Stephen Dixon: Letters to Kevin

“Cancel that order,” I told the clerk. “Instead I’ll have three more of some other thing. Two less of a few more things. Definitely one each of anything I haven’t asked for yet. And if it’s no bother, nothing else I forgot besides.” “I’m afraid they’re all out of everything you want to buy today,” the customer behind me said. “Next,” she shouted into my ear and shoved me off the line. “I’d like one nine cent stamp with my face on it,” the clerk said to her, “and three picture postcards.” “We only sell the cards plain,” she said to him. “Not even with butter on them? A little mayonnaise? Because I hate to have my cards dry.” She reached through his stamp window, spilled his coffee cup on the postcards, took some change he had in front of him for his postage money and said “Next.” “I’d like the same thing the clerk just ordered,” the customer behind the woman said to her, “but with less cream on my cards.” I mailed the last letter I wrote you and left the building. A parade was passing in front of the post office when I got outside. I’d never been in a parade, so didn’t know where they all ended once they were through. Maybe all the parades I’d seen in the past ended in Palo Alto. Or if they only marched across the country and ended in San Francisco, then from there I might be able to join a new parade marching through Palo Alto on its way to New York. But the only way to find out where they all ended was to join one. I leaped over the police barricade and got behind a high-school band. Because I had no instrument, I opened my typewriter case and typed on the keys with one hand. We marched to Fifth Avenue. Up to 81st Street. Through the Metropolitan Museum of Art and out its back entrance into Central Park. Then through the park to 110th Street. Right to Madison. Down Madison to 42nd Street and over to the main branch of the public library, which we marched around three times before the parade ended and the band and all the marchers packed their instruments and guns and flags and floats and started home.

“Good parade,” a drum majorette said. “And you type very well. What schools you go to for it?”

“None. I type by ear.”

“Pity. Because I’m sure if you had taken lessons for a few years, you’d be typing on a concert stage by now. Well, see you in the next parade,” and she threw in the air the box her baton was in, caught it behind her back, twirled it under her legs, and bouncing the box from one knee to the other, high-stepped away. I sat on the library steps and thought that I had used up all the ways to get to Palo Alto that I knew of. But as long as I was in front of one of the world’s largest book collections, I should go inside and see if they have a travel book on how to get to Palo Alto. The man at the library’s information booth told me to go to the Palo Alto room to find what I was looking for. In the Palo Alto room I asked the librarian if she had a book dealing with every possible way to get to Palo Alto. “But you are in Palo Alto,” she said, holding a handkerchief over her nose because of what she feared was the heavy smog drifting up from Southern California and settling over Palo Alto today. “I mean the city of Palo Alto, not the room.” “Excuse me. I’ve been around all these Palo Alto books so long that I feel I’m living there sometimes. But why go to Palo Alto when you can learn much more about it from reading here?” “I’ve a good friend there I want to see. Kevin Wafer.” “Kevin, Kevin. No, I don’t know him personally. But I’ll get you his book and save you the cost and time of a trip there. We keep all our biographies up-to-date. If he’s not too old, he won’t take you long to read. What street is he on?” “Leary. But I want to see him, not read about him.” “Nonsense. Now sit down. Make yourself at home. Like me to build a fire? And don’t split on me, man, and I’ll bring you Kevin’s groovy book and a sweet roll and sody pop. I mean, don’t leave, sir, and I’ll bring his nice book and a danish pastry and bottle of soda.” She climbed the bookshelf ladder and rolled along on it till she came to the shelf marked Leary Street. She counted off the first letters of people’s last names on the shelf till she got to W, then began reading their names.

“Wackamaw… Wackaslaw… Wacky… Wackydup… Waddle… Waddles… Wafawin… Wafelost… Wafer. Here it is.” She pulled a book out and brought it over. It had your name on the cover and a recent photo of you on the first page. Inside the book were lots of facts about your life. All the facts, in fact. Starting with the first facts of where and when you were born and who was under the football-stadium stands when it happened and what each member of both football teams said when they jogged out of the dressing room to the field and saw you. And then all the places you’ve lived in or traveled to after that. Your schools, teachers, friends, classmates, toys you’ve owned and clothes you’ve worn and foods you’ve liked or disliked or once liked and then didn’t like and now like again. Even your favorite color and ice-cream flavor and lucky number and all the dreams and nightmares you woke up remembering and imaginings and wishes you went to sleep with or dozed off in class thinking about. Even a list of all the funny and intelligent things you said. And another list with side-by-side snapshots of all the persons and animals you met and drawings and constructions you made and birthday cakes you had and holiday trees you helped decorate. And even a tiny mention of me when for a while I lived with you and your mom and dog till about a year ago. “You keep searching through that,” she said, “while I hunt up your ways to get to Palo Alto book.” Other than for most of your dreams and wishes and things, your book didn’t tell me much about you I didn’t already know. Except that your first words were “Doctor, you look exquisite tonight,” while I thought they were “Will you stop twiddling around with my nose, you clumsy oaf.” And that nobody thought you old enough to walk when you kissed your dog goodbye at the door, crawled after the bus at the corner, and lifted yourself up and stepped to the rear of the bus as the driver had ordered.

“Success,” the librarian shouted from the top rung of the ladder. She stood up straight waving a book and banged her head on the ceiling, climbed down with the Ways to Get to Palo Alto Book and set it before me. “In going to Palo Alto,” I read, “avoid nowhere.” So this book might be of some use to me after all, I thought. “Get on the front of a three-legged horse,” I read, “and you’ll be riding two steps backwards all the way.” “Now that’s a lot of help,” I said. “What is this you gave me — the Palo Alto Book of Riddles?” “Why? Want me to get you that book too?” Just then a man ran into the room and said “Quick hurry fast. It’s almost too fast. Maybe it is too late. Because do you have the Palo Alto Book of Riddles?” “I was just about to fetch it for Mr. Foy,” she told him. “No no no. Quick fast hurry. I mean quick hurry fast. As I’ve tried all the new bookstores. Looked through all the old bookshops. They all told me I had to buy a book called the How to Find the Palo Alto Book of Riddles Book to find the Palo Alto Book of Riddles. But that How to Find the Palo Alto Book of Riddles Book was too expensive to buy. I first had to buy a cheaper book called the How to Find and Hold a Job for a Week Book to find and hold a job for a week so I could afford the How to Find the Palo Alto Book of Riddles Book. But to pay for the How to Find and Hold a Job for a Week Book, I first had to find, hold and quit a job after a day with a day’s pay. So I borrowed my friend’s How to Find, Hold and Quit a Job after a Day with a Day’s Pay Book. I read it. Found, held and quit a job after a day with a day’s pay, and with that money bought the How to Find and Hold a Job for a Week Book. Read it. Found and held a job for a week and got paid a week’s wage for my work and went back to the bookstore to buy the How to Find the Palo Alto Book of Riddles Book. But the price of that book had gone up twenty percent in a week. So I again had to borrow my friend’s How to Find, Hold and Quit a Job after a Day with a Day’s Pay Book. Read it. Found, held and quit another job after a day with another day’s pay and now had enough money to buy the How to Find the Palo Alto Book of Riddles Book. It turned out to be a hundred blank pages, except for the two middle ones. These two pages had scrawled across them ‘To find the Palo Alto Book of Riddles, go to the Palo Alto room of the New York 42nd Street Library between the minutes of 2:15 and 2:18 pm on a windy day in a “J” month. Now,’ the scrawl continued, ‘can you satisfactorily answer these four questions? Two, is the riddles book still worth getting? Three, was it really worth all this trouble to get? And four, why couldn’t you figure out for yourself how to get the Palo Alto Book of Riddles without working so hard and paying such a ridiculously high price for the How to Find the Palo Alto Book of Riddles Book and buying and borrowing those other books?’” “Was it all worth it?” I said. “No, because I still can’t answer the four questions except for the third one which I’m answering now. Though fortunately the scrawl didn’t say that if I couldn’t answer the questions, I couldn’t get the Palo Alto Book of Riddles. But here I am. Is it too late? Don’t tell me it is, as that will waste even more time. Because fast hurry quick. I mean quick hurry fast. As it’s 2:17 and forty seconds, so I only have twenty seconds left. Now only fifteen seconds left. Now only twelve. Now eight. For time’s flying and wind’s dying and if we wait too long it won’t even be a ‘J’ month.” I told the librarian to give him the riddles book. He thanked me and looked over my shoulder at the book I was reading. “Oh, the Ways to Get to Palo Alto Book,” he said. “I read it. Very exciting and dull, don’t you think? I especially liked the ending. So much like the beginning. Or is it the middle section I’m thinking of now and the beginning was like the end? And so quick to read and slow. And that part with the three-legged horse still makes me happy and sad.” “What do you make of that three-legged horse?” I said. “I don’t know. All the answers to the problems in the Ways to Get to Palo Alto Book are in this riddles book. I always forget what I read, but love having the tougher parts explained. So a big ‘Yes’ I can finally answer to all four of those questions in the How to Find the Palo Alto Book of Riddles Book. It is worth it. It was worth it. I never could have figured out for myself how to get the Palo Alto Book of Riddles without buying and borrowing those other books. And I can satisfactorily answer these four questions. “But that part of the Ways to Get to Palo Alto Book you’re now reading?” he said. “When the traveler gets trapped in that house with many rooms? So real and unreal. Or is it a mountain with many mountains inside that the traveler gets trapped in? Or are all those mountains inside one room? But I do remember how scared and brave I was when I read it. Which reminds me, I must leave right now. I’m afraid of library rooms. Or any kind of libraries or rooms. For as I say: ‘Many doors, too few throughs, and windows aren’t enough.’” “What’s that mean?” I said. “Beats me. Sentence I read in your Ways to Get to Palo Alto Book. Though all the answers are in my riddles book, which you can borrow when I’m done.” “How long will that be?” “Answer to that one is in my riddles book too.” He asked the librarian how to get out of the Palo Alto room. “Read page forty-two, line six of the Palo Alto Book of Riddles,” she said. He turned to page forty-two and read aloud “‘Leave through the one door.’ Good,” he said, “I’m going,” and left. I opened my Ways to Get to Palo Alto Book to the “Tips to Travelers” section. “In going to Palo Alto,” I read, “avoid sitting on a log. If you can’t avoid sitting on a log, try not to sit on one too hard. If you must sit on one too hard, don’t sit on it at all. If you must sit on it at all, avoid going to Palo Alto. If you can’t avoid going to Palo Alto, go to a different one. If there isn’t a different Palo Alto, build one. If you can’t build one, build two. If you can’t build two, have someone build them for you. If you can’t find someone to build them for you, have him build them for someone else. If he builds them for someone else, don’t have him build them with logs. If he must build them with logs, avoid sitting on one. If you can’t avoid sitting on a log, start reading from the second part of the second sentence of this paragraph.” I skipped a few pages to the section titled “Station Wagons.” “Once a day,” I read, “a station wagon leaves for Palo Alto from the Station Wagon Station. Tickets may be bought at the Station Wagon Station ticket office. Lower fares for passengers willing to share driving. Higher fares for drivers willing only to be passengers. No fares for people not willing to be passengers or drivers.” That’s for me, I thought. “So long,” I said to the librarian, who seemed to have disappeared. “And thanks very much.” “Oh Mr. Foy,” she said. “Yoo-hoo, Mr. Foy. I’m way up here.” She was on a bookshelf ladder on the third balcony, speaking to me through a megaphone and waving what looked like a book. “I found another copy of the Palo Alto Book of Riddles, Mr. Foy. Pages are yellow and torn. A rare first edition. Written by hand in the original language of the California Indians who first plotted the route centuries ago and wrote the book. If you found a very old California Indian along the way to teach you their language and sew up the pages, this book could be of some use.” “No time. Station wagon is about to go.” I ran down the library steps and across town to the Station Wagon Station ticket office. It was in room 302 of an office building. Igot on the elevator and pressed button “3” for the third floor. Three fans in the elevator went on. The doors closed. Lights began blinking on and off. Dance music from a wall speaker started to play. But the elevator didn’t move. I pressed button “4” thinking I’d take the elevator to the fourth floor and walk down a flight to room 302. The doors opened and closed four times. Lights went out and the fans stopped. Music changed to an announcer giving today’s traffic report. The elevator started bumping to the basement, but got stuck between floors. I thought I’d better get back to the lobby and walk the two flights to the third floor. I pressed button L for Lobby. The lights came back on. Small fires broke out in the fans. The doors fell off and caved in against the elevator walls. A voice on the speaker said “Lelelator lot lorking. Luse lairlase lease. Lhank lou… Lelelator lot lorking. Luse lairlase lease. Lhank lou…” I climbed onto the elevator railing, blew the fires out and pressed button “B” for the basement, as the elevator was still stuck between floors. The button box blew up. The floor started to give way. I held onto the railing as the floor dropped out and crashed in the basement. The voice on the speaker said “Blease bleave belebator. Blast bannoucebent. Blease bleave belebator. Blast bannouncebent.” I climbed through the trapdoor in the ceiling and out of the elevator shaft into the lobby. I walked to the third floor and went to room 302. “Is this the Station Wagon Station ticket office?” I asked a man there. “No, Fender and Bumper Bumper and Fender Company. How do you do? I’m Bumper. Fender’s in back. Office you want is in room 812.” I climbed the five flights to room 812. The painter painting the empty room 812 told me to go to room 509 of the building next door. The secretary in room 509 said “The ticket office? Gosh, they moved a couple years ago to the new tall building around the block.” I went around the block. The building she spoke about hadn’t been built yet. I asked a man in the one-story rental office there if he knew where the Station Wagon Station ticket office was.