Infinite Jest by David Foster Wallace Read Free Book Online

It was now almost three hours past the time when the
     woman had said she would come. A counselor, Randi, with an
i,
with a mustache like a Mountie, had told him in the outpatient treatment program he’d gone through two years ago that he
     seemed insufficiently committed to the course of action that would be required to remove substances from his lifestyle. He’d
     had to buy a new bong at Bogart’s in Porter Square, Cambridge because whenever he finished the last of the substances on hand
     he always threw out all his bongs and pipes, screens and tubes and rolling papers and roach clips, lighters and Visine and
     Pepto-Bismol and cookies and frosting, to eliminate all future temptation. He always felt a sense of optimism and firm resolve
     after he’d discarded the materials. He’d bought the new bong and laid in fresh supplies this morning, getting back home with
     everything well before the woman had said she would come. He thought of the new bong and new little packet of round brass
     screens in the Bogart’s bag on his kitchen table in the sunlit kitchen and could not remember what color this new bong was.
     The last one had been orange, the one before that a dusky rose color that had turned muddy at the bottom from resin in just
     four days. He could not remember the color of this new last and final bong. He considered getting up to check the color of
     the bong he’d be using but decided that obsessive checking and convulsive movements could compromise the atmosphere of casual
     calm he needed to maintain while he waited, protruding but not moving, for the woman he’d met at a design session for his
     agency’s small campaign for her small theater company’s new Wedekind festival, while he waited for this woman, with whom he’d
     had intercourse twice, to honor her casual promise. He tried to decide whether the woman was pretty. Another thing he laid
     in when he’d committed himself to one last marijuana vacation was petroleum jelly. When he smoked marijuana he tended to masturbate
     a great deal, whether or not there were opportunities for intercourse, opting when he smoked for masturbation over intercourse,
     and the petroleum jelly kept him from returning to normal function all tender and sore. He was also hesitant to get up and
     check the color of his bong because he would have to pass right by the telephone console to get to the kitchen, and he didn’t
     want to be tempted to call the woman who’d said she would come again because he felt creepy about bothering her about something
     he’d represented as so casual, and was afraid that several audio hang-ups on her answering device would look even creepier,
     and also he felt anxious about maybe tying up the line at just the moment when she called, as she certainly would. He decided
     to get Call Waiting added to his audio phone service for a nominal extra charge, then remembered that since this was positively
     the last time he would or even could indulge what Randi, with an
i,
had called an addiction every bit as rapacious as pure alcoholism, there would be no real need for Call Waiting, since a
     situation like the present one could never arise again. This line of thinking almost caused him to become angry. To ensure
     the composure with which he sat waiting in light in his chair he focused his senses on his surroundings. No part of the insect
     he’d seen was now visible. The clicks of his portable clock were really composed of three smaller clicks, signifying he supposed
     preparation, movement, and readjustment. He began to grow disgusted with himself for waiting so anxiously for the promised
     arrival of something that had stopped being fun anyway. He didn’t even know why he liked it anymore. It made his mouth dry
     and his eyes dry and red and his face sag, and he hated it when his face sagged, it was as if all the integrity of all the
     muscles in his face was eroded by marijuana, and he got terribly self-conscious about the fact that