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Wake
Up, Sir! by Jonathan Ames Rating: •• (Mildly Recommended) |
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Stupor There are funny episodes throughout Jonathan Ames’ new novel, Wake Up,
Sir! Patient readers will find those episodes and laugh after struggling
through a rambling narrative, a directionless plot, unappealing characters,
and incomplete plot lines. Protagonist Alan Blair hires a valet named Jeeves, and the title refers to Jeeves’
statement to Blair at the beginning of the book. At once, I expected a return
to those Wodehouse days of fine writing and
characters that are engaging and entertaining. Unfortunately, Ames is no Wodehouse, and the two Jeeves
are not comparable. What Blair and Wooster have in common is drinking too
much. Here’s an excerpt, all
of Chapter 30, pp. 247-255: Serotonin Springs * Paradise Lost
in Space * We all join the navy * The escape
pod is activated * We take the
waters “I’m
so glad I came to Serotonin Springs,” I said, “and met you fellows.” “What did you
say?” asked Tinkle. He looked at me as if he were peering up from the bottom
of a deep well. The marijuana had sent him very far inside himself He was
lying on his bed; I was at the desk chair again; and Mangrove was in the easy
chair, hunched over, preparing another bowl of his medical marijuana in his
small ceramic pipe. We had smoked several already. I was planning on
attending Woodstock and had made a mental note to finally read the poetry of
Allen Ginsberg. “I’m so glad I
came to Serotonin Springs,” I repeated. “Saratoga
Springs!” said Tinkle. “That’s what I
said.” “No, you said
Serotonin Springs.” “You did say
Serotonin Springs,” said Mangrove sagely. I traveled back
in time, replayed my speech, and realized that they were correct. I had said
Serotonin Springs! How curious! “You’re right,” I
said to my two friends. In that moment, I loved them both very much. The
marijuana had me feeling as beneficent as the Dalai Lama. “I guess it was
all that talk earlier of serotonin. . . . But
what if this place is loaded with serotonin? That would be incredible.
Then people could really come here and get cured and not just pretend to be
cured.” I was referring
to Saratoga’s history as a spa, which it
was as well known for as its racetrack. In fact, it occurred to me in a stoned
instant of great vision, as I sat there in Tinkle’s room, that the wealthy
people, the ones who had abandoned Sharon Springs for Saratoga Springs at the
end of the nineteenth century, probably needed diversion while soaking in the
baths and taking the waters and so had built themselves a racetrack. The two
had gone hand in hand, I realized. Water and then horses. You can lead a
horse to water, I said to myself, and maybe you can’t make it drink, but you can make it run! The history of Saratoga was
summed up in the phrase you can lead a horse to water! The town tourist bureau could use it as its slogan! It combined the
track and the spa! Maybe the town would pay me for this sentence! I wanted to
share my marijuana-induced bit of marketing genius and insight into the
history of Saratoga with my friends, but before I could do so, Mangrove said: “You know, they’d make millions if
those fountains in town were coughing up liquid antidepressants.” “If you drank it,” said Tinkle, “you could take off that patch and use both
your eyes again.” Suddenly a new fantastic idea replaced
my thoughts about a good touristic slogan for
Saratoga. I could hardly keep up with myself It was like the northern lights
were going off in my head. I said, with great cannabis-sparked
enthusiasm, “Yes, Reginald, you could heal yourself You see,
we three are like space travelers searching for serotonin. We’re searching
because we’re so depressed and crazed, each in our own way, sort of like
superheroes, but instead of superpowers we have superafflictions.
And because we’re so depressed and screwed up, we landed in the wrong spot.
We thought Saratoga Springs was Serotonin Springs. We read it wrong on our galactic map, and
now we’re stuck here. Our ship broke. . . . I
don’t know if this really happened, but it could be a science fiction movie. A science fiction movie
that’s also a comedy, since it’s about reading a map wrong and being
depressed.. . . I was going to
write this screenplay about homosexuals taking over “What are you talking about?” asked
Tinkle. “I’m talking
about a screenplay about the three of us as space travelers searching for
serotonin.” “That’s not a bad
idea,” said Tinkle, sitting up. “In Dune they’re searching for spice.
What would you call the movie?” “I think just Serotonin
Springs.” “No, that’s no
good,” said Mangrove. “Lost in
Space,” offered
Tinkle. “That fits, but
it’s been used,” said Mangrove. “You’re right,”
said Tinkle. “I can’t believe I forgot. . . . But I never
realized what a great title that is until just now” “Lost in Space
is very beautiful as a
title,” I said. “I guess anything with the word lost is always pretty
good. .. . We
could call it Paradise Lost
in Space, which would be a funny mixture of two mediums, or just Lost.” “The word space
is also beautiful,” said Tinkle. “Space. Space. Space. Hear how beautiful
it is? I can hear Kirk’s voice
saying, ‘Space, the final frontier,’ at the beginning of Star Trek, and
that sounds really beautiful to me right now.. . . But I wish I could watch an episode of Lost
in Space. I haven’t seen it in
years. It’s weird. I have mental munchies for a TV show” “I think you
should call the movie The Lost Depressives,” said Mangrove. “I like that,
too,” said Tinkle. “It’s very
strong,” I said. “But what about The Three Lost Depressives?” “No,” said
Mangrove. “Just The Lost Depressives.” “You’re right,” I
said. “It’s unusual for a science fiction movie, but I think it’s okay.” Pleased with our
work on the title, Mangrove lit a match and took a luxurious hit from his
pipe and passed it around. We
then washed down our lungfuls of smoke with some more
of Tinkle’s whiskey. I was quite pleased that I seemed to be maintaining
consciousness. I also wasn’t vomiting, which had happened to me a few times
in college when I mixed booze and marijuana, once notably destroying a white
dinner jacket I had worn to parties all junior year as a fetishistic nod to
my hero and fellow Princetonian Fitzgerald. Mangrove excused
himself and went to the bathroom. He returned almost immediately. I said to
them both, “Have you guys ever noticed that when someone else goes to the
bathroom, it seems to take no
time at all?” “I’ve noticed that,” said Tinkle. “Me, too,” said Mangrove. “Though I’m
surprised you experienced that just now. Time is usually different on
marijuana. It elongates. One minute would normally feel like ten minutes.” “Maybe the bathroom thing trumps the
effects of marijuana,” I said. “Possibly,” said Mangrove. ‘Anyway, I
was thinking we should go to a spring in town and see if it has serotonin. It might actually
have lithium. That would be good.” “I have a car,” I said. “I can drive us
in. I saw a mineral fountain near the library today.” “Let’s go,” said Tinkle. He was in a
good mood now Full of life. “My car will be like an escape pod,
since our main spaceship broke down,” I said. “Yes, let’s get in the escape pod,”
said Mangrove. “Reginald, you should be our commander,
since you’re like our leader,” I said. “I’m your
leader?” “I think so. There’s something tragic
and heroic about you, which is good for leading.” “Yes, you’re our leader,” said Tinkle. ‘We’re kind of like a space navy;” I
said. “And you, Alan, can be our science officer You’re Science Officer Alan
Tinkle, played by Alan Tinkle” “All right,” said Tinkle “I’ll be the sergeant, since I fly the
escape pod I don’t know if they have sergeants in the navy, but maybe they
have them in space t navies.” “I think that sounds correct,” said
Mangrove. So with that, we three intrepid
spacemen issued out of the Mansion—we didn’t see anyone, they were all still
at Hibben’s~ and got into our escape pod, previously
known as a Chevrolet Caprice Classic. As I revved the engine, preparing for
takeoff, I said, “I think the future of space travel lies in the spiral.
Previously rocket ships and space shuttles have traveled in straight lines.
But if they really want to voyage great distances, they need to spin or
corkscrew, mimicking the movement of the earth and the sun. The spiral is in,
the straight line is out. I read in The New York Times Science section
about the power of the spiral.” ‘Well, later dash
off a note to NASA, Sergeant,” said Mangrove. “In the meantime, warp drive,
please.” Following the
commander’s order, we then careened, without getting arrested by any space
constabulary, into town, and I am very fortunate that as a drunk and stoned
driver—the roads were quite dark—I did not hit any innocent citizens of
Saratoga, and in retrospect I condemn my selfish, impaired driving! But at
that time, it was rather fun,
especially since we all had taken to this notion of being spacemen searching
for serotonin, and that my Caprice had transformed itself into a highly
advanced escape pod. “Commander,” I
said as we neared the library, “we’re approaching the town vector and my
instruments indicate the presence of serotonin.” “Very good,
Sergeant,” said Mangrove. “Decrease speed of main thruster engines.” Under
the influence of Mangrove’s fine medical marijuana, we had fallen naturally
and capably into the argot of space travel. The library was
just off Broadway, Saratoga’s old-fashioned main street, the kind of main
street America specialized in before the advent of the shopping mall and the
great obesity plague at the end of the twentieth century. Visible to my
scanners were restaurants, bars, clothing stores, coffee shops, newspaper
stands, and drugstores. Most things were closed because it was evening, but the bars and
restaurants—it was racing season—appeared to be doing a robust and healthy
business. It was a Friday night and nearly 11 P.M., but things were lively. I turned down the
library’s street, and behind the library was a grassy, elegant park where
several sulfur-water fountains had been built. “There is
adequate docking space two hundred meters from the serotonin source,” said
Tinkle from the backseat, as the fountain closest to the library was now visible. “Thank you, Science Officer Alan
Tinkle,” I said. “By the way, I think we should be in
the Federation, like the Enterprise,” said Tinkle, who was turning out
to be something of a master of contemporary culture, having referenced Star
Trek, Dune, and inadvertently, Lost in Space. “I have no problems with us being in
the Federation,” I said. “Do you, Commander?” “I’m pleased to be a Federation
officer,” said Mangrove. I then parked the escape pod. “Shields
up, Commander?” I asked. “Yes, shields up,” said Mangrove. “They should be photon shields,” said
Tinkle. Using the master electronic window
device, I put all our photon shields up. “Commander,” I said as a brilliant
notion came to me, “after we drink from the spring, I suggest that we go to
one of the alien bedding stations and locate their alcohol service area. I
had discussed earlier with Science Officer Alan Tinkle the possibility of
securing information regarding the whereabouts of a female alien comfort
hospital.” “You’re too stoned,” said Tinkle. “I am,” I said. “But let’s try to stay
in our roles.” “All right,” said Tinkle. “But I told
you I can’t do that.” “What are you talking about, Sergeant?”
asked Mangrove. “In non-Federation speak, I was
referring to the possibility of going to one of the hotels on Broadway,
sitting at the bar, and finding out if there are any brothels in town.” “You’re referring to docking procedures
with female aliens?” asked Mangrove. “Possibly, Commander. I know it’s
outlandish, but it’s something I had thought of earlier in the day, and now
that we’re on leave, like sailors, the idea came back to me.” “You’re against this plan of attack,
Science Officer?” asked Mangrove, not indicating his own position on the
matter. “I am against it, Commander,” said
Tinkle. “I prefer to just drink from the serotonin fountain.” “I think then we should only drink from
the fountain,” said Mangrove, “but we might consider it as a future mission.
Important things could be learned from the local female alien population. All
agreed?” “Yes,” said both
Tinkle and I. “Let’s have a
moment of silence and then proceed to the serotonin fountain,” said Mangrove,
taking quite nicely to his appointed role as our commander, giving orders
both practical and spiritual. He wanted us to gather our mental forces before
venturing forth into the alien village. But thinking I
had better keep watch during our moment of silence, while Mangrove closed his
one eye, and Tinkle closed both his eyes (as I observed in the rearview
mirror), I noted that a lot of people were on the streets, either strolling
off their dinners or barhopping. When Mangrove opened his eye after about a
minute, an indication that our moment of s. had passed, I said, “There seems
to be a good deal of alien-humanoid activity.” “Is it alien or
humanoid?” asked Tinkle, a little fraternally competitive with me, possibly
because I had put him on the spot yet again about this business of going to a
brothel, which I probably shouldn’t have done, though my intentions were
good. “I’m not sure,” I
said. “They look like humans but they must be aliens. Correct of you to point
this out, Science Officer.” I was trying to be conciliatory, to win him back
over. “They are aliens,
but they have a very human appearance,” said Mangrove. “So be careful.” “There appears to
be a dairy-and-sugar station to the right of the serotonin fountain,” said
Tinkle, getting back into the swing of things. “Most of the aliens are drawn
to that.” An ice cream shop
was directly across the street from the bubbling mineral fountain. In fact,
no one was at the fountain, but they were all on line at the ice cream place. “Those aliens are
ignoring the serotonin fountain,” I said. “Must not be an advanced
civilization.” We then got out
of the escape pod and made our way to the spring. It was underneath a wooden
pagoda and there were several benches surrounding it, where you could rest
between sips. The spring was essentially a large water fountain that was
perpetually gurgling. It had a three-foot-high ceramic base, topped by a
round metal bowl, for collecting the overflow, and out of this bowl rose two
upside-down, L-shaped pipes, or spigots, if you like, from which the
sulfur-smelling water splashed. We
circled the bowl and studied the liquid. The bowl was stained orange from the
water’s rich mineral content. “We
have found the serotonin, Commander!” I said. “Wait a
second,” said Tinkle. “Remember, it’s not supposed to be serotonin; we made a
mistake when we came to this planet.” “You’re
right,” I said. “I’d like maybe to change the script. Could be interesting if
it really was serotonin.” “No, we
always have to be searching for it. We can’t ever find it, if we want this to
be a television series. . . . If
it’s a movie, we can find it,” said Tinkle. “I was
thinking in terms of a movie, at first,” I said. “But a TV series would be
fun.” “Whether
it’s a movie or a TV series, I think we should think that it’s serotonin,”
said Mangrove. “Then we drink it, and it works on us, but only because we’re
deluded. The placebo effect. And it’s only later that we discover we’re in
Saratoga Springs and not Serotonin Springs, and we’re so devastated by this
that the placebo effect goes away. Don’t forget we’re at the start of our
mission; we don’t know yet that we’ve landed on the wrong planet. Then later,
as ourselves, we can figure out whether it’s for TV or a movie or both.” Mangrove
then dipped his head and drank a snortful of the
water. His eye patch got a little wet, but he didn’t seem to mind. “Delicious,”
he said. “And I feel happy.” He smiled. I had never seen him smile so broadly
before. Minuscule grins had been all he had previously dispensed. He sat on
one of the benches and stretched out his long commander legs. Then
Tinkle went. He dipped his powerful jaw beneath the flowing water. “I like
it,” he said, and sat down, joining the commander. I drank
some, and to my stoned palate the water was fantastically charged, better and
richer than the water I had drunk from that stream in Sharon Springs. I then
sat on the bench next to the one inhabited by the commander and the science
officer. We
three were happy and stoned on our warm summer night adventure. Every few
minutes or so, we stood up to drink another mouthful of water. Then I had the
brilliant idea that one of us should procure plastic cups from the dairy and
sugar dispensary, a mission which Tinkle bravely undertook. When he
returned alive, the commander and I complimented him on his courageous
action, venturing into an establishment overrun with aliens. Then we three
space travelers sipped the waters like gentlemen, refilling our cups when we
needed to. Occasionally, an alien or two would join us at the fountain and
then move on, and we would keep a wary silence; Tinkle informed us that his “phaser is on stun.” It was
all quite amusing and exciting. Then I
seemed to be sobering up; the passage of time and the drinking of the water
was undoing the blissful effects of the marijuana and the booze, and right
when I was about to propose that we head back to the main space station and
absorb more alcohol and marijuana, a large, shapely female alien approached
the fountain from behind us, walking between our two benches. She then bent
over the fountain, showed us a rather lovely backside in a short blue skirt,
dipped her head, took a healthy dose of the serotonin water, and then turned
to us with a wet and smiling and beautiful face. The
female alien was Ava. I
thought “Seratonin Springs” was cute and funny.
There’s more like that throughout Wake Up,
Sir! Those readers willing to endure unappealing characters and an
unsatisfying plot will enjoy this novel more than those of us whose memories
of the original Jeeves are too fresh. Steve
Hopkins, October 25, 2004 |
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ã 2004 Hopkins and Company, LLC The recommendation rating for
this book appeared in the November 2004
issue of Executive Times URL for this review: http://www.hopkinsandcompany.com/Books/Wake
Up Sir.htm For Reprint Permission,
Contact: Hopkins & Company, LLC • E-mail: books@hopkinsandcompany.com |
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