Stephen Dixon - What Is All This? - Uncollected Stories

Sure, I suppose so, though I don’t know. Yes.

Of course, yes. Hot soup. What else could it mean? So we’ve stepped aside, but no, this guy actually has hot soup on his tray, two big bowls of it, not cups, and he trips over his own feet or something, and it goes all over me. Hot soup. Not a drop on Hesh. Just me.

That’s terrible.

Scalded — my wrist, my neck, the creep. They had to take me to the hospital.

No .

No, they didn’t. Just wanted to see if you were listening. You were, though I did get a little burn on my hand and greasy noodles and crap on my jacket and shirt. I’m suing the joint. Captain Brey’s might have the best lunch in town for the money and a reputation as long as — well, as long as anything; one of the best. But to me, from now on it’s just a joint I’m going to sue, and you watch me, buddy, I’m going to win.

Where will you eat lunch now? You go there almost every day.

What does it matter where? Their waiters should be more careful. But that’s not all.

There’s more.

Would I say “But that’s not all” if there wasn’t more?

That’s what I meant.

Don’t tell me.

It’s true. You said “But that’s not all,” and though I said There’s more,” I said it uninterrogatively because I knew there was more. It’s just an expression I use. Doesn’t mean anything more than that.

Well, there was more. Plenty more. I left that joint with the stained jacket and shirt and also a stained silk tie. I forgot to mention that. My tie was destroyed. I went straight to Tabor’s — without having lunch, you understand — and bought a new jacket and shirt and tie and brought the other jacket and shirt—

The dirty jacket and shirt.

The stained, ruined, probably forever-useless jacket and shirt to the cleaner’s to see if they could be salvaged. The tie I kept in a bag for future proof against Captain Brey’s. Wait till the judge sees that tie when I pull it out of the bag. The stained jacket and shirt I’ll have photos of. Someone at Tabor’s — the stockboy. It’s his hobby, photography — always carries his camera with him — and he took them for a small fee. Buying the jacket, shirt and tie went smoothly enough. Chose the clothes, gave my charge card — easy. I’m wearing them now — what do you think?

Oh, nice, nice.

Cost me a pretty penny, but I’ll get it back. But the cleaner’s. To make a long story short — to abbreviate it, in other words, because I realize I’ve been running at the mouth too long, and you’re getting to look uncomfortable standing there. Why don’t you take a seat?

I like standing.

Someone standing while I’m sitting and talking always gives me the feeling that person’s about to run away. Come on, sit down.

No, really, what happened? I’m not tired and I won’t run away.

Then your day couldn’t have been too rough.

Actually, that’s what I was about to tell you when—

Before you go into your story, let me finish mine — especially at the most harrowing part. I was robbed. It’s the truth. At the cleaner’s. Cleaned out at the cleaner’s. Taken to it. You know the expression.

Yes.

Well, I was, and so was the cleaner — Mr. Samet — and so was his tailor, Archie, and his presser, Nat, and his seamstress, or whatever she does with her sewing machine in back. What’s her name again?

The woman, around fiftyish, with blond hair?

Redhead. What blond do you think works there?

So I’m a little colorblind. I thought she was a blond.

That’s not being colorblind; you can’t see. Her red hair is a light red, yes — almost orange — but several shades away from being blond. Anyway, we were all robbed. Hesh, the lucky stiff, walked me part of the way there and then ducked into a luncheonette to eat. Two hoods came into the shop with guns out and emptied the cash register and took everything we had. Wallets, pocketbook, watches, rings, change — even my new fountain pen. The one Lillian gave me.

The one for your birthday?

That one. A hundred dollars it cost her, she said.

She told you the price?

I asked her. When she gave it. I wanted to know how valuable it was, just so I’d take better care of it.

A lot of money for a pen.

Did you ever see the way it wrote? And it never leaked. I wanted to have that pen for life. I’m so mad.

I can see why. It’s been quite a day.

But I’m not even finished with it. See what I mean about it being unbelievable? I went back to work penniless, though they did leave me my keys. I thought of calling you to come over to bring me money to get home, but one of the women at work loaned me a twenty. But the cabby couldn’t break it — wouldn’t, is more like it — nor would he let me out of the cab in front here till someone walked by who’d be able to break it. I didn’t want to fool with him. He was insane. Wouldn’t listen to reason. Ranted, raged — I thought he was going to kill me. Tell me, how does a man like that get a hack license?

I suppose the Taxi Commission doesn’t give them the tests they used to years back — police checks, things like that. I hope you got his number.

I got it, all right, but think I’m going to use it? He said he had a club and I wasn’t to leave the cab till someone — but I told you that. I even told him, keep the twenty, but he wouldn’t hear of it — said that would be as if he’d robbed me. No, I don’t want him coming around and clubbing my head if I pressed charges against him. He was an A-1 psychopath. All I eventually told him was “Anything you say, sir, anything.”

Good thinking, and just the right tone.

You bet. And someone did come by who could break the twenty. I gave the cabby the fare and a big tip, so he wouldn’t go crazy if he thought I didn’t give him enough, and left the cab, came into the building and took the elevator up. It worked fine, for once — no bumping and then stopping between floors. Put the key in the door lock. It slid right in — sometimes it doesn’t and gets stuck. And everything seems fine here. I see Angela did a good job cleaning up.

We pay her enough.

Do we ever. So?

Yes?

So, what about you?

Your day finished?

If you mean was that everything — no, I didn’t tell you all. Something very strange did happen at work when I got back after being robbed. And there was also something one of the policemen at the cleaner’s said when I told him “You mean you’re not going to fingerprint the glass counter both robbers put their hands on?”

What did he say?

No, I’ve talked enough. You. What happened today?

Really, when I think of it, nothing.

Come on, tell me. I think I’ve a few minutes before I have to start getting ready to go out. Lillian’s picking me up here. What time is it?

Five after six.

Five after? Oh God, she’s supposed to be here at six. Your watch accurate?

I set it this morning off of the radio clock.

There you go, then. Sorry. I have to shower and shave.

It’s all right. Your stories are always much better than mine anyway, and you tell then much better too.

Do I? I wouldn’t say that. And you’ll keep her company if I’m not out in time, okay?

Once more. I want to try it once more. I don’t want to be told I can’t. I don’t want to be held back in any way. Verbally, physically, whatever, no. I want to try it again and will try it again and I’m trying it again right now and I don’t know just yet whether it works.

It doesn’t. I can see that. I don’t know why I tried. I tried because there was nothing else to do but try. I don’t know how true that is, but I was in my house. There was nothing to do. I’d read the papers and finished a book. I cleaned up the house and did my exercises for today and for tomorrow too. I ate for two days too. I tried to sleep and dream but I couldn’t. I was, in a word, restless. In two words, very restless. I walked around outside and in and told myself I was doing nothing. Then said aloud: You are doing nothing. And I was, though I was really doing something. I was saying out loud you are doing nothing. But that was almost doing next to nothing. I wanted to do something more than that. I wanted to do something. I wasn’t. All I was doing was saying I was doing nothing. All right. So I sat down, which still wasn’t doing anything much more than nothing, and thought about what else I could do, which was doing something a little more than doing nothing or next to nothing. But how long can I think that before it too becomes doing something that’s just about nothing? So I got up and walked around thinking about doing something more than just next to nothing, but I’d covered that thinking when I was sitting. So I went into my study, sat at the typewriter and began typing this. It is something just a little more than doing next to nothing, but if I continue doing it, though I don’t know what I’ll continue doing if I do, it’ll be something that’s just about next to nothing. To avoid doing that, I’ll try something else.