arrange props for the ship’s advertising photography. I brought along my adaptable iron, flowers, something called “glow lotion,” and enough elegant lifestyle garb to dress six people in. I also brought my books: Amy, Huey, Alice Mattison, Lorrie Moore, Claudia Rankine. One morning we were doing a casual dining shot up in the Veranda restaurant, and I had dressed the models in beiges and whites and Caribbean blues. They looked how they were supposed to: relaxed, without financial stressors, ready to sip a leisurely latte and tuck into the gourmet breakfast buffet. Prop-wise, it was a frugal shot, so the photographer wanted a little something more, something that would suggest serious relaxation, like a book.

There’s some discussion between art director and client about a Kindle, which is nixed. I’m asked to run down to my cabin and bring back a few book selections. Once the dust jackets are removed, The Collected Stories is judged to have the best color—a really nice old-school cream. It gets handed to the male model, who is aberrantly pretty, smarter than he looks, and who immediately begins to read aloud to the female model, whose interests run the gamut from pirates, to Johnny Depp, to pirate stuff. I am holding a sheet up to help diffuse the sunlight. I can feel my stomach hanging over my pants. The pretend-husband is reading from the story “Tumble Home,” but I can’t hear which parts. Somehow he’s found a way to mock it, and his “wife” is laughing her cameo head off, which is great for the shot.

“Are you making this up?” she asks.

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