Gordon Lish - Collected Fictions

But letting the little man fly, no, Jesus Christ, no, wasn't flying for fucking babies?

I got rid of it.

I threw it away.

Did it probably around the age, I bet, of six probably or of seven, it could have been, or maybe even as late as maybe the age of eight.

The tissue, I mean. The little man's cape.

Or it could have just been not just tissue in the sense of tissue paper but tissue in the sense of something which was paper like tissue paper.

But the place we had, my family, the place we had, it always had tissue paper put away in it somewhere away in it back in those old, you know, back in those old or call them olden days.

This place I live in now, there is no tissue paper around in it anywhere, except for toilet paper.

But neither is there any little boy or little girl in it who's constantly asking you for anything.

Those were the days!

God, I miss those old or olden days.

There was this one place which when you, where when you really set your mind to it, it made the best place for me to play the game of the little man with or without his cape of tissue paper on him.

Do you call it a throw?

I think they call it a throw.

It was on the floor all of the time in our parlor all of the time — which had these stones in all of these different colors — but so was the throw, wasn't it?

All colors?

In different-colored colors?

In all of these various different-colored colors?

I don't know.

It was made out of old socks or something — or out of old, you know, old stockings.

Maybe it was old rags it was made out of.

I could play for hours.

I could get him down there on this throw rug which they had in there in the parlor and keep him going in there with me for hours, the little man.

Walking mostly.

Mostly walking mostly.

But skipping when he had this skipping feeling in him rising in him in this mind in him that, you know, that he wanted, as the little man, to skip. Or go skipping.

Or jump, for instance.

Maybe run maybe if he wanted.

You know.

It was up to him, the little man.

It was all of it always all of it up only to him.

Did I tell you the fringe was the thing?

It had this fringe — the throw on the floor in the parlor, it had like this fringe on it sticking out from it in the sense of like a fringe on it, which was definitely, as far as me, the thing.

The little man getting to the edge of the throw and then making up his mind as far as the fringe.

Him getting there to the edge of it and like making up his mind what to do, what to do — what do I do, what do I do? — do I step off and get myself down into it in the fringe where there are all of these like, my God, like cords cut off? — where there are down there like these big dirty cut off cords cut off? — like in Jesus fucking Christ, the fringe!

Scatter — there's the word for us, my God, that's the word for it! — scatter, isn't it scatter as in a scatter rug?

It wasn't a throw they said it was — it was a scatter which they said it was.

You know, the rug.

A scatter rug.

Fringed.

Like made of tied-together knots of things — like of socks and things — a stocking where there wasn't anymore socks to go with it anymore — and all around the edge all around it, this cut-off dirty-looking stuff.

Fringe.

But oh, the colors of it, the colors of it, oh! — and the same went for, and the same was always going for the stones where when I went there to the parlor there was the floor for me to get down on and as a boy be happy forever and play.

Oh, play.

All the time never being able for me to wait to get home and then for me to go over there to it in the parlor for it and get him down on it and start us letting him see what the story was going to turn out to be once we got him going as far as the game.

Namely, where he'd go.

Or if he would.

How far he was going to go for him to get where he had to be.

And what he'd do if he did.

Sometimes the little man had all of these millions and millions of various different plans he was always thinking about — take a trip here, take a trip there — skip all of the way on the way, jump every other step, or like just keep running like mad.

But you know what?

Mostly the little man just did what he did without him having even any conceivable idea.

But then — whoops!

Uh-oh.

He'd like, you know, he'd like get to the edge.

The older I got, the more and more the little man just went ahead and did that — took a trip and took himself all of the way over to someplace where he was standing right the fuck on it — not the edge of any throw, of course, but the edge, let's call it, of the scatter, I mean! — and then the next thing, it had to be what? — step down into it or don't do anything or go back and make another safer plan or a plan that was safe.

Hey, I tell you it was forever?

The floor all over the parlor, if you were the little man, it looked to you like, hey, that out there, isn't it, if you really look at it, forever out there?

From where you were to all of the way forever?

From all of the stones from under the fringe out to the end of the place where we lived to the whole other rest of everything.

Once you went ahead and took the first step.

Like if you were the little man.

Sun porch, sun porch!

Did I say parlor?

I'm sorry.

Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry.

The Lishes' place did not have any parlor.

It had a sun porch over on one side of it — that's what we had, that's what the place we had had! — oh so forever sunny in the sun porch so long as you were never in it without the little man.

Hey, so long as you were never in it without these two ones of your two fingers right up to this crease between them right here.

The place had a sun porch on it and the floor of the sun porch had all of these different-colored field stones on it and the name of the kind of the rug on it, it was named, I'm telling you, a scatter rug, everybody everywhere was always calling it the scatter rug on the floor of the sun porch in the sun porch of where we lived and believe you me when I tell you there were these tied socks and things it was made of, there were like these stockings knotted among the things this thing was actually knotted of, washrags, washrags, pajama legs, nighties, all of it all torn up and all probably all knotted up or probably all tied up but with like these cords of this cut-off crap of it all around all the whole edge of it, and filthy? I'm telling you, it was so filthy and so sickening, but didn't I, Gordon, didn't I get down there and make him be there — him?

These fingers here.

Standing capeless on incomparable feet.

Oh, play, indomitable child, play!

Till they call and call please.

But who hears please?

Nobody hears please — nor needs to.

Hear instead elsewhere, hear instead anywhere — hear instead turn, my beloved, turn!

But the little man never once did.

ALL DAY LONG THE MAN READ to them from the storybooks they had. They seemed to like to hear him read to them, but it was not possible for the man to tell if this was truly so. Perhaps they merely put up with the man, his thin white hair hanging in meager clots from his thin glittery skull. Perhaps he had beguiled the children into their feeling sorry for him, or feeling sad for him, or feeling afraid to be unquiet in his company.

The man was so tired.

It hurt his legs when there was one of them, or two, who would take to his wasted lap for a while. But didn't all the parts of the man hurt, no matter if his lap were filled or not with any child anymore?