It was a big older fellow with a seamed face and picket teeth. He wasn’t from any Tingle that Lane Dean had ever observed from his own. The man had on a headlamp with a tan cotton band, like some dentists wore, and a type of thick black marker in his breast pocket. He smelled of hair oil and some kind of food. He had part of his bottom on the edge of Lane’s desk and was cleaning under his thumbnail with a straightened-out paper clip and speaking softly. You could see an undershirt under his shirt; he wore no tie. He kept moving his upper body around in a slight kind of shape or circle, and the movements left a little bit of a visual trail. None of the wigglers in either adjoining row were paying attention to him. Dean checked the little face in the photo to make sure he wasn’t still dreaming.
Wiggle Room é um trecho de The Pale King, o livro com que David Foster Wallace pretendia superar Infinite Jest e que fica perdido para sempre. Além da reprodução de manuscritos, a próxima edição da New Yorker, que já está online, traz a arte de Karen Green, mulher de DFW, reproduzida aí em cima.