Stephen Dixon - What Is All This? - Uncollected Stories

I love her.

You hardly know her.

She told you that?

I know. Accept that I know. And if she wanted to see you, she would. She’s an exceptionally honest, straightforward person. If you love her as you say, that’s good, but it should also mean you wouldn’t want to hurt her as you’re doing. It isn’t nice. Be nice. Maybe this sounds overrighteous. And giving advice isn’t my line. But on something like this, you’ve got to take it like it comes.

What is your line, crapping on girls?

Oh, brother. Your wasting everyone’s time. Hers, yours, and what’s maybe not as important, mine.

Sure, sure.

Okay. I don’t know why I said that. Maybe thinking humility would get you to stop. Worst of all, you’re wasting my time. I’m sleepy, I worked hard today, and I don’t want to hear this damn phone ringing all night.

Ah, the truth comes out.

Truth, yes, shallowness, no. What can I possibly say to convince you? Jane must have said it all. She’d nodding her head. She’s making like she’s cutting her throat. Maybe my throat. Oh, the phone’s. She wants me to hang up. Who could blame her. And as entranced as I am with our talk here, what do you say we call it quits for the night? It’s very late.

You’re starting to sound like Jane now.

So, Jane and I are pretty close. But it does seem dumb to let everyone on the phone know you’re a misfit. Even dangerous. People get put away for less. But I don’t think you actually are. You’re just very distressed over being rejected.

Deferred.

Not deferred; rejected. She doesn’t want you no way. You’ve struck out. Zero. What more can she say — get lost?

Let her say it.

Listen: get lost. Take a walk. Scram. Vamoose. But leave her alone. For your own sake, you have to.

Take care of your own problems.

I said leave her alone, you dumb creep, is that clear? Now I tried to be nice before, but if I have to break your dumb neck to get you to stop, I will. I mean that.

You convinced me.

And I’m not saying this for selfish reasons. You’ve got to have some consideration for others and yourself too.

No, you’re right.

Peace, then, brother.

Peace.

He calls back.

Do you mind, brother? We’re screwing.

He calls back. The line’s busy. The line’s busy ten minutes later. He goes to bed, calls her.

No one can be as crazy as you.

Wait, Jane. I’m sleepy myself. Drunk, besides. No, that was said for affect. What I meant—

Go to sleep, Biff.

What I mean is now that I know you’re in no way interested—

I can’t pretend. I can’t say yes, you’re right. Everything would sound too absurd to say. I can’t even hang up on you again. That would also seem absurd. You have to just hang up on yourself and fall asleep and never call again, because there’s nothing else I can say or do for you.

Jane? Jane? You still there? Don’t answer, then, but you’re still there, somewhere by the phone. Well, I love you, Jane. Beery and sleepy as I am, I hope you know that. I never told you that on or off the phone. I did your friend. I know it’s a little late to tell. Late o’clock and late for us and so on. But now you know. I’m also sorry for all my disturbances today, and to you too whatever that fellow’s name is. The man you’re with or I hope were. And whatever he said to me about me was right. And he didn’t seem to be crapping on you, as much as I know you don’t like the word. He seemed all right. He implied I should act more like a grown man, and of course he’s right. He told me I was tormenting you. I wish he wasn’t right on that, but how could I believe he’s wrong. I’m sorry, Jane. You listening? Well, listen, then — I’m very sorry. This whole day’s been awful. It started off horrible with something I didn’t even tell you. And then those calls. How do I ever get out of them or forget all this? I’ve never done anything like it. They just built up. If you had said yes for the weekend, they wouldn’t have happened. I would have come over, tonight, or last night, because it’s now morning, with the car. Driven us to where we would have gone. Who knows if from there we might not have gone on for years or for life, even, and I never would have done anything remotely like those calls. But it snowballed, as they say. Snowballs in summer. It can happen anywhere, anytime. Jane? Is the receiver on your bed? Are you on your bed? Alone, or both of you? Are both of you listening to me now? Well, I love you, Jane, I do. And you, whatever your name is, I don’t love you, but if you’re there — well, you were very kind. He was, Jane. Smart. Thoughtful. He blew up at me because I was asking for it. I’m sorry. I hope you’re both happy and well, if both of you are there. And have fun together, if he’s still there. Though I wish I was in your place. His place with you, Jane, if he’s there or not. But that’s all right. I mean that. Jane? I can’t talk like this. It sounds crazy, talking to myself. It does. But I have to say something. You knew I wouldn’t like it. You’re a real shrewdy. And I know this is my last call to you. Even if you hung up or said call me again, it would be my last call. Listen to me, Jane. I’ve only a few more things to say and then I’ll be gone. You probably thought there’s nothing left for me to say, but you’d be wrong if you thought that. There is. You see, I felt forced into making those calls. Maybe some spirit got hold of me inside, but it wasn’t really me. That’s nonsense, of course, spirits. I mean…please say you’re there and listening, Jane. Then just say you’re there or listening. I’ve never in my life talked to myself like this. It’s a new feeling and I don’t like it. New for me. I mean new in that I’ve never in my life called anyone so many times in a row. I think I already said that tonight, or something like it, but it’s true. And surely it wasn’t important what I had to say. Everything. We both know that. Nothing was. But I felt compelled. That’s it. That’s what I meant by my being forced to make these calls. Compelled, now and all the other times with you, but less so now. And I know it wasn’t in any way a joke. I realize it was the worst thing I could do to you. And it won’t ever happen again. I’m saying I’ll never be like this again, Jane. I can’t. I learned. I promise. It was so totally uncharacteristic of me. I mean it. Totally. Jane? You there? Well, speak.

I’m sorry but I’m not going to leave. Even if you slipped another message under my door and this one begging me to go, I won’t leave. You could send a half-dozen messages if you want, two dozen if you like, and all typed on the finest stationery or written in the most elegant hand, but I still won’t leave. You could have anyone or any number of people you know or I’m supposed to know slip under my door any number of messages that you or they as a group dictated and someone else wrote, but these aren’t going to get me to leave. You or anyone else could phone me a hundred times in succession and all night long and all day tomorrow and the day and week and even the next week and month after that if you think it’ll do any good, but it won’t get me to leave. You could send a satchelful of telegrams of any kind including ship to shore and anniversary and get-well singing grams, but I still won’t leave. I’m telling you, I will not leave. I won’t even stick my head or foot past the door to give the impression I’m about to leave. I won’t even make a single move to open the door, even so much as to get closer than I already am to the door, for as I said before, why should I give you even the slightest hope I’m leaving or even thinking of leaving, as there isn’t anything I can see that’ll change my mind to get me to leave.