Stephen Dixon - What Is All This? - Uncollected Stories

Lately she’s been giving me signs. We were to meet at an art gallery opening and before she got there a woman said of the two paintings I was standing in front of “Look at that. ‘January 75. January 75.’ How can the painter do even one complicated work like that in a month with so many perfect squiggly lines on top of lines when today’s the 23 rdand they had to have been here by the 22 ndand then before that taken a few days to dry?” I said “I’m not a painter. But you can get that effect by painting one layer of acrylic over a lighter colored layer after the first one’s dried, which only takes an hour or two.” She said “Acrylic, what’s that?” and I told her and she thanked me and walked away and a few minutes later Dawn came. We kissed hello and drank some champagne and talked to a few people she knew and looked at the paintings and got our coats and were about to leave when she said “Let me go to the ladies’ room first.” While she was gone that woman of before came over and said “Oh, you’re leaving? Tell me, what do you do if you’re not an artist?” and I said “I write.” She said “And I play the piano. What do you write, journalism?” and I said “Fiction.” “And I’m a concert pianist. You’ve been published?” and I said “A couple of books,” and she said “Well, good for you. You like Mozart?” “Yes.” “Scriabin?” “Sure. Scriabin, Prokofiev, Stravinsky why not?” “You should feel very at home here — this is a Russian gallery. Tell you what. I love to read. So send me your books and in return I’ll send you tickets to my next recital.” “All right.” “Better yet, drop them off at my apartment and we’ll have coffee and talk some more and then when I get the tickets I’ll send them to you. I live in the Osborne — one block west on 57 thhere. I’m always practicing between ten and three every day of the week, though I don’t mind being interrupted for a short while. My name’s Sue Heissmatt — with an e, I and double-s. Yours is what?” “Vic White.” “Okay, Vic. I haven’t read you but I’m looking forward to it. You have my name and where I live and hours I’m sure to be in, without writing it down?” “It’s in my head.” “Good. Then hope to see you soon,” and we shook hands and she went to the drink table. Dawn returned, and on the street I said “I met a woman there and we got to talking about the paintings we both knew little about and then she started with what we each do. ‘Oh, I’m a writer,’ and ‘I’m a pianist,’ and after a minute’s total conversation she said why don’t I come to her apartment at the Osborne over there one day soon and bring some of my published work along, and in exchange she’ll give me tickets to her next recital.” “You should do that,” and I said “But I’m not interested in her and I don’t want to just screw around.” “Why not? Every now and then you ought to give things a chance rather than only imagining in your head or on paper how they’ll turn out. She might be fun, but do what you want.”

A few days later Dawn drove into the city for dinner with me. She yawned at the restaurant a lot and didn’t talk much or seem interested in anything I said or our food. And whatever touching was done on or under the table she did reluctantly, it seemed, and as briefly as she could without trying to make me wonder about it or upset me. When we were walking back to her car, she said “If you had a phone I would have called to say I was too tired to come tonight, and I can’t stay either. Now I hate even thinking how I’m going to make it home.” “I’ll drive you,” and she said “You don’t have to, I’ll make it some way.” “But if you’re so sleepy, what could be better than not driving off the road, and later being carried from car to soft bed? Just let me stop off for my typewriter and writing work,” and she said “Really, I appreciate your offer, and any other time you know I’d accept. But I’m going to be extremely busy grading exam papers the next three nights, and I can always get it done much faster when you’re not around, all right?” “Of course,” and she said “Great, because I’m too bushed to even think about it anymore, and didn’t want it turning into another big thing.” I said “Another? When was the last other? I’m sorry, excuse me, forget it,” and she said Thanks, lovie.” We kissed goodnight and she got into her car. I blew her a kiss and started back to my building, and a few seconds later she passed me without tapping the horn and waving or even looking at me as she usually did.

I called two nights later and said “How you feeling?” and she said “Tired, bored, overworked, hassled, crotchety, queasy and very unrested, but once I get these exams done and grades in, I’ll perk up,” and I said “I miss sleeping with you, and I’m speaking about just sleeping,” and she said “Sleeping alone was never nearly as good as with a warm partner, but waking up alone can usually be.” I said “Did I tell you about the ad in Coda I answered a couple of months ago?” and she said “What’s Coda , an international spy trade journal?” The poet’s newsletter that’s sent to me every three months or so courtesy of CCLM or CAPS,” and she said “I don’t have the time to ask what those letters or acronyms stand for, and you’re not a poet.” They now let fiction writers in, and I didn’t tell you about the ad?” “You might have, and I forgot.” “It was for a creative writing position, and I answered it—” and she said “If this is going to be one of your long short stories, I still have hours of work to do.” “Five minutes more shouldn’t matter that much — consider it your work break.” “I took my break five minutes ago.” “Okay, I’ll be quick. I got an answer back today from the English Department chairperson, a Ms. Liz Silverstone, was how she letterheaded it, and chairperson with a capital C. She said, and I quote, ‘While you do not have the MFA we advertised for, still, your list of publications leads us to pursue your application further. I’ll add to that: with very strong interest indeed.’ That’s Ms. Chairperson’s adscript in pen, as if the typewritten part wasn’t hers.” “Hurray, you finally might be paid for your fiction,” and I said “Well, I did sell those two books — small press, no advance, and no royalties yet, but they still might come. Anyway, it’s only for a year. And I know no long-range plans between us. But if I do get it, and prospects look good, you and Paula might think about coming to live with me there, all living expenses on me.” “Where is it?” and I said “Southwest Indiana.” “Maybe you better just fly home every now and then,” and I said “I of course wouldn’t expect you to come. Though you did say you wanted to take a leave from high school for a year to have the time to make a film,” and she said “If I make one it’ll only be through a Film Institute grant I applied for, which could mean that same time you’re in Indiana, I’ll be taking courses and shooting and cutting my film in L.A.” “You mean you’d go there without me?” and she said “Without Paula too. She’d stay with her father. But listen, yours is the best offer I got all day. Though don’t write that woman to say you’re no longer interested in the position, just because we wouldn’t be tagging along. Get the job first; then decide.”

I called at the end of the week and said “I know I’m seeing you tomorrow, but I have to tell someone about the ultimate book rejection I got. It came from a Seattle publisher of up till now only Urgo-Slavonic and Altaic translations but who I’d heard four months ago was looking for an original story collection in English. So I sent off a load then, and today, after a couple of queries from me asking about the status of my collection, I got a jiffy bag with half my stories missing and my novella just sort of tossed in there and paginated like so: 5, 14, 78, 24, 2, though six of its pages also missing and the ones that were there either mangled, minced or decapitated. Thinking this peculiar, though also relieved they didn’t accept my work but having anxieties they may have kept the rest to publish as a chapbook, I searched for a note and found at the bottom of the bag not only a standard rejection slip with, you know, ‘Thank you for the opportunity to read this,’ but also burnt matches, cigarette butts, wilted lettuce leaves and pieces of a Vienna roll.” “Maybe they were trying to tell you that you send too much of your work at one time,” and I said “But they did everything but vomit into the bag before stapling it up.” Then I don’t know. But maybe they were also saying ‘We’re a small house new in this particular line. So next time give us a while longer to consider your manuscript without besieging us with queries a month after it’s arrived.’”