“Crash of ’69” is a short story by David Foster Wallace. It was originally published in the New York-based literary quarterly Between C & D in winter of 1989. Between C & D published their journal on dot matrix paper and distributed it in plastic bags–not exactly the best way to preserve something.
CRASH OF ‘69 by David Foster Wallace
KARRIER
It’s great. I’m always wrong. It’s great.
Ask anybody except my agent if it’s great. He’ll be in checks and Weejuns, pointing binoculars at narrow horses hung with satin as they’re led toward their boxes. Mr. Diggs will say it’s great. He holds his racing form a certain way. He folds both sides together, to compare possibilities.
He’ll say So what about Rusty Hull in the Fourth, kid.
And I’ll say A winner, so sure a thing it’s almost boring, money in the account of our choice, Mr. Diggs.
He’ll put the forms side by side and feel the square of hair on his chin and say So then what about Siberian Saber-Toothed Crotch-Cricket, Karrier? Does Siberian Saber-Toothed Crotch- Cricket have a chance here in the Fourth?
I’ll say Mr. Diggs sir, no way. As in no chance. As in I feel in my chest, bowels the absence of even one slim snowball’s chance for Siberian Saber-Toothed Crotch-Cricket.
The form trembles a certain way in his hands as he trains the glasses on a certain horse, from here a tiny hull atop legs.
But are you sure Karrier.
I feel it, Mr. D. It’s that feeling, with the tight hide and velvet lips. That no-way certainty.THE WOMAN WHO’S GOING TO BE HIS LOVER
I’ll take Father’s arm and we’ll take our constitutional together through the dawning halls of the Federal Reserve, to the sound of the click of my heels and the squeak of his chair, as the fire in the East window yellows. He says We can’t live like this, child. A whole nation has lost the cool side of the pillow. First thing every morning I taste in my mouth the human potential for evil.
His neck’s slow tic sends his head around over his shoulder. It has ceased to be great. The only brilliance he sees is over his shoulder, now.
Biblioklept 