Stephen Dixon - What Is All This? - Uncollected Stories

Whatever stuff might he there is from me, not you. Wow, what a zero I have in you.

Zero; that’s a hole. That’s you.

Then I got a one, but a limp one. You’re the worst.

That doesn’t help, by the way if you want there to be a next time. The mind remembers — the subconscious — even if I don’t.

Next time? I really look forward to that.

You never know. It just comes.

I come; you don’t.

Oh? Next time I’ll get in the same place from the other side when we’re all turned around and going cookies, and send you to heaven, baby, send you to heaven.

Send me into a state of frustration and depression, maybe.

I might as well be doing it to myself.

It’s never the same.

There are ways. Chopped liver. Somehow. There are also other men.

And other women.

That’s what I’m telling you to do. But not with me again. How could I?

When you get the itch, you just lie on your back, or I get on my back with my itch, and—

No, sir. Don’t even think the possibility exists.

Sobeit, my love.

Good. Now how about getting off, up, dressed, out and far from here.

Right. Up, out, off, dressed, out, up, away and far from here — got it. But in that order, or should I start from the last first or first laugh?

How did I meet you?

Excus-e me?

How did I ever meet you, and why? What did I see in you and how? What was it that brought us to this? What in God’s name kept me going with you? I’m asking myself. What the hell was I thinking?

What are you talking about?

Why you? There must have been a dozen other guys in the bar, so how come you?

You were attracted to me at the time. Now you’re not.

I wasn’t attracted. It was because of where I happened to sit at the bar — next to you.

Maybe you sat next to me intentionally.

I sat there because it was the only stool left at the bar. Maybe the person before me was a woman who you also bored to death, but she was smarter than me and left.

The person before you was a man.

Maybe you bugged him to death and he left. But that still doesn’t explain it. And don’t give me that you remember who sat there before me. It was too long ago.

Two months to the nose, almost, and I do. It was a man. He had blond hair, and probably still does. And was around my age, build, height, handsize, and he said he was a film editor or something. He talked a lot about film, carried film books. Several on top of the bar getting wet.

I should have met him. He should have held out and bugged you out of the bar. Then your stool would have been the only one available and I would have taken it and talked to him and maybe liked him and given him my phone number, and two months later I’d be here with him, instead of you.

He was gay.

The truth now.

He wasn’t. Or didn’t seem so, at least. In fact, he said “No chicks here, for my money,” and left. That’s what he said.

You remember that too? I don’t believe it.

I’m telling you. I came in, sat, drank. He was already there and didn’t seem too interesting. He mostly spoke to the soldier en the other side of him who was getting worried this man’s books were getting wet.

The soldier sounds nice. How come I don’t remember him? You’d think I’d remember someone in uniform.

Because he also left before you got there and was replaced by another man. A drunk, though nicely dressed, who was in his own world singing songs to himself out loud. Said he could be a singer again, was at one time.

Oh, yeah. Funny guy, in a raincoat, but a fool.

Right. And after ten minutes of this fool singing and right in this man’s ear most of the time, he got up — the editor did — and said to me “No chicks here, for my money,” and left. Then you came in.

I wish I hadn’t.

No matter what you wish, face the music — you came in and sat down.

Who was sitting on the other side of you — just in case I had gotten your seat?

Skip, the ex-actor, who’s an unbelievable eighty-two. Sitting there when I came in and when we left.

I like Skip.

Maybe you should have tried something with him.

Don’t be obnoxious.

I’m not. I like Skip too.

Not that he’s unattractive. I mean, don’t be obnoxious about him. He’s beautiful — a beautiful man — and gentle and witty and filled with wonderful interesting stories about his travels and professional life. And he’s had his heartaches, too. Losing his wife early. Throat cancer that forced him off that soap and practically killed his acting career. A son who couldn’t care less that he’s alive, and grandchildren he’s never seen. He’s told me. He’s told you. Don’t dash his memories.

Who’s dashing?

Spoil them. Crap on them. Don’t insult the old guy. He’s great. I love him.

Getting pretty hot there between you two.

God, you’re stupid.

Don’t call me stupid.

Dumb, then. Because why do you say such stupid things?

Sometimes…forget it.

No, what? I’m sorry.

Sometimes I have to. Sometimes we all, for whatever our reasons, say dumb stupid things.

That could be true. I thought you were going to say something more insightful than that, but okay. Anyway, you now want to get your clothes on?

You see — I did come. Look. There. It isn’t piss.

Maybe it’s your juices finally coming out now from way back in your body. Once those little guys get swimming I don’t see them going back down your tubes to your testes and that other place they’re made in, just because you only got them halfway up.

I’ll get another batch all the way up now if you let me.

If there was ever non-love talk between two people, this is it. Are you a necrophiliac?

No.

A lover of dead bodies?

I know what it is.

Because if there was ever a dead body to make love to, mine’s it. Though don’t try.

I’ve ways to get you going.

No way friend — none. This body is closed, a mausoleum. Door locked, key lost, at least for you. Nothing. For you, nothing ever again.

I know — I’d even bet — I could get you interested.

No. Because I won’t let you. That pencil looks better than you. Just get it out of your head. All your schemes. The BS about bets.

Why won’t you give me a tiny chance to try?

Because I don’t want to. Simple and plain. I don’t like it with you. With anybody like you. I also hate this talk — hate you for talking it. It’s dead-body talk. Antisex. Necrospeech.

Gets me going. Look, take a peek. You can say you’re not attracted to that?

Jesus, what do I have here? Go. Really, your clothes on, the door way behind you. Something. But beat it.

That gets you going? I’ll do it. Yes, ma’am, just watch me fly.

Don’t. Please, don’t be sick.

I was only joking. I’m not sick. That’s what happens when I’m frustrated. But more so that I can’t get what I truly want to say to you across. The nice things. Though I once did it like that with a woman. The one I lived with. It was fun. It might seen crazy now, but she wanted me to, would ask.

I don’t want to hear about it.

“Squirt like a fountain,” she used to say. Something like that. She was from the West Coast. That was the term they used there, she said — Oregon. “Shoot,” I think it was, instead of “squirt.” Or “make.” That’s it. “Make like a fountain,” she used to say.

She must have been as sick as you.

Why? She wasn’t. I loved her, she me. We were together for three years. She had a son, was once married, and for those three years I was his surrogate dad. But after being with someone that long you often try out experiments or throw a few comes away. That night we did it that way. Big deal — no harm. She’d done it like that with her husband. I think we also later made it the more normal way together, so I got in two instead of one, besides all that fun.