Stephen Dixon - 30 Pieces of a Novel

Looks at his mother — sleeping, definitely: the breathing. If she weren’t he’d initiate a conversation about something: that they’re much better off in the shade than the sun, don’t you agree? How can people, like the ones on the grass there, lie in the sun, not just the heat and humidity but the sweating and harmful rays? And what do you get from it? Brown, red, possibly a bad burn. Her soda! and he looks but she placed it on the ground by the wheel. The Frisbee? Lying by the woman; she’s flat on her back now, no towel or anything like that beneath her that he can see, arms and legs stretched out, sandals off, and eyes closed. So, out to get a tan — maybe the main reason for coming to the park and explanation for the brief clothes — but why the Frisbee? Looking for someone to play with? A come-on or you-come-to-me or whatever the term. A ploy. Guy sees the Frisbee, says, “Wanna toss it around?” and she likes athletic, forward young guys. So they throw, start talking. First: “Good catch,” or “Sorry,” if that one misses it. “No, it was my fault. I threw it too far over your head,” or “I didn’t keep it up long enough for you to get under it.” Then: “You throw and catch well, where’d you learn?” “Frisbee school.” “Yeah, funny, me too, classes right here in the park.” “Really, I just picked it up; it’s not very hard.” Suppose it’s a woman who sees the Frisbee lying beside her and says, “Wanna toss it around?” “No, thanks, I came out here mainly to rest; maybe later.” Suppose the woman then says, “Mind if I borrow it and me and somebody else toss it around?” “I’d just like to keep it beside me, if you don’t mind.” And she has no sunglasses on; she looks the kind that would. Anyway, after they toss it around he invites her to the kiosk nearby for a soda or iced coffee or tea, or she invites him, or they both say they’re hot, at the same time say, “Let’s get something cold to drink,” and the thing’s started: tonight, or an hour or two from now, in one or the other’s bed, or not so fast. Gould’s energetic enough to toss a Frisbee around, knows how to, doesn’t think he’d get winded from it if he didn’t do it too long or hard, but would he do it if he weren’t married or with his mother and so on? What “so on”? Well, overcoming his natural shyness and anxiety about being rejected and other things to go over to her and say something like, “Excuse me, miss, but I see you have a Frisbee; would you like to toss it around?” He doesn’t know. Would depend on how long he hasn’t been with a woman, what he thought he looked like at the time. Also if there were other people near her; now there aren’t. Other things. You think about them at the time, you never do it. But he loves her body. He has to admit that. It’s the body for him. So many bodies for him. So many in the park. So many in tight tank tops and shorts cut high and with full breasts and rears and small waists and long solid legs or just solid legs of normal length like hers. So many people exercising and in shape today. He’s in shape too. Exercises, runs — not much but enough to stay in shape or look as if he’s in good shape for a guy his age. Doesn’t want to get a pot, likes the feel of his hard muscles, especially the arms, after he exercises with stretch bands or does pushups. But the point is she’s the only young woman in a long time who’s looked at him in a curious if not even a flirtatious way.

Looks at her. She’s leaning up on her elbows again, turns to him maybe two seconds after he looks at her, then looks the opposite way. In the distance, direction she’s facing, some kids playing badminton without a net. He imagines going over to her with her back turned, saying, “Excuse me, I don’t mean to startle you”—and she turns to him—“but you have a Frisbee and I could use the exercise, so I was wondering if you’d like to toss it around for a few minutes. No problem if you don’t, and I’m sorry if I disturbed you.” She says, “Sure, why not, I could use the exercise too.” She gets up — does he help her? Only if she extends her hand for him to. He has a book with him, so he says, “Mind if I move my book to where your things are? Just for safekeeping; we can keep an eye on them both at the same time.” “Sure, it’s okay,” she says. They find a more open area but not near the kids playing badminton. They toss, back and forth, little encouraging things said between them like the ones he thought of for her and some other guy before, and after about fifteen minutes he says, “I’m thirsty and hot, and to tell you the truth, a bit tired; like something cold to drink?” She says, “Sure, that’d be nice.” They go to that kiosk nearby. First they pick up their things. He pays, they talk. She’s an actress, she’s a dancer, she’s a singer or violinist or pianist; she’s a grade school teacher of language arts or a high school teacher in a private school teaching one of those things: music, theater, dance, maybe art. She’s intelligent, well read, good sense of humor, smiles a lot at him, seems to like his company. She looks at her watch — does she have one? Can’t see from here. Could be in her bag. Does she have a shoulder bag, little knapsack, something like that? Doesn’t seem to, and he doesn’t remember one. Just the Frisbee. Maybe what she needed to go to the park with — tissues, keys, money, wallet, watch — are all in her pockets. She have pockets in those shorts? Probably. But where was he with her? She takes a watch out of her pocket and says, “Oops, getting late; thanks for the drink but I have to leave now.” He says, “I better be going too.” She says, “I’m going out this way.” He says, “My direction too, which can’t be much of a coincidence, since we were both on this side of the park in the first place.” “Sixty-fifth Street exit?” she says. “Seventy-second, but I can go out Sixty-fifth too, then walk up Columbus. Lots of things to look at, though on the west side of it, not as interesting or aesthetic.” They walk, talk, bump into each other, laugh. He accompanies her to her building. First he says, “I can walk with you right to your door, if you don’t mind. It’s on the way to Columbus,” or, “It’s on the way to Broadway, and I just remembered I have some things to get there.” She can say, “Where?” he can say, “Fairway,” she can say, “I love that store, but gee does it get crowded. Maybe that’s another reason I like it: so many characters.” When they reach her building, what? He has her name by now; maybe asks for her address — no, he has her address; he’s standing in front of her building — so her phone number. Or she says, “Listen, like to come up for coffee? I still have a little time.” “Sure, I’d like that, thanks,” he says. They go up. Once inside, or a short time after she shows him her apartment, or in the kitchen, where she’s putting on the teakettle, he kisses her. She kisses back. They kiss, fondle, start to undress each other. She says, “Whew, wow, a little fast, I don’t know if this is such a good idea, but what the heck, you seem all right, and it’s probably too late now. You have a condom? If you don’t, I do.” He hasn’t. She gets one out of a night table drawer, takes off the rest of her clothes, lies on the bed, one knee up, other leg straight out, stares at the ceiling. He says, “That’s how you were lying in the park, though substitute ceiling with tree covering first, then sky. Where do you think we get all our body positions from, the ones we repeat over and over and naturally fall into, the womb?” “What?” she says. “Nothing, just talking.” He takes off the rest of his clothes, gets on the bed, kisses her, feels her breasts. She says, “Let’s just get right to it. I feel like it, but the truth is I have to be somewhere in an hour, though I also don’t want you to rush.” He puts the condom on, or she does for him, or they do it together.