Stephen Dixon - 30 Pieces of a Novel

She didn’t call, and he thought about calling her for a week. Then always thought no, why should he? She can’t be too interesting. Or let’s say she is, in a little way, but what would they talk about? Well, he’d have to know what she’s interested in. But after a while he’d make as big a fool of himself as he’s ever done in his life. That an exaggeration? No, because what could be more foolish than an old guy making a pass at what’s really a girl? Being rejected, maybe, or accepted — he doesn’t know which. For that’s what it’d probably lead to if it went on, since if they did have coffee he’d say at the end of it, “Why not let’s do this again? That is, if you want to and have the time; it’s been enjoyable”—politics, they could have talked about, literature, writers, painting, teaching, learning, living in the city — and if she agreed, fine, and if not, well, that’d be okay too, but if they did meet again for coffee, or a couple of times after that—“We got a regular coffee-klatsch going,” he could call it — he’d say, “What about we go out to dinner one time, for a change of pace, or just lunch? My treat, someplace fairly simple around here — actually, I’m not much for lunch; if I eat a carrot it’s a lot — but I’ll go and have something,” and suppose she said yes or “If you don’t eat lunch, then let’s have dinner.” He’d pick her up at her door? Probably lives with a roommate. University housing off-campus can be very expensive. All this is to say if she doesn’t have a lover or serious boyfriend, and with them is there a difference? And then what? When you have dinner or even lunch, you talk about things you don’t when you’re just having coffee — he thinks that’s right, at least about dinner. And different too from when you’re just having a drink. A drink — a bar — picturing it: all those college kids in the bars around here; it’d look absurd. And what would they drink: beer, wine, and the first time clink glasses and make a toast? What would they even talk about that second time for coffee, and the third? Her father, mother. Siblings, if she has any. Growing up in an academic household. What she’s taking in school. They probably would have gone over that already. Well, what she learned that day or week in classes or read for them. A paper she might be writing; maybe he could help. But would he be interested in any of it? How does he know? And he hated writing papers in school. Movies, that’s what young people like most today, and music, but not his kind of movies and music, he’s almost sure. And no going to her apartment building if it’s only occupied by young college students and no married couples and some with kids, nor going there either if she has a roommate, female or non-lover male. Maybe they could skip lunch or dinner and just go to a movie — he could meet her at a corner or in front of her building or the theater — and discuss it over coffee after, no matter how bad it is. Actually, the worse it is the more he could pinpoint what he thinks is good in a movie from old ones he saw. And while they were talking he would probably look covertly at her body and no doubt fantasize having sex with her, which would be wrong — sex with her would. She’s too young. Besides, she’d be put off by the suggestion. How would he even make it? He wouldn’t have the words, and if he found them, he’d feel too silly saying them. But say she was open and relaxed about it and said something like, “Your look; what is it, Mr. Bookbinder?” and he’d say, “Gould, please call me Gould; what is it with you?” and she could say, “It’s still hard for me to, but okay, Gould, even though my folks”—Oh, your folks, he’d think; just at the right time—“my folks weren’t the type, when I was small, to insist I call all adults by mister and missus and their last names,” and he could say, “But you were saying?” and she could say, “About what was on your mind. The look you had. I’d never seen it on you but recognized it from other men,” and he’d say, “Then I guess I’m caught and will have to come clean,” and would apologize while saying it: “I know it’s wrong, stupid, our respective ages, all of that …” and she could say, “I don’t know. It’s true I haven’t done it with a man more than five years older than me, maybe because there was never one who interested me. But it’s not like I have anything terrible against it. And isn’t it every young woman’s fantasy—” and he’d say, “Don’t talk about girls and their fathers,” and she wouldn’t have; she could just say, “I don’t mind the idea,” or, “The suggestion’s not the worst one, so what do we do next?” or not even that: none of it. He’d just come out with it, find the words—“I’ve been thinking”—say them clearly, wouldn’t give any kind of look, and she’d go along with it and they’d go to his apartment — well, where else? unless she was living alone in a building which didn’t only have other young students in it and wanted to go there, and they’d do it — have a drink, sit down and kiss, whatever they’d do first — and it wouldn’t work. Sure, it’d be pleasurable for him, though you never know what can happen when you get too excited, and maybe in a way for her too: the pleasure, as he knows what to do and still has plenty of energy for it and would just hope that he could go slow, because once is usually it for him till the next morning. But she’d see his body and even if it’s in pretty good shape for a sixty-four-year-old, it’s nothing like the bodies of the boys she’s used to and she might be turned off by it, even repulsed. The gray pubic hair, or most of it gray; chest hair that’s totally gray and in fact mostly white; wrinkles everywhere; way the body sags in places no matter what strenuous exercises and long running and swimming he does; this, that, from top to bottom — the elbows; especially around the eyes — it’s a ridiculous notion, sex with her, so what’s he even thinking of it for? It won’t happen. He shouldn’t call. It’s probably why she didn’t call; she somehow saw it in his face that time they spoke: that this is what he was interested in, not talk. And even if they had sex once — her experiment with a much older man, let’s say — that’d be it, because she wouldn’t want to do it again. Why would she? He’s an old fart, far as she’s concerned, and if she doesn’t see it at first, or blocks it out for some reason, she’ll see it after: older than her own father by more than ten years, he figures, as he had his children late. So: nice to talk to, perhaps, but not to make love with, and then they’d see each other on the street once every other week, which is about how often he saw her before, and what then? What would he say? She? And suppose she let on to her folks about it? “I met this old colleague of yours — you’ll probably remember him too, Mom — or former colleague, rather, though he’s quite old also but still in some ways considerably attractive for his age”—not intending to tell them what happened, but her father’s a smart guy and was a very good college teacher so knows how to ask questions and extract answers from students, and kids can’t hide things well the way adults can, and maybe it’s also not how they act today: the compulsion to tell the truth, lay it all out, no matter how much it hurts or shocks someone else, as if that’s a virtue, or is he thinking of a time ten or more years ago? — and then her father could call or write him and say something like, “How could you? Not just that you knew she was my daughter. You’re forty years older than her. What are you, some sort of predator, ravener, plunderer, vulture, hyena, monster, perverse addled dirty old dotty fool? Women twenty years older than she, which a man your age of any decency and brains would still think far too young for him, aren’t good enough as pickings? Why are you trying to mess up her life? What’s in it for you but a slap on the back you give yourself for fucking a child? If it weren’t that I didn’t want to embarrass her and that she’s five years past the legal age of consent, I’d report you and probably try to prosecute you, and if there were some academic court of law I’d work to get you fired from your teaching post.” Or he wouldn’t write or call but he’d think it, or it could be he’d think, Lucky stiff. Shacking up with a girl so beautiful and young. Wish it could be me, though naturally not with my daughter.