Gordon Lish - Collected Fictions

Now for people.

There's the man in such a hurry, hand in pocket, wrist-watch raised to read the time. There's the couple in the park, the slowest pace of all, the bench they're oh so slowly making for. There's the woman down here marching back and forth. She reaches her mark, shouts "Leather from Morocco!" turns about, marches again, shouts "Leather from Morocco!" marching back and forth.

You don't want to see her. I try not to. They try not to, the others on this bench. We are just passengers, persons waiting to be passengers. Oh, we really cannot wait to be. Will your train come before she does?

The old woman has the old man by the arm, to hold him up and steer. See her steer him to where they are going — to the bench in sunlight, to sit, to see the river — and the going is immense.

The man runs now, runs the last little bit, then puts his shoulders into it as he hustles up the five flights of stairs. He takes his hand out. He takes the key out.

The marching woman shouts, "Handbags! Beaded handbags!" But there is nothing in her hands.

Oh, God, don't let her jump, not while I'm still here. Oh, God, don't let her think to sit, not while I am still here, not while my mind is still here.

Sit.

Is there anything else that this man wants?

It's been too long from the bed to the bench — and he is not yet there yet. "Up, my darling," she must have said. "Such a lovely sunny day calling such a lovely boy."

Oh, yes, this is how she, this woman, would talk.

"Up, sweet love," she must have said. "Come, my beloved, another look."

It must have taken hours to get him dressed. See how nothing matches? Oh, how it must have hurt to have the clothes come be put on him — for him to be in something, touching anything, living one more turn of the clock!

He has his clothes off. He tunes the radio. Goes away, comes back, retunes. He looks at the clock, looks again, puts his hand in a trouser pocket, takes out his wristwatch. He's learned — always take your watch off.

"I learned without the paper on. The paper's just for show. What isn't? Is there anything not for show? They put you on, you go. Listen, I can go and go. But I don't have to. An even dozen is all the turns I ever have to do. The bolero and knickers, they're satin, they're turquoise. See the pink piping? I had to wait and wait for the shoes. But I could have mastered the pedals with them. Cut off my feet, I still could have. The hat? It's red. Red's traditional. Black, turquoise, pink, red — some ensemble, Jesus."

I looked. Or one of them looked. It only took one look and here she comes!

Oh, Jesus!

Should I check my watch and get up? Perhaps I must hasten to an engagement farther along up the platform. But I am just sitting here, and now here she is!

Her beauty is impossible — oh, the back of her as she turns him by such considerate degrees.

"Sit, my love," she says.

He says, "You, dear — you sit first."

But I cannot really hear them speak.

When she sits, she is not crazy anymore. She sits primly, ruined ankles primly crossed. She breathes a small sigh and falls silent, just another citizen, speechless like us all.

He flexes the fingers on this hand, then on that hand, then all the toes. He looks at the clock, at the door, at the clock, at his clothes. There they are, all laid out for him to put back on — his turquoise knickers, the fitted jacket, the shoes.

But why bother with it all? Just the trousers, then — then open the door and go run take a look.

"Buckle this side, buckle that side — even a horse could do it if he had a thumb. But the children shriek their approval. Yes, they like the buckling of the shoes better than the bicycling. Yes, yes, the leather hurts. But what doesn't?"

No, she is not waiting for a train. This is where she is when she sits. Yes, it is because she has kept him waiting longer than she has ever kept him waiting, longer than any of them ever did. Oh, it is because she has never kept him waiting that he runs down to take a look. Is the buzzer broken? Does she stand there, five flights down, calling him and calling him and he is way up here? She stands there, nodding, pleading, saying, "Please, my beloved, sit now — please, just sit." Look at his fingers flexing. Oh, God, he hurts! Oh, God, she's going to get up — and do what? Jump? Just march? Five flights half-undressed? Is there nothing he won't do? "I can do anything if you make me." But no one is waiting, no one is calling, no one is saying, "My beloved, my darling, my sweet." She's marching, she's shouting. "Why must they be children? How can children know what it takes to do this? How can children ever know what it costs to keep your balance? They think everything does — houses stuck on mountain peaks of crayon going up." "Leather from Morocco!" Just march, don't jump! Back up the stairs, begging God, the slowest pace of all. "No, sweet love, first you — sit, please, sit," and so she does. She sits and says, "Now you, my love," and guides him down. He stands there at the door. Nothing in this side, nothing in that side, nothing anywhere at all. "There are no pockets in my trousers. If there were, I would load them down. Put rocks in, put everything in, just to show them what I could carry and still go on." He turns and turns, these mute rotations — shirt, shoes, ghastly jerkin all locked up inside.

I never had that duplicate.

Or a bicycle that fit my size.

Or the courage to stay seated when here comes havoc and I haven't got a rhyme.

I have a wife.

I have the ungainly weight of my love for her.

I am the beast who can circle without letup.

In theory.

So far.

HONEST TO GOD, it's something, how a thing comes back, how nothing is ever lost. Look at this — the Strand, the Columbia, the Laurel, the Lido, the Gem. And that's just from the night before last, from when I was sitting on the toilet, urinating.

The Central. I almost forgot the Central.

These are the theaters where I went to the movies back in the days when you went every Saturday. That's what? Thirty-five years ago?

Also, I saw the large carton of Kotex leaning, or leaned, up against the side of the bathtub.

News to me they had a yellow rose on there, long-stemmed and photographed to make it look misty. So what's the story, they do this how? Gauze over the lens? Vaseline? Real fog actually fogging it?

So how come I turned on the light? Or did I?

I don't know. If I did, then maybe I did it on account of the kitchen.

LISTEN, I say the thing with evil is it's a time thing — whereas where you get your basic appeal with lust and violence is because they're not. You see a person stick a person with a knife or with a hard-on, it's the quick effect which gives you your theater. Let's not kid ourselves, impulse enacted with all good speed, that's what the eye likes. What the eye wants is something it can catch all at once. But evil, there you're talking about a different story altogether — because with evil, the mind's got to get into it, and the mind doesn't work that way. The eye does.

Be honest with yourself-isn't this why Aristotle didn't give a fig about any of this, and was twice required to say as much? Not that I am asking you to see it as how I am bringing in Aristotle to back any of this up. Hey, with proof like the proof that follows?

GO BACK TO BEFORE when I was sitting on the toilet and saw the box of Kotex and the rose. Go back, say, let's say, fifteen minutes from that. To me asleep. To me out like a light. Which for me is an interesting exception, the case being that I am no great sleeper. I mean, even if you hear me snoring, I am probably not sleeping.

Here's the second interesting exception about the night before last — which is that I am not a nose-breather when I'm supposed to be sleeping, which the reason for is this.