Closing Time: The Sequel to Catch-22

BOOKS BY JOSEPH HELLER

CLOSING TIME

PICTURE THIS

NO LAUGHING MATTER

GOD KNOWS

GOOD AS GOLD

SOMETHING HAPPENED

CATCH-22

SIMON & SCHUSTER PAPERBACKS

ROCKEFELLER CENTER

1230 AVENUE OF THE AMERICAS

NEW YORK, NEW YORK 10020

www.SimonandSchuster.com

THIS BOOK IS A WORK OF FICTION. NAMES, CHARACTERS, PLACES AND

INCIDENTS ARE EITHER PRODUCTS OF THE AUTHOR’S IMAGINATION OR

ARE USED FICTITIOUSLY. ANY RESEMBLANCE TO ACTUAL EVENTS OR

LOCALES OR PERSONS, LIVING OR DEAD, IS ENTIRELY COINCIDENTAL.

COPYRIGHT © 1994 BY SKIMTON, INC.

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

INCLUDING THE RIGHT OF REPRODUCTION

IN WHOLE OR IN PART IN ANY FORM.

FIRST SIMON & SCHUSTER PAPERBACKS EDITION 2004

SIMON & SCHUSTER PAPERBACKS AND COLOPHON ARE

REGISTERED TRADEMARKS OF SIMON & SCHUSTER, INC.

FOR INFORMATION REGARDING SPECIAL DISCOUNTS FOR BULK

PURCHASES, PLEASE CONTACT SIMON & SCHUSTER SPECIAL SALES AT

1-800-456-6798 OR BUSINESS@SIMONANDSCHUSTER.COM

DESIGNED BY EVE METZ

MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

7 9 10 8 6

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

HELLER, JOSEPH.

CLOSING TIME : THE SEQUEL TO CATCH-22 / JOSEPH HELLER.

P. CM.

I. TITLE.

PS 3558.E 476C 57         1994

813’.54-DC–20                           94-20604    CIP

ISBN-13: 978-0-684-74604-9

ISBN-10:    0-684-74604-9

ISBN-13: 978-0-684-80450-7 (Pbk.)

ISBN-10:    0-684-80450-6 (Pbk.)

ISBN-13: 978-1-439-12776-6 (eBook)

A SIGNED FIRST EDITION OF THIS BOOK

HAS BEEN PRIVATELY PRINTED BY THE FRANKLIN LIBRARY.

BOOK

ONE

1

Sammy

When people our age speak of the war it is not of Vietnam but of the one that broke out more than half a century ago and swept in almost all the world. It was raging more than two years before we even got into it. More than twenty million Russians, they say, had perished by the time we invaded at Normandy. The tide had already been turned at Stalingrad before we set foot on the Continent, and the Battle of Britain had already been won. Yet a million Americans were casualties of battle before it was over—three hundred thousand of us were killed in combat. Some twenty-three hundred alone died at Pearl Harbor on that single day of infamy almost half a century back—more than twenty-five hundred others were wounded—a greater number of military casualties on just that single day than the total in all but the longest, bloodiest engagements in the Pacific, more than on D day in France.

No wonder we finally went in.

Thank God for the atom bomb, I rejoiced with the rest of the civilized Western world, almost half a century ago, when I read the banner newspaper headlines and learned it had exploded. By then I was already back and out, unharmed and, as an ex-GI, much better off than before. I could go to college. I did go and even taught college for two years in Pennsylvania, then returned to New York and in a while found work as an advertising copywriter in the promotion department of Time magazine.

In only twenty years from now, certainly not longer, newspapers across the country will be printing photographs of their oldest local living veterans of that war who are taking part in the sparse parades on the patriotic holidays. The parades are sparse already. I never marched. I don’t think my father did either. Way, way back, when I was still a kid, crazy Henry Markowitz, an old janitor of my father’s generation in the apartment house across the street, would, on Armistice Day and Memorial Day, dig out and don his antique World War I army uniform, even down to the ragged leggings of the earlier Great War, and all that day strut on the sidewalk back and forth from the Norton’s Point trolley tracks on Railroad Avenue to the candy store and soda fountain at the corner of Surf Avenue, which was nearer the ocean. Showing off, old Henry Markowitz—like my father back then, old Henry Markowitz probably was not much past forty—would bark commands out till hoarse to the tired women trudging home on thick legs to their small apartments carrying brown bags from the grocery or butcher, who paid him no mind. His two embarrassed daughters ignored him too, little girls, the younger my own age, the other a year or so older. He was shell-shocked, some said, but I do not think that was true. I do not think we even knew what shell-shocked meant.

There were no elevators then in our brick apartment houses, which were three and four stories high, and for the aging and the elderly, climbing steps, going home, could be hell. In the cellars you’d find coal, delivered by truck and spilled noisily by gravity down a metal chute; you’d find a furnace and boiler, and also a janitor, who might live in the building or not and whom, in intimidation more than honor, we always spoke of respectfully by his surname with the title Mister, because he kept watch for the landlord, of whom almost all of us then, as some of us now, were always at least a little bit in fear. Just one easy mile away was the celebrated Coney Island amusement area with its gaudy lightbulbs in the hundreds of thousands and the games and rides and food stands. Luna Park was a big and famous attraction then, and so was the Steeplechase (Steeplechase—the Funny Place) Park of a Mr. George C. Tilyou, who had passed away long before and of whom no one knew much. Bold on every front of Steeplechase was the unforgettable trademark, a striking, garish picture in cartoon form of the grotesque, pink, flat, grinning face of a subtly idiotic man, practically on fire with a satanic hilarity and showing, incredibly, in one artless plane, a mouth sometimes almost a city block wide and an impossible and startling number of immense teeth. The attendants wore red jackets and green jockey caps and many smelled of whiskey. Tilyou had lived on Surf Avenue in his own private house, a substantial wooden structure with a walkway to the stoop from a short flight of stone steps that descended right to the margin of the sidewalk and appeared to be sinking. By the time I was old enough to walk past on my way to the public library, subway station, or Saturday movie matinee, his family name, which had been set in concrete on the vertical face of the lowest step, was already sloping out of kilter and submerged more than halfway into the ground. In my own neighborhood, the installation of oil burners, with the excavations into the pavement for pipes and fuel tanks, was unfailingly a neighborhood event, a sign of progress.

In those twenty more years we will all look pretty bad in the newspaper pictures and television clips, kind of strange, like people in a different world, ancient and doddering, balding, seeming perhaps a little bit idiotic, shrunken, with toothless smiles in collapsed, wrinkled cheeks. People I know are already dying and others I’ve known are already dead. We don’t look that beautiful now. We wear glasses and are growing hard of hearing, we sometimes talk too much, repeat ourselves, things grow on us, even the most minor bruises take longer to heal and leave telltale traces.

And soon after that there will be no more of us left.

Only records and mementos for others, and the images they chance to evoke. Someday one of the children—I adopted them legally, with their consent, of course—or one of my grown grandchildren may happen upon my gunner’s wings or Air Medal, my shoulder patch of sergeant’s stripes, or that boyish snapshot of me—little Sammy Singer, the best speller of his age in Coney Island and always near the top of his grade in arithmetic, elementary algebra, and plane geometry—in my fleecy winter flight jacket and my parachute harness, taken overseas close to fifty years back on the island of Pianosa off the western shore of Italy. We are sitting with smiles for the camera near a plane in early daylight on a low stack of unfused thousand-pound bombs, waiting for the signal to start up for another mission, with our bombardier for that day, a captain, I remember, looking on at us from the background. He was a rambunctious and impulsive Armenian, often a little bit frightening, unable to learn how to navigate in the accelerated course thrown at him unexpectedly in operational training at the air base in Columbia, South Carolina, where a group of us had been brought together as a temporary crew to train for combat and fly a plane overseas into a theater of war. The pilot was a sober Texan named Appleby, who was very methodical and very good, God bless him, and the two were very quickly not getting along. My feelings lay with Yossarian, who was humorous and quick, a bit wild but, like me, a big-city boy, who would rather die than be killed, he said only half jokingly one time near the end, and had made up his mind to live forever, or at least die trying. I could identify with that. From him I learned to say no. When they offered me another stripe as a promotion and another cluster to my Air Medal to fly ten more missions, I turned them down and they sent me home. I kept all the way out of his disagreements with Appleby, because I was timid, short, an enlisted man, and a Jew. It was my nature then always to make sure of my ground with new people before expressing myself, although in principle at least, if not always with the confidence I longed for, I thought myself the equal of all the others, the officers too, even of that big, outspoken Armenian bombardier who kept joking crazily that he was really an Assyrian and already practically extinct. I was better read than all of them, I saw, and the best speller too, and smart enough, certainly, never to stress those points.

Inevitably, Yossarian got lost on every one of the night missions we flew in our operational training flights over South Carolina and Georgia. It became a joke. From the other enlisted crewmen I met in the barracks and mess hall, I learned that all of their bombardiers turned navigators got lost on all of their night training flights too, and that became another joke. The third officer in our crew was a shy copilot named Kraft, who, promoted to pilot overseas, was shot down by flak on a mission over Ferrara in northern Italy when his flight went over the bridge there in a second pass and was killed. Yossarian, the lead bombardier, who’d failed to drop the first time, got a medal for that one for going round the second time when he saw the others had missed and the bridge there was still undamaged. On those navigational training missions in South Carolina, Appleby would find the way back for us safely with his radio compass. One black night we were lost and had no radio compass for more than an hour. There was electrical interference from storms nearby, and to this day I clearly hear Yossarian’s voice on the intercom, saying:

I see the bank of a river down there. Turn left and cross it and I’ll pick up a landmark on the other side.

The bank of that river turned out to be the shore of the Atlantic Ocean, and we were on our way to Africa. Appleby lost patience once more and took over after another half hour, and when he finally pieced together the radio signals to bring us back to our field, there was only enough fuel left to carry us from the landing strip to our plane stand. The engines died before they could be cut.

We had all nearly been killed.

That did not sink in until early middle age, and after that when I related the anecdote, it was not just for the laughs.

In that photograph with me is a buddy, Bill Knight, the top turret gunner that day, who was about two years older than I and already married, with a baby child he had seen but a week, and a skinny kid my own age named Howard Snowden, a waist gunner and radioman from somewhere in Alabama, who would be killed on a mission to Avignon about one month later and died slowly, moaning in pain and whimpering he was cold. We are twenty years old and look like children who are only twenty years old. Howie Snowden was the first dead human I had ever seen and the only dead human I’ve laid eyes on since outside a mortuary. My wife died at night and was already gone from the room by the time I arrived at the hospital to conclude the paperwork and begin the arrangements for the burial. She went the way the oncologist said she would, almost to the day. There was sickness but seldom much pain, and we like to think she was spared that pain because she was always a very good person, at least to me, and to the children, generally cheerful and bighearted. If angry, it was only with her first husband, and only at times, particularly because he often had not enough money for child support but enough for new girlfriends and enough to marry again a couple more times. I was lucky with dead men, said Lew right after the war, a friend since childhood who was taken prisoner as an infantryman and had seen hundreds of dead people in Europe before he was shipped back home, seen Americans and Germans, and scores of German civilians in Dresden when he was sent back in to help clean up after the British firebombing I learned about first from him, an air raid that had killed just about everyone else in the city but these prisoners of war and their guards and which I did not know about and would not immediately believe.

Above a hundred thousand? You must be crazy, Lew. That’s more than Hiroshima and the atom bomb.

I looked it up and admitted he was right.

But that was almost fifty years ago. No wonder our progeny are not much interested in World War II. Hardly any were born then. They’d be around fifty if they were.

But maybe someday, in a future I can’t try to measure, one of the children or grandchildren will happen upon that box or a drawer with my gunner’s wings, Air Medal, sergeant’s stripes, and wartime photograph inside and perhaps be stimulated to reflect with poignancy on some incidents of a family nature that once took place between us, or which never did and should have. Like me with my father’s gas mask from World War I.

I wonder what became of it. I loved that gas mask as a toy when small and I would play with it secretly when he was at work in the city cutting shapes from fabric from patterns for children’s dresses. I have his photograph as a soldier too. After I read, while still in elementary school, a biography of the German World War I aerial ace Baron Manfred von Richthofen, I wished for a while to grow up to be a fighter pilot and to duel with him daily in single combat over trenches in France and shoot him down again every time. He was my hero, and I dreamed of shooting him down. Soon after the war, my war, my father died and they called it cancer. He enjoyed cigars. He bought them in the small neighborhood shop around the corner on Surf Avenue, where a contented Mr. Levinson sat with his smile at a worktable with knives and tobacco leaves and marked out and rolled his cigars by hand, while Mrs. Levinson, a tranquil kind of pygmy of a woman with dark hair and freckles, sold bathing caps, earplugs, swimming tubes, and pails and shovels and other small trifles for the sand on the beach just one block away. They were childless.

Everyone worked. As a kid I hawked newspapers for a while through the streets and boardwalk bars. In summer our sisters sold frozen custard at the stands on the boardwalk, root beer. Davey Goldsmith sold hot dogs. On the beach unlicensed peddlers battled like Spartans with dry-ice vapors misting from cumbersome cartons toted in sun-browned arms to dispense for a nickel all of their frozen bars and Dixie cups before they could be nabbed by policemen pursuing them on soft sand through onlookers in bathing suits rooting with all their hearts for them to make good their flight. Many of these fleet-footed older young boys working so perilously were people I knew.

From our apartment we could always hear from the ocean the breaking of waves and the gong from the bell buoy (we called it the bellboy, and that still sounds right to me). At times of unusual quiet in the early or late afternoon, we could even hear very slightly the indistinct, ghostlike music of our closest merry-go-round, the exotic calliope of the tremendous carousel on the boardwalk with its turning ring of steeds of gold the color of caramels and painted strokes of shiny black and showy tints of blue and pink of other candies, like jelly beans, licorice, and gum-drops—where did those magnificent gliding horses come from? was there a corporation somewhere that manufactured just horses for carousels? was there big money in that?—almost half a mile away. No one was rich.

2

The Little Prick

The new President was coming into office legally with the resignation of his predecessor in a vexation of spiritual fatigue resulting from the need to explain continually why he had chosen such a person as his vice presidential running mate to begin with.

Why did you pick him? his closest friend, the secretary of state, felt compelled to keep inquiring. Tell at least me. Your secret is safe.

There was no secret! the nation’s chief executive responded pleadingly in his own defense. There was nothing underhanded, no sneaky reason. I was simply exercising my best judgment. I give you my word, there was no criminal intent.

That’s what’s so terrifying.

3

Mr. Yossarian

In the middle of his second week in the hospital, Yossarian dreamed of his mother, and he knew again that he was going to die. The doctors were upset when he gave them the news.

We can’t find anything wrong, they told him.

Keep looking, he instructed.

You’re in perfect health.

Just wait, he advised.

Yossarian was back in the hospital for observation, having retreated there once more beneath another neurotic barrage of confusing physical symptoms to which he had become increasingly susceptible since finding himself dwelling alone again for just the second time in his life, and which seemed, one by one, to dissipate like vapor as soon as he described or was tested for each. Just a few months before, he had cured himself of an incurable case of sciatica merely by telephoning one of his physicians to complain of his incurable case of sciatica. He could not learn to live alone. He could not make a bed. He would sooner starve than cook.

This time he had gone bolting back in, so to speak, with a morbid vision of a different morbid vision shortly after hearing that the President, whom he did not like, was going to resign and that the Vice President, whom he did not like even more, would certainly succeed him; and shortly after finding out, inadvertently, that Milo Minderbinder, with whom he too now had been unavoidably and inescapably linked for something like twenty-five years, was expanding beyond surplus stale commodities like old chocolate and vintage Egyptian cotton into military equipment, with plans for a warplane of his own that he intended to sell to the government: to any government, of course, that could afford to buy.

There were countries in Europe that could afford to buy, and in Asia and the Mideast too.

The vision of the morbid vision he had experienced was of a seizure or a stroke and had set him reminiscing again about durable old Gustav Aschenbach alone on his mythical strand of Mediterranean beach and his immortal death in Venice, worn out at fifty in a city with a plague nobody wished to talk about. In Naples far back, when assembled in line for the troopship sailing him home after he’d flown seventy missions and survived, he’d found himself behind an older soldier named Schweik and a man born Krautheimer who had changed his name to Joseph Kaye to blend more securely into his culture, and his name, like Schweik’s, had meant not much to him then.

Given a choice, Yossarian still preferred to live. He ate no eggs and, though he had no headache, swallowed his baby aspirin every other day.

He had no doubt he had lots to worry about. His parents were dead, and so were all his uncles and aunts.

A prick in the White House? It would not be the first time. Another oil tanker had broken up. There was radiation. Garbage. Pesticides, toxic waste, and free enterprise. There were enemies of abortion who wished to inflict the death penalty on everyone who was not pro-life. There was mediocrity in government, and self-interest too. There was trouble in Israel. These were not mere delusions. He was not making them up. Soon they would be cloning human embryos for sale, fun, and replacement parts. Men earned millions producing nothing more substantial than changes in ownership. The cold war was over and there was still no peace on earth. Nothing made sense and neither did everything else. People did things without knowing why and then tried to find out.

When bored in his hospital room, Yossarian played with such high-minded thoughts like a daydreaming youth with his genitals.

At least once each weekday morning they came barging in around him, his doctor, Leon Shumacher, and his brisk and serious entourage of burgeoning young physicians, accompanied by the lively, attractive floor nurse with the pretty face and the magnificent ass who was openly drawn to Yossarian, despite his years, and whom he was slyly enticing to develop a benign crush on him, despite her youthfulness. She was a tall woman with impressive hips who remembered Pearl Bailey but not Pearl Harbor, which put her age somewhere between thirty-five and sixty, the very best stage, Yossarian believed, for a woman, provided, of course, she still had her health. Yossarian possessed but a hazy idea of what she really was like; yet he unscrupulously exploited every chance to help pass the time enjoyably with her for the several peaceful weeks he was resolved to remain in the hospital to rest up and put his outlook together while the great nations of the world restabilized themselves into another new world order for good and forever once more.

He’d brought his radio and almost always had some Bach or very good chamber, piano, or other choral music on one FM station or another. There were too many disruptions for abiding attention to opera, especially Wagner. It was a good room this time, he was pleased to conclude, with unobjectionable neighbors who were not offensively ill, and it was the attractive floor nurse, in response to his baiting, modestly laughing and with a flounce and a flush of hauteur, who made the defiant boast that the ass she had was magnificent.

Yossarian could see no reason to disagree.

By the middle of the first week he was flirting with her with all his might. Dr. Leon Shumacher did not always look kindly upon this salacious frivolity.

It’s bad enough I let you in here. I suppose we both ought to feel ashamed, you in this room when you aren’t sick—

Who says I’m not?

—and so many people outside on the streets.

Will you let one in here if I agree to leave?

Will you pay the bills?

Yossarian preferred not to.

A great man with angiograms had confirmed to him soberly that he did not need one, a neurologist reported with equal gloom that there was nothing the matter with his brain. Leon Shumacher again was displaying him pridefully as a rare specimen his pupils would not have opportunity to come upon often in their medical practice, a man of sixty-eight without symptoms of any disease, not even hypochondria.

Late afternoons or sometimes early in the evening, Leon would drop by just to chat awhile in singsong sorrow about his long hours, ghoulish working conditions, and unjustly low earnings in tactless, egocentric fashion to a man they both knew was soon going to die.

He was not considerate.

The name of this nurse was Melissa MacIntosh, and, like all good women to a sophisticated man with a predilection to romanticize, she seemed too good to be true.

By the beginning of his second week she was allowing him to caress with his fingertips the border of lace at the bottom of her slip when she stood or sat beside his bed or chair while she hung around and talked and flirted back by allowing him to advance in his flirting. Pink with discomfort and enlivened by mischief, she neither consented nor prohibited when he toyed with her filmy undergarment, but she was not at ease. She was in terror someone would surprise them in this impermissible intimacy. He was praying somebody would. He concealed from Nurse MacIntosh all the subtle signals of his budding erections. He did not want her to get the idea that his intentions were serious. She was lucky to have him, she agreed when he said so. He was less trouble than the other men and women in the private and semiprivate rooms on the same floor. And he was more intriguing to her, he saw—and therefore more seductive, he understood, and maybe she did not—than all of the few men she was seeing outside the hospital and even the one or two men she had been seeing exclusively, almost exclusively, for a number of years. She had never been married, not even once or twice. Yossarian was so little trouble that he was no trouble at all, and she and the other floor nurses had little more to do for him than look into his room each shift just to make certain he wasn’t dead yet and needed nothing done to keep him alive.

Is everything all right? each one would inquire.

Everything but my health, he sighed in response.

You’re in perfect health.

That was the trouble, he took the trouble to explain. It meant he had to get worse.

It’s no joke, he joked when they laughed.

She wore a black slip in one day after he’d begged her to switch, affecting aesthetic longing. Often when he wanted her there he found himself in dire need of something to need. When he pressed his call signal, another nurse might respond.

Send in my Melissa, he would command.

The others would cooperate. He suffered no nursing shortage. He was in good health, the doctors restated daily, and this time, he was concluding in morose disappointment, with the sense he was being cheated, they appeared to be right.

His appetite and digestion were good. His auditory and spinal apparatus had been CAT-scanned. His sinuses were clear and there was no evidence anywhere of arthritis, bursitis, angina, or neuritis. He was even without a postnasal drip. His blood pressure was the envy of every doctor who saw him. He gave urine and they took it. His cholesterol was low, his hemoglobin was high, his sedimentation rate was a thing of beauty, and his blood nitrogen was ideal. They pronounced him a perfect human being. He thought his first wife and his second, from whom he had now been separated a year, might have some demurrers.

There was a champion cardiologist who found no fault with him, a pathologist for his pathos, who found no cause for concern either, an enterprising gastroenterologist who ran back to the room for a second opinion from Yossarian on some creative investment strategies he was considering in Arizona real estate, and a psychologist for his psyche, in whom Yossarian was left in the last resort to confide.

And what about these periodic periods of anomie and fatigue and disinterest and depression? Yossarian rushed on in a whirlwind of whispers. I find myself detached from listening to things that other people take seriously. I’m tired of information I can’t use. I wish the daily newspapers were smaller and came out weekly. I’m not interested anymore in all that’s going on in the world. Comedians don’t make me laugh and long stories drive me wild. Is it me or old age? Or is the planet really turning irrelevant? TV news is degenerate. Everyone everywhere is glib. My enthusiasms are exhausted. Do I really feel this healthy now or am I just imagining I do? I even have this full head of hair. Doc, I’ve got to have the truth. Is my depression mental?

It isn’t depression and you’re not exhausted.

In due course, the psychologist conferred with the chief of psychiatry, who consulted with all the other medical men, and they concluded with one voice that there was nothing psychosomatic about the excellent health he was enjoying and that the hair on his head was genuine too.

Although, added the chief psychiatrist, with a clearing of throat, I am honor bound to flag you as a very good candidate for late-life depression.

Late-life depression? Yossarian savored the term. About when would that be?

About now. What do you do that you really enjoy?

Not much, I’m afraid. I run after women, but not too hard. I make more money than I need.

Do you enjoy that?

No. I’ve got no ambition, and there’s not much left I want to get done.

No golf, bridge, tennis? Art or antique collecting?

That’s all out of the question.

The prognosis is not good.

I’ve always known that.

The way it looks to us now, Mr. Yossarian, said the chief medical director, speaking for the whole institution, with Leon Shumacher’s head, three quarters bald, hanging over his shoulder, you might live forever.

He had nothing to worry about, it seemed, but inflation and deflation, higher interest rates and lower interest rates, the budget deficit, the threat of war and the dangers of peace, the unfavorable balance of trade and a favorable balance of trade, the new President and the old chaplain, and a stronger dollar and a weaker dollar, along with friction, entropy, radiation, and gravity.

But he worried too about his new pal Nurse Melissa MacIntosh, because she had no money saved. Her parents had none either, and if she lived long enough, she would have to live on only her Social Security benefits and a pittance of a retirement pension from the hospital, provided she continued working there for the next twenty or three hundred years, which seemed out of the question, unless she met and married before then some fine gentleman of means who was as appealing to her then as Yossarian was to her now, which seemed to him entirely out of the question also. Few men could talk dirty to her so charmingly. More than once he contemplated her with a pang: she was too innocent to abandon to the heartless dynamics of financial circumstance, too sweet, unsuspecting, and unselfish.

What you absolutely must do, he said one day, after she had begged him to advise whether she and her roommate should open individual retirement accounts—Yossarian advised that he could not see what fucking practical use an individual retirement account was going to be in the long run to anybody but the banks soliciting them—is marry someone like me now, a man with some money saved who knows something about insurance policies and legacies and has been married only one time before.

Would you be too old for me? she asked in a fright.

You would be too young for me. Do it soon, do it today. Even a doctor might work. Before you know it you’ll be as old as I am and you won’t have a thing.

He worried too about the reckless sentimentality of extending concern to a person who needed it.

That was not the American way.

The last thing he needed was another dependent. Or two, for she spoke with pride of an eye-catching, fun-loving roommate in her cramped apartment, a woman named Angela Moore who was taller than she and freer, a natural-blonde Australian with brighter-blonde hair and a larger bosom in stiletto heels and white lipstick and white eye makeup who worked as sales representative for a novelty manufacturer to whom she submitted ribald ideas for new products that rendered tongue-tied and incredulous the two elderly Jewish family men who owned the company as partners and made them blush. She liked the effect she knew she made in the costly midtown bars to which she often went after work to meet the convivial business executives to go dancing with after dinner and then discard without pity at the downstairs doorway of the apartment house when her evening was ended. She hardly ever met any she liked enough to want to stay longer with because she hardly ever let herself drink enough to get drunk. The private phone number she gave out was of the city morgue, Melissa MacIntosh related to him in such joyful praise of her confident and exuberant conduct that Yossarian knew he would fall in love with this woman at very first sight provided he never laid eyes on her, and would remain deeply in love until he saw her the second time. But the tall blonde somewhere near forty with the white makeup and black stockings with climbing serpentine patterns had no rich parents or money saved either, and Yossarian asked himself:

What was wrong with this lousy earth anyway?

It seemed to him reasonable that everyone toward whom he bore no grudge should have enough money assured to face a future without fear, and he hung his head in his noble reverie of compassion and wanted to take this outstanding, full-bosomed waif of a roommate into his arms to dry her tears and assuage all her anxieties and unzip her dress as he stroked her backside.

That would really be something for the private detectives who’d been following him to write home about, wouldn’t it? The first private eye—he took for granted the eye was private—had trailed him right into the hospital during visiting hours and come down immediately with a serious staphylococcus infection that confined him to bed with a poisoning of the blood in a different wing of the hospital with three former visitors to other patients in the hospital who had also come down with serious staphylococcus infections and who, for all Yossarian knew, might be private detectives also. Yossarian could have told all four of them that a hospital was a dangerous place. People died there. A man from Belgium checked in one day and had his throat cut. A private detective dispatched to replace the first was laid low in a day by salmonella food poisoning from an egg salad sandwich eaten in the hospital cafeteria and was now bedridden also and recuperating slowly. Yossarian considered sending flowers. Instead, he signed the name Albert T. Tappman on the get-well card he sent to each. Albert T. Tappman was the name of the chaplain of his old army bomber group, and he wrote that calling down too and wondered what the recipients of these get-well cards thought upon receiving them and where the chaplain had been taken and whether he was being intimidated, abused, starved, or tortured. A day after that he sent second get-well cards to both private detectives and signed them with the name Washington Irving. And the day after that he mailed two more cards, and these he signed Irving Washington.

The second private detective was succeeded by two more, who appeared to be strangers to each other, one of whom seemed as mysteriously curious about investigating all the others as in keeping track of Yossarian.

He wondered what they hoped to find out about him that he would not be willing to tell them outright. If they wanted adultery he would give them adultery, and he began to grow so troubled about Melissa MacIntosh’s good heart and precarious economic future that he began to worry about his own future as well and decided to demand the oncologist back for some tip-top guarantees about a major killer and to hear him discourse further perhaps on the supremacy of biology in human activities and the tyranny of the genes in regulating societies and history.

You’re crazy, said Leon.

Then get me the psychiatrist too.

You don’t have cancer. Why do you want him?

To do him a good deed, dope. Don’t you believe in good deeds? The poor little fuck is just about the gloomiest bastard I’ve ever laid eyes on. How many patients do you think he sees in a week to whom he can bring good news? That guy’s disasters are among the few around me I might be able to avert.

They aren’t mine, said the joyless oncologist, upon whose small features a foreboding aspect seemed to have settled as naturally as the blackness of night and the gray skies of winter. You’d be surprised, though, how many people come to believe they really are my fault. Even colleagues don’t like me. Not many people want to talk to me. It may be the reason I’m quiet. I don’t get enough practice.

I like that spirit, said Yossarian, who could not see that he had much. Does it buck you up to know that sooner or later you are likely to play an important role in my life?

Only a little. His name was Dennis Teemer. Where would you want me to begin?

Wherever you want to that is without pain or discomfort, Yossarian answered cheerily.

You haven’t a symptom anywhere that might suggest closer investigation.

Why must we wait for symptoms? queried Yossarian, talking down to his specialist. Is it not conceivable that since we concluded our last explorations something may have originated that is blooming away hardily even as the two of us sit here procrastinating complacently?

Dennis Teemer went along, with a shimmer of animation. I guess I have more fun with you than I do with most of my other patients, don’t I?

I told Leon that.

But that may be because you’re not really my patient, said Dr. Teemer. What you conjecture is conceivable, of course, Mr. Yossarian. But it is no more likely to be happening to you than to anybody else.

And what difference does that make to me? countered Yossarian. It is not much solace to know we all are susceptible. Leon thinks I’ll feel better knowing I’m no worse off than he is. Let’s get started.

Suppose we begin with another chest X ray?

God, no! cried Yossarian in mock alarm. That might just get one started! You know how I feel about X rays and asbestos.

And tobacco too. Should I give you a statistic I think you’ll relish? Did you know that more Americans die each year of diseases related to smoking than were killed in all of the years of World War II?

Yes.

Then I suppose we might as well go ahead. Should I hammer your knee to test your reflexes?

For what?

For free.

Can’t we at least do a biopsy?

Of what?

Of anything that’s accessible and simple.

If you will find that reassuring.

I will sleep easier.

We can scrape another mole or another one of your liver spots. Or should we test the prostate again? The prostate is not uncommon.

Mine is unique, Yossarian disagreed. It’s the only one that’s mine. Let’s do the mole. Shumacher has a prostate my age. Let me know when you find something wrong with his.

I can tell you now, said Yossarian’s favorite oncologist, that it will give me great pleasure to inform you that the results are negative.

I can tell you now, said Yossarian, that I will be happy to hear it.

Yossarian yearned to go deeper with this depressed man into the depressing nature of the pathologies in the depressing world of his work and the depressing nature of the universe in which they had each been successful in surviving thus far and which was growing more unreliable daily—there were holes in the ozone, they were running out of room for the disposal of garbage, burn the garbage and you contaminate the air, they were running out of air—but he was afraid the doctor would find that conversation depressing.

All of this cost money, of course.

Of course, said Yossarian.

Where is it coming from? Leon Shumacher wondered out loud, with a palpable snarl of envy.

I’m old enough for Medicare now.

Medicare won’t cover a fraction of this.

And the rest is coming from a terrific plan I have.

I wish I had a plan like that, Leon sulked.

It came, explained Yossarian, from the company for which he worked, where he was still on the books in a semi-executive capacity as a semi-retired semi-consultant and could remain for a lifetime provided he never tried to get much done.

I wish I had a job like that. What the hell does it mean? Leon mimicked in sneering derision: Yossarian, John. Occupation: semi-retired semi-consultant. What the hell are our epidemiologists supposed to make of that one?

It’s been another one of my careers. I work part of the time for all of my fee and no one listens to more than half the things I say. I would call that a semi-retired semi-consultant, wouldn’t you? The company pays for everything. We are as large as Harold Strangelove Associates and almost as lovable. We are M & M Enterprises & Associates. I am one of the associates. The other people are enterprising. I associate, they enterprise.

What do they really do?

Whatever makes money and isn’t dishonestly criminal, I suppose, Yossarian answered.

Is one word of this true?

I have no way of knowing. They can lie to me as well as to everyone else. We keep secrets from each other. I’m not making it up. You can check. Tie me back up to that heart machine and see if it skips a beat when I tell a lie.

Will it do that? Leon asked with surprise.

I don’t see why it wouldn’t.

What do you do there?

I object.

Don’t get so touchy.

I’m answering your question, Yossarian informed him pleasantly. I object to matters that are not up to my ethical standards. Sometimes I work very hard at objecting. Then they go ahead or don’t. I am the conscience of the company, a moral presence, and that’s another one of the things I’ve been doing since I dropped by there more than twenty years ago for illegal help in keeping my children out of the Vietnam War. How’d you keep yours out?

Medical school. Of course, they both switched to business administration as soon as the danger was past. By the way, my grapevine tells me you still seem to be having a pretty hot time with one of our favorite floor nurses.

Better than I’m having with you and your associates.

She’s a very nice girl and a very good nurse.

I think I’ve noticed.

Attractive too.

I’ve seen that also.

We have a number of very fine specialists here who tell me frankly they’d like to get into her pants.

That’s crude, Leon, really crude, and you ought to be ashamed, Yossarian rebuked him with disgust. It’s a most obscene way of saying you’d all like to fuck her.

Leon was sheepish and Yossarian manipulated this momentary loss of self-possession into a favor involving a No Visitors sign outside the door, which was in place before the next one came by to disturb him.

The knock was so diffident that Yossarian hoped for an instant the chaplain was back as a free man from wherever it was that he was being lawfully detained unlawfully. Yossarian was out of ideas to aid him and just about helpless there too.

But it was only Michael, his youngest son, the underachiever among four adult children in what used to be a family. In addition to Michael there were his daughter, Gillian, a judge in a very low court; Julian, his eldest, another overachiever; and Adrian, who was average and content and was disregarded by the others because he was only average. Michael, unmarried, unsettled, unemployed, and unobjectionable, had stopped by to see what he was doing in the hospital still again and to confess that he was thinking of dropping out of law school because he found the work there no more stimulating than the medical school, business school, art school, graduate school of architecture, and several other graduate schools of assorted character he had been dropping out of after brief trials for as long now, it seemed, as anyone wanted to remember.

Oh, shit, mourned Yossarian. I keep pulling strings to get you in, and you keep dropping out.

I can’t help it, Michael said with discouragement. The more I find out about the practice of law, the more I’m surprised that it isn’t illegal.

That’s one of the reasons I gave that up too. How old are you now?

I’m not far from forty.

You still have time.

I’m not sure if you’re joking or not.

Neither am I, Yossarian told him. But if you can delay the decision of what you want to do with your life until you’re old enough to retire, you will never have to make it.

I still can’t tell if you’re joking.

I’m still not always sure either, Yossarian answered. Sometimes I mean what I say and don’t mean it at the same time. Tell me, my apple of my eye, do you think in my checkered history I ever really wanted to do any of the work I found myself doing?

Not even the film scripts?

"Not really and not for long. That was make-believe and didn’t last, and I wasn’t that crazy about the finished products there either. Do you think I wanted to go into advertising, or Wall Street, or ever get busy with things like land development or puts and calls? Whoever starts out with a dream to succeed in public relations?"

Did you really once work for Noodles Cook?

"Noodles Cook worked for me. Soon after college. Do you think we really wanted to write political speeches, Noodles Cook and I? We wanted to write plays and be published in The New Yorker. Whoever has much choice? We take the best we can get, Michael, not what enraptures us. Even the Prince of Wales."

That’s a hell of a way to live, Dad, isn’t it?

It’s the way we have to.

Michael was silent a minute. I got scared when I saw that No Visitors sign on your door, he confessed in a mild tone of injury. Who the hell put it up? I began to think you might really be sick.

It’s my idea of a joke, mumbled Yossarian, who had added to the sign with a brush-point pen the notice that violators would be shot. It helps keep people out. They just keep popping in all day long without even telephoning. They don’t seem to realize that lying around in a hospital all day can be pretty demanding work.

You never answer your telephone anyway. I bet you’re the only patient here with an answering machine. How much longer are you going to stay?

Is the mayor still the mayor? The cardinal still the cardinal? Is that prick still in office?

What prick?

"Whatever prick is in office. I want all pricks out."

You can’t stay here that long! cried Michael. What the hell are you doing here anyway? You had your annual workup only a couple of months ago. Everyone thinks you’re crazy.

I object. Who does?

I do.

You’re crazy.

We all do.

I object again. You’re all crazy.

Julian says you could have taken over the whole company a long time ago if you had any ambition and brains.

"He’s crazy too. Michael, this time I was scared. I had a vision.

Of what?