Leonard Michaels - The Collected Stories

“I’m glad you came tonight, Harold.”

“I’m glad you’re glad,” I said. “Name is Stanley.”

He wore a shirt and tie, nothing else. He had bloodshot eyes, a beard, a cigar in his mouth. Fumes drifted from his nostrils as if from boiling sinuses.

“I’m sorry you’re leaving.”

“I’m sorry you’re sorry.”

“I feel as if you want to say something nasty to me, Harold.”

“Not at all, I assure you.”

His legs were black and wild with hair. Burning meat looped on his thigh.

“You must have had a fight with one of your girlfriends. And I have to pay for it, eh, Harold? Well, what’s a fuck’n friend for if you can’t mutilate him every ten minutes, eh?”

He laughed, winked at her.

I edged by him, nodding agreeably, grinning, slapping his shoulder lightly. Not too intimate. I knew the signs and wanted to give no excuse for violence. I tugged her along behind me into the outside hall. He leaned after us, saying, “How do you like my beard, Harold?”

“Makes you look religious.”

“You think I’m not religious?”

“I mean it’s a nice religious beard.”

“Say what you mean, Harold. I hate innuendo. I’m not religious. I’m Satan, right? What should I do, Harold?”

He was yelling as we went through the lobby, then out to the street. She squeezed my hand, pressed to my side. He pressed to my other side, yelling, “A moralist like you knows about people. I’d like to be like you and keep my principles intact, but I’m weak, Harold. I lack integrity. I haven’t the courage to commit suicide, Harold.”

He laughed, nudged my ribs with a big fist. His meat angered and there were suddenly two of him: Laughing and Angry. I snickered and looked up the street for a cab. She whispered, “Ignore him,” and I whispered, “Good idea.” I saw a cab, waved. It started toward us. She got right in, but he had my arm now.

“Wait one minute, Harold. I want your opinion about a moral problem.”

He pushed his face at mine and tapped his beard, grinning and winking. “Which way is better, pointed or rounded?”

“How about growing it into your mouth?”

He let go of me and stepped back.

“That would kill our conversation, Harold. And you know when people stop talking they start fighting. For instance, if I stopped talking right now I might kick you in the nuts.”

He stopped talking, dropped his hands lightly on his hips, spread his legs. I kicked him in the nuts.

“Ooch.”

I leaped into the cab, slammed the door, slammed the lock, and his face smeared the window as I rolled it up. His eyes glazed, his upper lip shriveled, spit came bubbling between his teeth. His fingers clawed then whipped across the glass as the cab shot away. I turned to her. She was staring at me with big lights in her eyes, quivering. She dropped her eyes. I inhaled, rubbed my hands together to keep them from shaking and from touching her.

“That look on his face,” I said.

“And his penis.”

“That, too.”

“It was so biblical.”

“Old Testament.”

She touched me, then took my hand. Going across town we talked about the people, what they looked like, what they said, who did what, and so on. We talked in my apartment, listened to our voices, boats in the river, planes in the sky, and it was impossible to say when it happened or who laid whom and we fell asleep too soon afterward to think about it. Not that I would have thought about it. I’m not a poet, I’m Phillip. And then I awoke as if from a nightmare and it was brilliant morning. She was standing like a stork on one leg, pulling a stocking up the other. She said, “Hello,” and her voice was full of welcome, but I saw she was too much in motion, already someplace else. Her eyes were pleasant, but they looked through mine as if mine weren’t eyes, just tunnels that zoomed out the back of my head.

“Leaving?”

“I’ll call you later. What’s your number?”

“Leaving?”

I stared at her. She finished dressing, then sat stiffly on the bed to say goodbye. We kissed. It was external for her. I seized her arms, kissed harder, deeper. She was all surface despite me, despite the way she felt to me. I released her.

“Look,” I said, “you can’t leave.”

“Please, Phillip. It’s been nice, very nice.”

She stared at a wall.

“Is something the matter?”

“No.”

A toilet flushed next door, water retched in pipes. I got out of bed and went naked to my desk. I found a pen, returned, and pushed her backward onto the bed.

“I’m all dressed, Phillip.”

I shook her hands off, lifted her dress, and scribbled across her belly: PHILLIP’S. On her thighs: PHILLIP’S, PHILLIP’S.

She sat up, considered herself, then me. As she rehooked her stockings she said, “Why do that?”

“I don’t know.”

“You must have something in mind.”

“What can I say? I’m aware the couple is a lousy idea. I read books. I go to the flicks. I’m hip. I live in New York. But I want you to come back. Will you come back?”

“I have a date.”

“A what?”

“Can’t I have a date? I made it before we met.”

“Break it.”

“No.”

“Will you come back?”

“I’ll try.”

“Today?”

“I’ll try,” she said, straightened her dress, went to the door, out, and down the steps. D’gook, d’gook. The street door opened. She was gone. I was empty.

I flopped on the bed, picked up the phone, and called my date for the afternoon. A man answered.

“Yeah?”

“May I speak to Genevieve?”

“Hey, baby, the telephone.”

His voice was heavy, slow, rotten with satisfaction. Heels clacked to the phone. A bracelet clicked, a cigarette sizzled, she exhaled, “Thanks, Max,” then, “Hello.”

“This is Phillip.”

“Phillip? Phillip, hello. I’m so happy you called. What time are you coming for me?”

“Never, bitch.”

I dropped the phone, g’choonk.

I flopped on the bed, empty, listening to the phone ringing, ringing, and fell asleep before it stopped. There was no moment of silence, no dreaming, nothing but the sound of her footsteps going down, then coming up, a knock at the door and I awoke. It was early afternoon. She leaned over me.

“Phillip.”

I caught her hand, dragged her down like a subaqueous evil scaly. We kissed. She kissed me. I bit her ear. We kissed and there was no outside except for the phone ringing again. I let it. We had D. H. Lawrence, Norman Mailer, triste .

I lighted cigarettes and put the ashtray on her belly. Even tired, groggy, triste , I could see we were a great team. Smoke bloomed, light failed, I savored the world. Before the room became dark I turned on my side to examine her belly and thighs. The PHILLIP’S were in each of the places. All about them like angry birds were: MAX’S, FRANK’S, HUGO’S, SIMON’S.

“For God’s sake,” I said.

I looked into her eyes, she mine. She put out her cigarette, gave me the ashtray, and turned her back to me. I was about to yell, but was stopped by writing down her spine: YOYO’S, MONKEY’S, HOMER’S, THE EIGHTY-SEVENTH STREET SOCIAL AND ATHLETIC CLUB’S.

My voice trickled.

“All right, we’ll do this properly. Get to know one another. I see you’re difficult. Good. Difficulty is an excellent instructor, just the one I need. It’ll extend the reach of my original impressions. I misjudged you, but I appreciate you. I’ll study you like a course. Turn around. Let me kiss you, all right?”

She turned around. I kissed her. She kissed me. We had Henry Miller.

In the shower I scrubbed everyone off front and back and asked her name.

“Cecily,” she said.