Stephen Dixon - What Is All This? - Uncollected Stories

“Too bad, then. That it happened. And that she or it can’t be broached.” Sticks out his hand. “Lionel Stelps.”

“Victor Rusk.”

Shaking of hands. Nicing of days. Changing of weathers. Preferences of sun to rain, city to suburbs, streets to parks, busier the better. What do you do’s? Where you off to’s? Going my ways? Okays. Walk. Talk. Seems he likes almost nothing better in life than to walk the streets too. To talk to people he knows or doesn’t know but who know him, or to people he doesn’t know and who don’t know him but who like almost nothing better in life than to walk the streets and be stopped by people they know or don’t know, and for many of the reasons that he and I do. Because we like people. Talking and listening to people. Because we like to be outdoors and preferably on the busy and hectic streets of the city with many kinds of people of both sexes and all sorts of age groups and occupations and pursuits. He’s very much like me, in other words. Maybe that’s why I wanted to stop him, when I ordinarily don’t want to stop anyone I don’t know and who shows no sign of knowing me. Not just his clothes. Not that I could have known much what he was like or what he almost liked doing best in life just by his clothes. Not that I really could see what his clothes were like, and especially the front part, from so far away in back when I first spotted him and thought I might want to stop him. Not that I even like to stop people who are like me in any way and who like almost nothing better in life than walking the streets to stop and talk to people or be stopped by people they know or don’t know but who know them or show some sign they do. And as far as I know he isn’t like me except for what he almost likes to do best in life and that he likes what helps contribute to it: mild weather, good health, sufficient sleep, crowded city streets, etcetera. His voice, face, hair, build, height, weight, age and just about everything else about him, and especially his clothes, aren’t like me or mine at all. He’s well-kempt, — shoed, — spoken, — bred, more mildly mannered than I, it seems, and he wears a hat. I don’t own a single headpiece. Not even a winter cap, or hat with a brim of any kind to keep the sun off my face. Must be lots of people who do what we do, we say. Streets, walk, talk, people, stop, like to be stopped, and so on. Now the sun goes. I probably got a bit of a burn on my face today, which he didn’t because of his hat. Continue to talk. He’s lived a few more years in his apartment than I have in mine. Streets get less crowded, and not because we’ve passed through the heart of the city or it’s that time of day. Bad sign, we say. Clouds come. We continue to walk. Three more blocks, four. Sky darkens. Talk about what we don’t like to do most. Stay inside on nice days like this one was, for one thing. Not talking to anyone for hours, another thing. Day after day of unrelenting rain is probably the worst thing. Wind. Store awnings quaking. People hurrying. Signboards swinging. People running. They sense something. Finally, we do too. Or I just sense it, because it’s possible he already did and wasn’t saying. Maybe because he wanted to continue talking. “Pity,” he says. Pats my shoulder.

“Pity is right,” and I pat his shoulder.

Though nice chat we had.”

“Yes, while it lasted. No, that’s not what I wanted to say or how I wanted to say it. One of those, not both. But I think you know what I mean without my going into it or repeating what I wanted to say the right way.”

He doesn’t say yes or no or nod or shake his head. He smiles, a weaker smile than the ones before, and sticks out his hand. I stick out mine and we shake. It starts to sprinkle.

“See you sometime,” he says. “But I better run. Don’t want to ruin my clothes.”

“I guess I don’t mind getting—” I begin to say, but he walks away. Put up his umbrella and is heading further downtown. That where he live? Maybe he was shopping in midtown. But he had no package. The djellabas. But they weren’t bagged or wrapped. Maybe he came to midtown to get them from a friend, or even the umbrella or book or hat or he bought something that can’t be seen in a pocket or around his neck or wrist. Or even his ankle. Men sometimes wear ankle bracelets, though that’s the least likely prospect I mentioned. Or maybe he strolled all the way to around where I live and possibly beyond, and just to stroll — for exercise, let’s say — and I caught him walking back to his home downtown. But that doesn’t explain the djellabas. The book he could be carrying for any number of reasons. For instance, just to read in a stopping-off place like a café. What was the subject matter of the book again that I was going to look up? Forgot. Such a long, complicated and unfamiliar word, I doubt I’ll ever be able to remember it. Maybe he hurried off with that rain excuse because he knows something more about this area than I. I rarely get this far from my block. The last time was when? Can’t remember. Well, lots of questions, and nothing like a little mystery in one’s life. What’s the mystery in mine? That personal experience I brought up and didn’t explain? Bet he’s wondering about it now. Woman, hmm, I can see him thinking. Actually, I can still see him walking downtown, the umbrella still protecting him. He’s a block away but not many people between us. Then he disappears. Maybe he ducked in someplace to get out of the rain. Doesn’t even want a few drops on his clothes, if that excuse was the truth. What I was going to tell him before he left was “I guess I don’t mind getting caught in the rain as much as you.” He would have asked why. I would have said “My clothes are quite old and used. First old, then used. I mean by that: made old by someone else, or who knows how many people, because who knows how many thrift shops they were in, then further used by me. In plainer language: I bought all the clothes I have on in a thrift shop. Several thrift shops, but they all came from one. Meaning: several different thrift shops, but they’re all thrift-shop clothes. In even plainer language: they’re worn, shabby, very cheap clothes that were the only ones I could afford in several very cheap thrift shops. What could be called work clothes if I worked. Worked at a laborer’s job where one didn’t need good clothes. In the plainest language possible: I don’t mind ruining them; they’re already ruined.”

I look in all four directions, I seem to be one of the few pedestrians on the streets, and those that are on them are protected by rainwear or umbrellas or both. But why get wet? It’s pouring now, so I mean why get wetter? I duck under a store awning. But why duck? Ducks take to rain, don’t they? That might have elicited a laugh from that man. A good joke, I think, and I laugh out loud. Oops. Someone’s under the awning with me. A woman, also with no umbrella or rainwear.

“Howdy-do,” I say to her, “Nice day, eh?” She gives me the fisheye, looks away. One of those. Meaning: she is.

“Just a joke,” I say. “Minor. Harmless. Didn’t mean anything by it. Just the good mood I’m in. But some rain. Cats and dogs, yes? Bats and hogs, no.” Fisheye, looks away. Still one of those. No letup. She nor the rain. Me too, I guess. Strangers. But maybe I’ll get to her yet. In a good way, I’m saying. “Okay, I understand, madame. Takes all kinds, and I love that it does. But must say good-day. I must, not you. For ducks take to rain as they do to water, don’t they? In fact, rain is water. Rainwater, of course.” Fisheye, mutters, clutches her handbag closer to her, moves two steps away from me but still under the awning. I laugh to myself, but inside this time. Sort of to balance the last time I laughed out loud, which was to an inside remark.