Stephen Dixon - What Is All This? - Uncollected Stories

You’ll have to do one of those things to get me out of here while I’m still chained to the radiator. And if you do drag or carry the radiator and me downstairs or manage to lift us over the windowsill into a crane shovel, you have to know by now that nothing’s going to stop me from coming back. Even if I’m still chained to the radiator because you couldn’t find the key, or I’ve lost the key and, as punishment or just to keep me from returning here, you’ve left the radiator chained to me, I’ll find some way to drag myself along with the radiator step by step up the stairs. If I can’t drag myself and the radiator, then I’ll find some tool or rock to file or chip away at the chain or radiator till I’m either free of the chain or have detached it from the radiator, and then only chained to the chain I’ll drag myself upstairs.

I suppose the only way you could then stop me from getting back here is to erect a wall around the building and cement up my window and door and maybe remove the fire escape and stairs. But in time I’d find some way to reach the building and get to my floor and through the cemented-up window or door, so the only way you can really ever stop me from coming back would be to remove the building.

Only then would I be able to say to myself that not only were you able to force me to leave but also from getting back to my apartment. I don’t see how there can be another way for you to stop me from returning, so you might as well raze the building now. And as long as you’re going to have no choice but to demolish the building, suppose I unlock the door myself, leave the room and go downstairs to the street.

He hadn’t spoken to her in ten years when he decided to call.

“Hello?”

“Miriam?”

“Yes, this is Miriam Cabell; who is it?”

“Miriam Cabell, now — I didn’t know. Whatever happened to Miriam Livin?”

“If you don’t mind, who is this, please?”

“And Miriam Berman?”

“I asked who this is. Now for the last time—”

“Arnie.”

“Who?”

“Arnie…well, guess.”

“I’m in no mood for games, really. And if it’s just some crank — my husband handles all those calls.”

Then Arnie Spear — satisfied, Mrs. Cabell?”

“Wait a minute. Not Arnie X.Y.Z. Spear.”

The very same, madame.”

“Arnie Spear the famous sonnet writer and lover of tin lizzies and hopeless causes and the world’s greatest raw green pea eater?”

“Well, I don’t want to brag, but—”

“Oh God, Arnie, how in the world did you get my number?”

“I’m fine, thank you…have a little pain in my ego, perhaps, but how are you?”

“No, I’m serious — how’d you get it?”

“I bumped into Gladys Pempkin coming out of a movie the other night. She told me.”

“How is Gladys?”

“Fine, I guess. Haven’t you seen her recently?”

“I’ve been running around so much these days, I hardly see anyone anymore. In fact, the last time with Gladys must’ve been a good year ago.”

“Your name,” he said, “—Cabell. That’s your new husband, isn’t it?”

“Fairly new. We’ve been married two years — or close to two. I wonder if you knew him.”

“Don’t think so. You happy, Miriam?”

“Happy? Why, was I ever really unhappy? But maybe I should toss the same ticklish nonsense back to you. How about it?”

“I’m happy. Very happy, I suppose. Really doing pretty well these days.”

“I’m glad.”

“Whatever happened to Livin — your last?”

That bastard? Listen, I made a pact with myself never to mention his name or even think of him, so help me out, will you?”

“What happens if you break the pact?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean if let’s say we suddenly begin talking about him. Do you declare war on yourself and sort of battle it out till one or the other side of you has won?”

That was a figure of speech I made. And why would you want to talk of Livin when you never knew him? Anyway, tell me how Gladys looks. Last time I saw her it seemed she was hitting the bottle pretty heavily or at least on pills.”

“She seemed fine. A little tired, perhaps, but not much different than the last time I saw her — which was with you, remember?”

“No, when was that?”

“I don’t know. About ten years ago or so.”

“I can only remember old events if I’m able to place in my mind where I was at the time. Where was I?”

“In this coffee shop on Madison and 58 th. The Powder Puff I think it was called.”

“No, I don’t recall any such place.”

“It folded about four years ago. I know because for a few months I had a magazine editing job in the area and used to walk by the shop daily. And then one day it was suddenly empty of everything but a couple of sawhorses and there was a For Rent sign up. Now it’s a beauty shop.”

“Wait a minute. Not some incredibly garish beauty shop? With lots of pink and blue wigs on these wooden heads in the window and with a refreshment counter in front serving tea and cookies?”

“I think that’s the one.”

“Do you know, I once went there to have my hair done — isn’t that strange? It’s not a very good place, which is why I only went once. They dry all your roots out.”

“Well, that’s where we last saw each other. The place has always been particularly meaningful to me — almost as a starting point in a new phase of my life. Because if it wasn’t for what you told me in there that morning, I doubt whether I would’ve become so conscious of my hang-ups then to leave the city, as I did, and get this great job out of town.”

“Excuse me, Arnie. You’re still on that beauty shop?”

“Don’t you remember? We met there for coffee — when it was still a coffee shop. It was a very intense scene for me — holding your hand, and both of us unbelievably serious and me trying to work up enough courage to propose to you. Well, you mercifully cut me off before I was able to make a total ass of myself and told me, and quite perceptively, I thought, what a shell of an existence I was living and how, instead of trying to write fiction about a world I knew little of, I should get a job and move out of my parents’ place and see what things were really like. I was so despondent after that—”

“Yes. Now I remember.”

“Remember how torn up I was? I was a kid, then, granted, or just awfully immature, but it was very bad, extremely crushing.”

“Yes. I hated that last scene.”

“So, right after that, I quit school and got a cub reporter slot on the Dallas paper my brother was working for then — more copyboy than cub reporter, really — just so I could be away from you and the city and all. And later, well, I did become a reporter and moved up fast and then went to Washington to cover local news stories for several Texas papers. And then the correspondent jobs overseas seemed to pour in, none of which I could have taken if I were married at the time or seriously attached.”

Then things have worked out in their own way, right?”

“I suppose you can say so.”

“And you’ve also seen a lot of the world, am I right? I mean, Europe and such?”

“Europe, Central America, Rio and Havana, and once even a year’s stint in Saigon as a stringer for a consortium of TV stations. I’ve had a good tine.”

“I’m glad.”

“I’ve been very fortunate for a guy who never had a thought of going into news — very.”

“I’m not someone who reads or watches the news, so I never had the chance to see you. But it really sounds like you’ve done well. And there can’t be many things more exciting than traveling. Besides the fact of also getting paid for it.”