Stephen Dixon - What Is All This? - Uncollected Stories

“Don’t stand there gaping like an idiot at nothing — pretending she doesn’t exist. I saw her envelopes in your pockets — even in your billfold once. She writes you at the office, right? About once a week from what I can make out. For a moment she thought she had him: his bottom lip dropped and his face froze. She was excited at the prospect of his spilling the whole story of the woman and thus clearing up the fuzziness of it in her own mind, because just by his silence and cunning avoidance of the issue she was starting to feel like a fool. But now he returned to his old maneuvers, gazing out at the street, at nothing at first, then at a passing bus, trying to give the impression he wasn’t concerned with anything she said.

That last one got you, didn’t it? Well, you needn’t have looked so worried. I didn’t pry inside the envelopes. That’s not saying I wouldn’t have, but I just never had the chance.”

Those letters you refer to — that is, if they’re the same ones I’m thinking of, were business correspondence from a silver company in England.”

“London, England?”

The main office is in London, yes. But the factory’s in Edinburgh.”

“And this company always makes it a practice of writing you on salmon-colored stationery and with pale-blue feminine script?”

“Knock the ways of British business if you want, but it’s what helped send us over here on the cuff.”

“And doesn’t that make me delirious. But the owner, or salesperson, couldn’t by any chance have the first name of Margaret?”

“If you mean Miss Pierce — she’s their corresponding secretary. She must be a damn efficient woman from what I can make out, though I’ve never met her. Both times I was in the office, she wasn’t there.”

“It’s a lovely name, Margaret — as if it fits for this quiet English Sunday. Seems any woman who’d have it would be the type to light your fires, eagerly mix you drinks and such, and later make perfect shy love.”

This one’s probably a pursy seventy and maybe an Anglican deacon on the side.”

“If I ever wanted to be named anything, it was Margaret. I think I would have been much different for it.”

“I kind of always preferred the name Morris for you myself.”

“Would you like my being called Margaret? If you did, I might even change it for you.”

“If you feel that name would suit you better, fine. Now let’s get a move on then, sweetheart, though to where, I don’t know.”

She sailed. “Just lead the way, my dear.” She looped her arm through his and they began to walk at an even pace. After a minute, he broke away from her and walked ahead. She kept abreast of him for a while. Then he walked faster, his arms and fists pumping back and forth like those people in sweatsuits she’s seen on the park side of Central Park West from her apartment window, looking as if they were in a speed-walking race.

“I can’t keep up with you,” she said.

“You have your thirty-dollar walking shoes on — so walk.”

She stopped, wheezing from nearly running a block alongside him, and said “I was right before. You do want to hurry off somewhere without me. Every action of yours says so.”

He stopped and trotted back. “When are you going to give up on that worn-out crap?”

“When you start telling the truth.”

“I can’t insist what I say is the truth. And there are people around. This is getting embarrassing. You’ll just have to start believing what I say, that’s all.”

“But you do want to walk much faster. At least admit that.”

“Yes, I want to walk faster. It felt good, but not for the reason you have. I just feel like moving today — almost like running like a kid.”

“So why don’t you then?”

“Yeah, I can really see myself doing that too.”

“I’m serious — run. Don’t let me hold you back.”

“If you don’t shut up, I will.”

“But that’s what I’m saying — run. I’m being honest with you, and you’re a dope not to take me up on it. Say your goodbyes and run the hell away from here, back to the hotel for your things and then back to this neighborhood or some other, or wherever, but run, goddamnit — just go.”

“Oh, screw it then,” but he stared at her a few seconds as if waiting for her to change her instruction, and then began walking in the direction they’d been heading, quickening his steps when he was a few feet away from her and then starting to run. People on the street turned to look at him as he ran past. At first all she could think was how silly he looked from behind, his jacket waving and his buttocks jiggling and his legs cockeyed and flailing as if this were the first time he’d tried running, although he more likely forgot how to run as he used to or was running that way because he’d been out of shape so long. By now he was more than a block away, surprising her with his wind and at a distance much farther than she expected him to get in such a short time.

I think life is worth living just for the sex in it.

Say that again?

Life. Life can be worth living just for sex.

I see.

I believe that.

And I see. But what happens when you get old and there’s no sex. You commit suicide?

Old people do it.

Once a year and hurray, today’s the day, and maybe every sixth federal holiday.

They can do it almost as much as us. Though it takes longer and the men have less juice to squish out and the women are a little drier down there. So I’d use a lubricant, that’s all.

Oh, wiggle me one of your drier-down-heres — I love that.

It’s true. In the Times . There was a study. A report of one. If you’d read, you’d know.

I still don’t think so. The heart, the sudden palpitations — who’d have the guts to?

So you go slower, side by side. There are ways. Whatever, will you try to hustle it up a little?

And don’t give me that. about my reading. It doesn’t have to be newspapers.

Just be quiet and move, twitch, do something because you’re becoming a dead weight on me again,

You’re also supposed to move.

Let’s just keep a lid on it till we’re through.

Right. You about through now too?

I was through two minutes ago.

You never said anything.

Said? What the hell you think my screams were about?

Those were screams? I thought that was you complaining I was too heavy.

Those were sexual moans. I hit the top, I yell like everybody else, except maybe you.

I yell; I scream.

You titter. You go meow like a pussycat — and then fall off and doze or pretend to because you think it’s cute. You’re a boy getting his first screw. You’re hopeless.

Thanks. I’m still not done yet, so thanks. My uncle, my whole family, say thanks.

Don’t blame me.

No, I’ll blame my uncle, my whole family — thanks.

You had your chance. When I’m up there that long I’d think you’d get there too.

Well, I wasn’t.

You had time.

What’s time got to do with it? I was enjoying the nuances, the textures, each little speciality of the act. Gradually building to the peak of all time, or one of them. Then you came in with your sex-is-life line.

Life is worth living, etcetera. Anyway, will you get off me?

Maybe I can still work it out.

Work it out on some other girl, not me.

Give me a minute more.

Minute more on someone else, now off.

Hold it. I’m there. Just give it another shake or two. Oh, that’s it, that’s it.

Oh, that’s it, what? I’m not doing anything. God, you’re a load.

There.

Bull.

No, there, I did it.

You did what? You did nothing.

Feel it down there yourself.