by  Rebecca Rothfeld ’14

‘None even come close, the words.’
‘Word-inflation,’ Stice says, rubbing at his crewcut so his forehead wrinkles and clears.
–David Foster Wallace, Infinite Jest

Ferdinand Pierce extinguished his mutilated cigar in the ashtray to his left and thumped his meaty fist against the table. Perversely intrigued by the spectacle of his hand’s initial contact with the tabletop and subsequent expansion into a fleshy pulp, board members fell silent.
“Gentlemen,” Ferdinand said.
His audience widened its eyes, which widening was the Universal Symbol of Attentiveness.
“I’ve called you together to avert immanent crisis,” continued Ferdinand, all in one breath. “You represent the brightest minds of the Communication Corporation™” (the tacit “TM” unarticulated but undeniably present) “and America’s only hope.” He placed his hands on his heavy stomach in a gesture of support. “As you gentlemen know, The Communication Corporation™” (ditto) “is without competitors in its sector, save for The United States Manufacturers of Brail, who, rather obviously, have a very limited customer base.”
His statement was met with eye-widening signifying agreement (signifying also recognition of the subtly derisive unspoken omission of the unspoken “TM” which, rightfully, belonged at the end of “The United States Manufacturers of Brail”—an unstated slight only a room of Communication Corporation™ specialists could detect).
“Well, gentlemen, we’re about to return to a state of communicative anarchy. To the time of interpretative chaos.”
The board members, well versed in the Corporation™’s history, knew that the two preferred modes of expression prior to the invention of Words©, patented by the Corporation™ in their most rudimentary form early in the 1950s and perfected by the 80s (though never completed, as that was a poor business model), had been 1) elaborate pantomime and 2) flag semaphore. The transition to Words© had been gradual and had faced resistance from semaphoric scholars, who claimed the translation of silent works into Words© was near impossible and who violently gesticulated something to this effect at a series of wordless hearings. Academia opposed the operation, conspicuously not-articulating complaints that the proposed system was capitalistic, homogenizing, and impersonal, that to mass-produce communication undermined its private character, robbing each utterance of its singularity. In a deliberately vocal press-release, the then young (and surprisingly thin) Ferdinand Pierce had delivered the compelling counterargument that the effect of myriad individual languages (the accepted and inevitable result of speech-by-semaphore, a notoriously hermeneutically challenging medium, and speech-by-elaborate-pantomime, an art long considered to be the same. Since, both events have been incorporated into the Olympics, in formal recognition of their difficulty) was universal misunderstanding. This simple argument secured the Corporation™’s virtual monopoly on communication. The board members nodded in acknowledgement of the above specificities, all of which were implicit in Ferdinand’s statement, present in the interstices between his Words© (something only a trained Communication™ professional could be expected to recognize. This, incidentally, was the reason Implications© had been such an unsuccessful product, lasting only a month on the market and incurring monumental net losses).
Satisfied that they had understood, Ferdinand proceeded. “Throughout the Corporation™’s history, we’ve never been faced with as severe an inflationary cycle. As you know, Words© were initially in such high demand that we could barely meet it. Of course, since then, we’ve managed to expand our production capacity substantially, and we’re able to donate Words© to charities at minimal cost to the company and at maximum benefit to our public image.”
The board members knew he was referring primarily to the Articles© and Prepositions© lines, which were staples in any basic vocabulary, and which the Corporation™ allowed the government to distribute in basic welfare packages, along with food stamps and health insurance, for a reduced fee. Annually, the Corporation™, motivated by some combination of philanthropic seasonal spirit and concern for appearances, gave away baskets of Words© in the Ye Olde English© and Vintage 70s Slang© lines—lines that were doing poorly in standard retail settings anyway (something which, the Corporation™ adamantly maintained, had nothing to do with their selection as the Words© in the yearly giveaway baskets).
“But, gentlemen, the entire American economy has become dependent on the Love© line, a line whose production, I’m afraid, we’ve disastrously bungled.”
The board members, accustomed to Ferdinand’s habit of stopping just short of his meaning, as waves stopped just short of mid-beach, had grown expert at the art of Ferdinand-interpretation, and were well-informed enough to supply for themselves those vital pieces of information which he neglected to mention or euphemistically passed over. This was a prime example of the latter tactic. The Corporation™, in a gross initial underestimation of Love Words© success, had manufactured a number incapable of meeting market demand. Indeed, tales from this time of scarcity persisted, and, allegedly, words like “love,” “dear,” and “adore” had acquired, in their rarity, such a staggering value that to possess them sent people into ecstasies. These stories, to the modern and well-stocked American, had the “when-I-was-your-age-I-walked-miles-to-school-in-the-snow” quality of fiction, and were not widely believed. It was historical fact, however, that Love Words© had once been remarkably expensive. The couples who’d been privileged enough to own Words© of such immense worth and such incredible meaning were so few that they were all well-documented, the most celebrated example being that of Lauren Bacall and Humphrey Bogart, who won their set in an elite auction for the price of 20 million dollars (a sum worth more prior to subsequent inflation). There were rumours of imprudent couples who had sacrificed everything to purchase Love Words© and financially crippled themselves in the process. Reportedly, such couples were so enthralled with the new horizons of Communication™ opened to them that they hardly cared or remarked upon their living conditions. One such couple, the owners of a French edition of Love Words©, had been reduced to extreme poverty but had not even noticed until years later, when they found themselves suddenly destitute, which events reportedly forced them to deal in black market puns (an endeavor producing more financial difficulties in that it necessitated the further purchase of a Secondary Associations© set) in order to subsist. But, legend had it, even then, the couple was blissfully happy, steeped in incomparably valuable meaning, able to Communicate™ so fully that their entire frame of reference was shared. Love Words© were so rare, it was said, that each time one was spoken, it had the novelty of a word never-before-heard, a color never-before-seen, a pitch never-before-sung, and as such evoked indescribable sensations. Love Words© were startling each time they were repeated; they were forever unsettling, so strange and shocking that their owners never grew immune to their power. To own them was to learn them anew each time one spoke them, it was said, as to love was to fall in love with the object of adoration at each encounter [1]. This particularly popular account was generally considered to be the fabrication of the Corporation™’s wily advertising department, as such happenings appeared unrealistic to the point of unimaginability to jaded modern listeners, who were quick to point out that it was near impossible to ignore the indignity of operating a Punnery, even Paris’s first, in this era of directness and maximized efficiency.
Regardless.
The Communication Corporation™, upon realizing Love Words©’ profitable potential, launched an advertising campaign written by Pablo Neruda and entitled 20 Love Poems and a Song of Despair, a initiative purported to be the most moving and effective in advertising history. Again, however, the Corporation™ issued too few sets, provoking consumer outrage. In a final attempt to correct their error, the Corporation™ had so excessively overcompensated that the market was practically flooded with Love Words©, now purchased for any and all occasions. The phrase “I love you [2]” quickly replaced “thank you” as the country’s most common phrase. It became a response to almost anything, from the provision of information regarding weather conditions to the loan of a pencil. The preponderance of love served to quickly devalue Love Words©. In a touching and ironic return to the favoured speech patterns of the Silent Time, the romantic few relied on symbols—flowers, chocolates, and the like.
The board members knew all this. Some widened their eyes; others nodded.
“The Corporation™ won’t go under,” Ferdinand said, slapping the table heartily. “We’ve got lines whose obscurity renders them inflation-proof. The Literary Language© line, for one, is absolutely unsusceptible. Rare editions of the Philosophical Terms© line are priced at around a billion dollars. They’ve maintained their value and appeal. Gentlemen, I am not concerned for the company. No, I am concerned for America, for its integrity, for its ongoing economic and expressive crisis. And so, gentlemen, I turn to you to save the Love Line©, which, I will add parenthetically (is not our sole source of revenue but was, until this latest inflationary cycle, extremely lucrative). Gentlemen?”
The question hung in the air.

Silence. The board could not find words radical enough for their thoughts.

————————————————————————————————————————————-
1 Love©, Fall in Love©, and Object of Adoration© are the exclusive property of The Communication Corporation™.
2 Also the exclusive property of The Communication Corporation™–increasingly unenviably, much to the Corporation™’s dismay.

by  Billy Zou ’12

            
Though I know that evenin’s empire has returned into sand
Vanished from my hand
Left me blindly here to stand but still not sleeping
My weariness amazes me, I’m branded on my feet
I have no one to meet
And the ancient empty street’s too dead for dreaming
-Bob Dylan
A hushed stillness befalls Webster Avenue on Wednesday evenings when the rooms and basements of the houses close temporarily to outsiders to accommodate weekly meetings. Prior to ten o’clock small crowds of young men and women fill up the sidewalks, some by themselves but most in groups, a few dressed in formalwear or others in taut, garish flair, breathing in the languid night air as they sift through the avenue into their respective houses.
On such a night Matthew, a new brother at his house, is standing by the door. Someone would knock – two short raps repeated three times with pauses in between ― and he would open it. Sometimes the brothers yell: ―Open the door pledge! But his job is to not open the door unless they knocked the right way.
―Hey man, what’s up Danny, hey Chris, Jake, Alex, Pluto, how’s it going. Presently he lets in a big group and they ruffle his hair and bump fists on the way in.
―Come on Mike, it’s cold outside.
―Actually I’m Matt, but that’s okay.
Matt recognizes Robert, the president, black, broad-shouldered, and elegant. Jeremy comes in with him and they exchange greetings with Matt.
―Let’s go up. I think we’re the last ones.
In the upstairs room thirty or so are gathered, some lounging on the couches and others standing and talking. Around the room at one end there’s a widescreen TV, the circle of couches with tables in the middle, a refrigerator and bar at the other end topped with red beer cups and handles of liquor. Along the walls there are bookshelves and cabinets encasing plaques and trophies. Old posters and news clippings have been coated into the walls to avoid fire regulations. From the ceiling hangs a small chandelier.
Robert, the president, stands up on a table and pulls a name out of a hat. ―Pluto!
Pluto whose real name everyone seems to forget replaces Robert on top of the table. He’s holding two cups in his hands and a circle of beers are placed at his feet.
―It’s been a pretty crazy week, uh… He drinks one of the cups. ―Let’s see, I found out that my little sister is coming to Dartmouth, so that’s pretty cool. Cheers from the room. ―Hey, watch it. He chugs the other one.
―That’s all. He climbs back down but knocks over one of the cups on the table. A pledge comes over and cleans up the beer with a roll of paper towels.
―Matt, come here. This is Jeremy, one of the greatest guys I know.
―I think we’ve met. They shake hands. ―I hear you like to play squash.
―Matt, we need two more beers.
―I’m Mike. He’s Matt, says Mike, pointing.
―Pledges don’t have names.
Robert stands up and draws another name. ―Peter Jacobs.
―He’s not here.
―Where is PJ? I thought I saw him earlier.
―I think he’s at K_ pre-tails.
Robert resigns to his absence and shuffles the papers around. ―Jeremy, he grins, pointing to his friend who is standing across the room.
Jeremy finishes the beer in his hand and gets up onto the table. He deliberates, then shrugs. ―Emma and I broke up, so there’s that. He grabs a cup from his feet and knocks it back casually. The room seems to quiet down. He puts it down then gets a couple more.
―I’ve been working a lot with my ENGS group on our project. He chugs the one in his left hand, that’s two. ―We’re trying to build an automated ladder…Three. ―To help firefighters get up and down as quickly as possible. Four. ―The thing is it’s harder than it sounds because… five…though the mechanism is well established…six…
―What happened with your girl, Jerm?
Jeremy pauses, and no one is talking. ―I don’t know, he shrugs. ―We’re both pretty busy. Maybe she’s found someone more extraordinary.
―It’s been what, two years?
―Sounds like a bitch dude! Someone shouts.
―Shut up, says Pluto. ―He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.
Jeremy goes on. ―I talked to Kathy about our UFC funding the other day. Seven. He stumbles and hurls and someone brings over a trash can. They help him down from the table.
―I have an idea, says Robert. ―Why don’t we move tails to another night. I think it’d be cool to do something with just the guys.
―Zombies, someone suggests.
―Zombies! And everyone is shouting at once.
―Want to play, Jeremy?
―What’s Zombies? Someone whispers.
―Pledgucators?
Someone steps up onto the table. ―For those who are ignorant, Zombies is one of the beloved traditions in the house. The rules are simple. First, all the lights in the house are turned off. Two people start out being zombies, making known their identity as such by repeating ―Braaains! once every ten seconds at minimum, and may only move stiffly at a moderate pace. Everyone else is a hapless human, and thus will run, hide or do anything they must to stay alive. Anywhere in the house is game. However two humans will be armed with squirt guns with which to defend themselves. Depending on the rules, a zombie who is hit by water must remain paralyzed for ten seconds or is converted back into a human. However if a human gets tagged by a zombie, he is turned into a zombie. Any questions?
―Also bathrooms are out of bounds!
The count begins and bodies are scrambling up and down the stairs, into crawlspaces, behind shelves and curtains, under tables and counters. When they used to play sometimes the brothers would invite their girlfriends over, and the girls would be delighted by the initiation even though the game was ostensibly juvenile and unromantic. When the games started they would go off in pairs, hiding in the dark corners of the house, where the thrill of being discovered was compounded by pitch blackness and the moans of the undead, and the games rarely ended with a winner.
Jeremy wanders down by the pool room where once all the couches and chairs had been stacked impenetrably on top of and against the oak pool table for the summer. He sees shadows moving inside but he stands by the doorway briefly, his eyes still adjusting to the darkness.
They had climbed in and made an alcove out of two couches propped up against the chairs and the pool table. She’d pressed him to the floor, leaning down and her hair washing over his face, whispered things in his ear he didn’t think a girl like Emma knew to whisper. And she told him that she loved him, and she told him that he was the best person that she’d ever known.
No one came to look for them and they lay there and talked, one half of their faces dappled in shadows and the moonlight that came in through the window.
―These things you tell me about, you should talk to Robert or the other execs. Maybe they turn a blind eye and ignore that there’s a darker side to all of this. But they’d respect what you have to say. There’s more to it, too―you can do a great thing for this school. You, nobody else.
―I don’t know, everybody has their opinions.
―You can’t save anyone if you’re so afraid of hurting anyone.
―How about when I saved that girl from hypothermia.
She smiled. ―Well you got me wet. And she’d kissed him then, but as time passed it must have become apparent to her that he would never do the great thing she wanted him to, whatever it might have been, nor perhaps any great thing at all.
Someone runs down past him from above, and he hears the voice of zombie Robert coming down the hall. He goes up the stairs, and stopping at the landing between the second and third floors he notices the window over the roof and quickly he opens it, climbs out and shuts it behind him.
The brisk night air soothes his nerves and he walks out close to the edge of the tiled roof which slants southward to the street. When he visited his brother who had also been a member of the house there had been a roof deck where the third story is now, and he remembers watching hazily the murky, mercurial world below unfold from such a distance, the precession of wraithlike figures, as if held captive by some Jungian unconscious, callous and feral. Emma had said: ―It’s like the sun goes down and everybody loses their minds.
But then there was the energy, the overlapping beats of the music flowing out onto the avenue, the collective pulse of the weekend crowds. The seductive heat of summer. The supple, aloof bodies and tinkling of laughter.
The stars aren’t out yet and there are not many people out and about. Across the street is Kappa_ and all the lights in the house are on, and he remembers that there is a tails event or something similar. She lives in the house but her room is on the other side; most of the windows are covered and he can only make out silhouettes.
His eyes drift away from the house and he notices two people walking off the sidewalk from one of the houses up the street, talking loud and brusquely. One of them wears a Dartmouth sweatshirt and the other an athletic jacket and baseball cap. They spot him on the roof and one points him out to the other, pausing short of the house they turn toward him and casually shout: ―Jump!
―Jump! ―What are you waiting for?
He imagines they are just walking by so he ignores it. But they’ve stopped now before the lawn and don’t seem intent on going.
―Jump! One calls to him, snickering. ―Come on, let’s see it.
Jeremy smiles. ―You guys want a beer? Or maybe you’re looking for a fight.
―Hard guy.
―Watch out, he’s going to karate kick you from the roof. ―I bet he could do it.
―Well come on, stop wasting time.
Silence.
―Jump, motherfucker.
Someone inside the house sees him through the window. ―Look, someone’s on the roof. Braaaains. It’s Matt.
―Braaains! Hey, is that Jeremy? Robert comes over to see.
―Is it legal to be outside on the roof like that?
Robert taps on the window. ―Hey Jerm, you probably shouldn’t be on the roof. Then he hears the shouting from the street and slowly his dark, jovial face turns menacing.
He opens the window. ―Hey you idiots! Robert roars. ―It’s Wednesday, we’re playing a game, so fuck off.
―Yeah fuck you! The kid beside him chimes in.
They chuckle. ―I love the kind of games where someone jumps off a roof. ―What are you waiting for? They single him out. ―Afraid you’ll twist your ankle?
Matt pulls out his squirt gun and tries to hit them with the jets of water.
//
Claire wades through the room with a half-empty wineglass and finds Emma by the bar with Will. ―Hey Em, you should probably see this.
―What’s up? She asks, but Claire’s expression is serious. The three of them make their way back through the crowd toward the French windows leading to the balcony.
They step out onto the balcony with its white balusters, and look out across the street.
―Can you see who it is? asks Will.
Emma can see, and she feels the panic well up inside of her. Her senses sharpen and the alcohol drain from her head. She feels her heart race, the air press up against her lungs.
―¬You guys should go back inside.
Claire nods. ―Should I call S&S?
Emma thinks. ―No, don’t. Her eyes trace out the scene. She can hear the two boys shouting from the street and Robert’s roaring voice from the open second-story window.
―Dude you can’t get on the roof and then not jump. What kind of shit is that.
―You need to fuck off right now.
Claire puts her hand on Will’s shoulder. ―Come on.
―I’ll wait for Emma. Shouldn’t we call S&S?
―She’ll be right in. Claire brings him inside and whispers something but they stand and watch by the window.
Emma inhales sharply. ―Hey. But her voice dissolves thinly into the commotion. ―Hey! Now they turn their heads to see.
―What’s your name? She calls to them on the street. They turn away to ignore her, but this incenses her more. ―Hey! I asked you a question. What’s your name? I’m talking to you. My name’s Emma, what’s yours?
Jeremy sees her now. She’s wearing a yellow dress like the one she wore with him to Lake Champlain. There had been a formal on a boat out on the lake and music and dancing and there’d been a girl who had drank too much and fallen overboard, and he’d jumped in and pulled her out of the water while her date stood there and watched. It makes him dizzy to think about it now. His knees felt weak and he imagines momentarily the sensation of falling, the soft loamy impact of earth against his skull.
The boy in the sweatshirt whispers something to his friend. He pulls the hood over his head, his voice lackluster now and humorless. ―We’re not leaving until you jump, so you might as well get it over with.
Emma knew she had them. ―Hey I know who you are! She’s talking to their backs. ―You work in the President’s office. Your name’s Colin and his is Parker. You, you’re one of the Tucker chairs, aren’t you? I think we took a skiing class together one time.
―What the fuck? They try to laugh it off. ―Who is this girl? Do you know her?
―Let’s go, I don’t want anything to do with this.
―He’s not going to do it, let’s go.
One of them shouts back to her. ―Hey, I don’t who you’re talking about. They walk off slowly toward the library, their forms folding into the shadows, join once more the lurching, faceless figures of night.
Emma exhales. ― Jeremy you idiot, get off the roof. Go inside, you’re drunk.
―We were playing zombies. He smiles.
They stand there for a minute, her on the balcony and him on the roof. Emma with her hands curled up against the railing, Jeremy with his hands in his pockets, shoulders leaned back like he’s out observing the stars, their breath fogging up the air between their faces, and it’s not very far across from one side of Webster to the other or it’s true that the houses change their places because on some nights it seems that it’s an eternity escaping from the stale, musty underground to the comfort of the Choates and other nights it’s hardly a walk and yet others they all melt together indistinguishably…
―Rob help get him back inside, can’t you see he can’t stand straight. He’s going to slip and fall, he’s going to get arrested.
Robert steps through the window and grabs hold of Jeremy’s shoulder. ―Hey, come on. Hey Jerm. Let’s find some people with brains.
Jeremy pauses, his back turned to the people watching from the house, then smiling he reaches out toward her into the night with his limp, undead arms, and Emma looks at him, and she holds up her hands locked into the shape of a gun, and fires a single shot through the dark, impalpable stillness of Webster Avenue.