Stanley Elkin - Criers & Kibitzers, Kibitzers & Criers

He finished the second glass of beer and, getting used to the taste, asked for another. He wondered whether, had they known he was a dying man, they would have been alarmed at his outlandish casualness in strolling into a strange bar in a neighborhood where he had never been. He wondered whether they would be startled to realize that he had brought to them, strangers, the last pieces of his life, giving no thought now to reclamation, since one could not reclaim, ever, what one still had, no matter how fragile or even broken it might be. He held the beer in his mouth until it burned the soft skin behind his lips. It felt good to feel pain in an area where, for once, it was not scheduled. He felt peculiarly light-hearted.

He turned to the girl beside him. “Your husband work around here?”

“A1?”

“Yes, Al. Does Al work around here?”

She nodded. “When Al works, he works around here.”

Feldman smiled. He felt stirrings which were now so unfamiliar to him he had to remember deliberately what they were. The death rattle is starting in my pants, he thought, dismissing what he could not take seriously. It would not be dismissed. Instead, the warmth he felt began to crowd him, to push him into unaccustomed corners. You’ve got the wrong man, he thought. He was not sure, however, which instincts he encouraged, which side he was on.

Feldman was surprised to discover that he really wanted to talk to her, to tell her that he had come with his disease into their small tavern to die for them. He thought jealously of the blond girl’s husband, the man Al, with lunch pail and silk team bowling jacket. She rubs him with her wounded wrist, he thought, excited.

“Would you like another drink?” he asked the girl haltingly. “Would you?” he asked again. He looked at her shabby clothes. “I just got paid today,” he added.

“Why not?” she said lightly. The little boy came over to her, drew her down and whispered something in her ear. The woman looked up at Feldman. “Excuse me,” she said, “he needs to pee.”

“Of course,” Feldman said stiffly. She took the child through a little door at the back of the tavern. When the door swung open Feldman could see cases of beer stacked on both sides of the lidless toilet. He turned to the woman behind the bar. “I want to buy a bottle of whiskey,” he said to her. “We’ll sit in that booth over there.”

“I don’t sell by the bottle. This ain’t no package store.”

“I’ll pay you,” he said.

“What are you, a jerk, mister? I run a nice place. I don’t want to have to throw you out.”

“It’s all right. I just want to talk.”

“She’s got a kid.”

“I just want to talk to her,” he said. “Here, here,” he said quietly. He reached into his pocket and pulled out two loose bills and flung them on the counter. The woman laughed at him.

“I’ll be damned,” she said. She handed him a bottle.

Feldman took it and walked unsteadily to the booth. When the woman brought two glasses, he poured a drink and swallowed it quickly. He felt as though a time limit had been imposed upon him, that it was all right to do anything in the world he wanted so long as he did it quickly. He saw the door at the rear of the tavern open and the girl step out. She leaned over her son, buttoning his pants. Feldman bit his lips. She straightened and, seeing Feldman sitting in the booth, glanced quickly at the woman behind the bar. The woman shrugged and held up the two five-dollar bills. The girl took the boy to the bowling machine and put a dime into its slot for him. He watched her as she came slowly toward his table. He was sure she wore no underclothing. He motioned for her to sit down. “There’s more room,” he said apologetically, indicating the booth.

She sat down and Feldman nodded toward her drink. “That’s yours,” he said. “That’s for you.”

“Thanks,” she said absently, but made no effort to drink it. Feldman raised his own glass and touched hers encouragingly in some mute toast. She continued to stare at him blankly.

“Look,” he said, “I’m bad at this. I don’t know what to say to you.”

She smiled, but said nothing.

“I want you to understand,” he went on stiffly, “I’m not trying to be funny with you.”

“Better not,” she said.

“I know,” Feldman said. “That girl behind the bar said she’d throw me out of here.”

“Rose could do it,” the girl said. “I could do it.”

“Anyone can do it,” Feldman said glumly. “Look, do you want me to go? Do you want to forget about it?”

“No,” she said, “Just be nice is all. What’s the matter with you, Jack?”

“I’m dying.” He had not meant to say it. It was out of his mouth before he could do anything about it. He thought of telling her a lie, of expanding his statement to something not so preposterously silly: that he was dying of boredom, of love for her, of fear for his job. Anything with more reason behind it than simply death. It occurred to him that dying was essentially ludicrous. In any real context it was out of place. It was not merely unwelcome; it was unthinkable. Then he realized that this was what he had meant to say all along. He had no interest in the girl; his body had played tricks on him, had made him believe for a moment that it was still strong. What he wanted now was to expose it. It was his enemy. Its sexlessness was a good joke on it. He could tell her that.

“I’m dying,” he said again. “I don’t know what to do.” He could no longer hear himself speaking. The words tumbled out of his mouth in an impotent rage. He wondered absently if he was crying. “The doctor told me I’m supposed to die, only I don’t do it, do you see?”

“Go to a different doctor,” the girl said.

She joked with him. It was impossible that she didn’t understand. He held the worm in his jaws. It was in his stomach, in the hollows of his armpits. Pieces of it stoppered his ears. “No, no. I’m really dying. There have been tests. Everything.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes. You don’t know what it’s like.”

“You married?”

“Yes.”

“Got kids, I suppose, and a family?”

“Yes.”

“They know about this?”

He nodded.

“Don’t care, probably, right? Hey,” she said, “look at me sitting and talking to you like this. You ain’t got something contagious, have you?”

“No,” he said. “Where are you going?” The girl was standing. “No, don’t go. Please sit down.”

“I’m sorry for your trouble, mister. Thanks for the drink.”

“Have another. There’s a whole bottle.”

She was looking down at him. He wondered if she really meant to go, whether her standing up was merely a form, a confused deference to death. She leaned toward him unexpectedly. “What is it, mister?” she said. She came to his side of the booth and sat down. “What is it, mister? Do you want to kiss me?” He was sure he had not heard her correctly. She repeated her question. She was smiling. He saw now that she had made a decision, had determined to cheat him. He didn’t care.

“Yes,” he answered weakly. “Would you kiss me?”

“Sure,” she said, her voice level, flat. Her eyes were nowhere. She sat closer. He put his hand on her warm thighs. They were hard and thin. She put one arm around Feldman and ground her lips against his. Her kid was staring at them. Feldman could taste the girl’s breath. It was foul. He put his hand inside the girl’s skirt and touched her thighs. He felt nothing inside himself. There was no urgency. The girl, incorrectly gauging Feldman’s responses, took his hand in one of hers and began to squeeze it. She held his wrist. Her hands, as Feldman had known they would be, were powerful. She dug her nails into his wrist. He could not get free. He tried to pull his wrist away. “Stop it,” he said. “Stop it, you’re hurting me.”