Stephen Dixon - Frog

He sticks paper in, little raps on the door. Must be Olivia. “Yes, what is it!” he says. “It’s me. Can I have a Gummy Bear?” “Oh come on, don’t bother me with that now, and you know I don’t like you having candy.” “Mommy says I can have one if you also say I can.” “OK, have one, but see if Mommy can get it. I’m busy; working. Let me alone for a few more minutes.” “Mommy says to ask you to help me. She’s with baby.” “Oh Jesus, damnit, all right.” He opens the door. “But only one.” “Two.” “One or none. Which is it? I don’t want you taking all day.” “One. I want to pick the color.”

He gets the container of Gummy Bears out of the kitchen cupboard, holds it open for her. She looks inside, holds her hand over it. “Come on, pick it quickly. Red, green, orange, yellow or white.” “Not white. It’s light, like light. But not like that light,” pointing to the ceiling fixture. “All right, light. And oh, poetry. But quick, which?” She looks in the container, hand over it again. “Orange is your favorite color. Why not choose orange?” “Orange,” and she picks one out and puts it into her mouth. “OK now. This is my one big hour to do some important work at home. So please be my little sweetheart and let me use it? Go back to your program.” “It’s over.” ‘Then into your room. Look at your books. Put on a record.” “I don’t want to.” “I’ll put one on for you. Maybe it’s still too hard. Sleeping Beauty. The beluga whale song by whoever sings it.” “I want you to play doctor and nurse with me.” “Not now. I haven’t time. That’s final. I’ll take care of all your bears later.” “Not all of them.” “Then just some. But go in your room and line them up and dress them in paper towels if you want. That’ll look like hospital gowns,” and he gives her the roll of paper towels from the shelf over the sink. “And tell them I’m—” She drops the roll on the floor. “I want someone to play with now.” “You shouldn’t drop things like that. Especially paper towels. We use them to clean things.” He picks it up and puts it back on the shelf. “I want you to play with me, or someone.” “Olivia, haven’t I been patient with you and clear? This is my break, my free time. So give me ten minutes longer. That isn’t much. Ten is little. So go into—” “No!” “I said go into your room,” and grabs her shirt at the shoulder and starts pulling her to her room. She screams, starts crying. “Shit ole-bitching-mighty,” he yells. “Why you doing that? You’ve nothing to cry about. I’m the one. Oh the hell. And I didn’t mean to pull at you so hard, or yell. I didn’t hurt you — you know that.” She backs away and cries harder. “What’s wrong?” Denise says from the baby’s room. “What? Speak louder.” “I said why’s she crying?” “I was just telling her — that’s all — telling her—” “It sounded like shouting.” “Well, shouting to myself mostly that an hour-a-day break is just too little.” “First try to comfort Olivia. I’m trying to get the baby to sleep.” He moves toward Olivia with his arms out. She’s sobbing now, backs off to a corner. “Sweetheart, please come to me. I’m sorry. Don’t make Daddy feel bad.” Gets on one knee. “Honestly, I’m sorry. I apologize. Your Daddy’s frustrated. You know what frustrated means?” She shakes her head, still sobbing. “It means I want to work more than I have the time to. And when I can’t, then for some dumb reason I get mad. But it’s OK. It wasn’t your fault. Here, you want another Gummy Bear? I don’t like bribing you to make you feel better, but maybe you deserve it.” “I don’t want anything,” and she runs out of the kitchen. “Ah, fuck it,” he says low to himself. “When does it ever go right? Plenty, plenty. But me and my goddamn fucking breaks. Stop it, stop it.” Oh for once, he thinks, just go back to your room and do what you were doing and maybe neither of them, because of the mood they know you were in, will bother you for another half-hour. It’s cheating but it’ll be worth it to them in the long run.

He goes into his room, shuts the door and says “So let’s have a first line. Give me a first. Give me a second. But first a first. Any first line that leads straight through to a quick first draft of something I really like.”

“Da-da,” Olivia says through the door.

“Da-da,” he types. “Da-da, I want—”

“Mommy says you should—”

“Today Mommy says I should, definitely should, do what?” he types. “I should go—”

She raps on the door. He rips out the paper, a piece of it gets caught in the roller. If he doesn’t get it out now he might forget about it and later it could jam the machine. He starts pulling it out with the tweezers he keeps in a utility box on the desk. He has a magnet in the box for retrieving paperclips that fall through the keys, a brush and sewing needles for cleaning the typefaces. “Da-da, I have to go pee-pee.” “You can’t do it yourself?” “No, and Mommy’s busy. She says—” “Damn,” he shouts, and slams his fist down on the table. An eraser pencil and his fountain pen jump up and fall to the floor. Probably busted the pen’s point. Should always keep it capped. When did he uncap it? Probably been there like that since last night. He jotted down a note and in his compulsion for neatness he must have put the paper the note was on back in the pile of scrap paper or dumped it into the basket. He forgets what he wrote. Can’t be important then. But it could be a good starting line, one he intended for that. Did he? Was it? Heck with it. She’s probably peed in her pants by now. Denise will love that. Heck also with trying to squeeze in minutes, thanking God for a free half-hour. She jiggles the doorknob, had been trying to turn it to get in but this door gets stuck. He gets up. Tweezers are still in his hand. She might think he’s going to do something to her with them. He puts them in the box. Opens the door. She looks sad, a little frightened. “Did you pee in your pants, sweetheart?” “No. Can I sit at your typewriter?” “Let’s just concentrate on your pee-pee. I also don’t want to be washing the floor and your pants.” He picks up the eraser pencil and pen, point’s OK, caps it, sets them side by side on the desk. Picks her up, kisses her forehead a few times as he carries her to the bathroom. Stands her up, unhitches her overalls, pulls them down and her panties and sits her on the toilet. She pees and shits. “Good,” he says. “A double success.”

Can’t sleep, can’t eat. Goes to the bathroom. Can’t pee. Sits on the seat. The same. Something’s wrong. Feeling queasy inside, bit of a headache. Goes back to bed to rest and think. So what did you do today to feel this way? For instance? Food. Ate very little, no alcohol. Yesterday? A repeat. How come? Didn’t feel like doing anything but that. Why not? Don’t know. Up till now it hadn’t affected my stomach or head, so just did or didn’t do those things without thinking I guess. Think about it now? Just one of those periods when I didn’t feel like drinking alcohol, eating very much or anything but bland. Also not cooking up a storm, cleaning a slew of dishes, going out for the extra ingredient — things like that. No need for alcohol, not even a beer. Wasn’t warm enough for one, if that could be a reason. One reason it could be. Another is a need for a beer sometimes, or for its taste, if that’s not saying the same thing. Something cool or quenching or that tastes like beer, but no. Booze? I don’t do much. Sometimes a hefty straight one to calm myself or mixed with a mixer to help get me to sleep, but no feeling for any of that yesterday or today. Why? Thought I said. Or don’t have to because it’s all so no-relate. I’m just not a big drinker, what can I say? Then what do you think’s causing your physical queasiness, lethargy, inability to sleep, pee, shit, or eat or drink much? Can’t say. Maybe the start of a flu. Something’s in there though, my bladder and bowels. Have the feeling to go but nothing comes out. The day before last? What about it? What you drank, ate, did that might have contributed to how you feel today. Too much exercising perhaps? Some older men don’t know how or when to stop. No, it was just another normal day I think. Or who can remember the details that far back? I might have had a beer. I bought a six-pack that day, along with some other things, that I can remember, so if one’s gone from the refrigerator you know that that day I drank a beer. Also might have had something more to eat than I did yesterday or today. Sure I did. Far as I can remember, I just about felt fine that day. But that was two days ago — a full two. I peed that day I’m sure. And yesterday — remember now lifting the toilet seat to do it — and shit both days too. So I got rid of whatever waste was in me for two days, and probably a lot from yesterday. Well, that leaves me stumped; what do you make of it then? Nothing. I make nothing. I wish I could make more, but that’s all there is in my head now. I’ll try for sleep again. Who knows? Maybe it’ll work this time and when I wake up everything will be fine.