Stephen Dixon - Fall and Rise

“Ten thousand years,” and I clink her soda glass on the table with my glass and drink down my drink. “That’s banzai in Greek.”

“That’s not funny in any language.” She takes her glass, breaks off a couple of blue-cheese crumbs and puts them in her mouth and says “Really, at a party I love nothing more than to schmooze around, so it’s no shun if I say I’ll see ya?”

“Wait, you’re right. I am feeling sorry for myself tonight and I didn’t just say that to agree with you. I’ve been going on also. Running. The mouth. I’m not always like this. Rarely. Sometimes I’m even self-effacing, deferential and shy. I’ve made potential enemies here. I must be self-destructive. Just using the word ‘made’ instead of ‘encouraged’ and ‘enemies’ instead of ‘adversaries’—or more accurately have said, since the examples I gave make little sense, ‘I caused or prodded people to be hostile to me’—maybe illustrates that fact. Someone once said that about me. About being self-destructive. Someone? I can be a liar too. Meaning that that’s what I can also be — I didn’t mean you. Several said it. All women I was very attached to, though I doubt it was ever as evident as now, and not my attachment to them but my self-destruction. Look. I think I felt I had nothing to say before so wanted to make up clever and controversial things to say so I’d seem interesting. That sound true? I might have just said it to seem interesting, but I don’t think I did and I’m pretty sure it wasn’t. Excuse me. Still running. That I wasn’t even able to give my name to you? Saying and doing all those socially asinine things I don’t feel proud of I can tell you. Even what I’ve just been saying: this uncappable self-spill. At my age, coupled with my inferior income and no security, to be such a schmo sometimes is hard sometimes for me to believe and take. Oh fuck. I acted and am still acting the way I did because I don’t relate, or for those or additional self-destructive reasons think I don’t, to anyone here except maybe the host. So I’m provoking and annoying people and saying ridiculous and wretched things just to what? Don’t go yet. That can’t-relate feeling-sorry-for-myself outcast and — classed self-destructive argument I guess, though ‘argument’ not used in any contentious sense but in the manner of reasons induced and concluded I think, wouldn’t you say, or am I now being self-destructively unclear?”

She’s been doing other things but looking at me most of this time. Studying a wall hanging, snapping her wedding band, looking at the food, biting a live cuticle. Now she says “Then go home if you feel you don’t belong here and work it out some other day. That’s what I’d do,” and picking what I suppose is the chewed cuticle off her tongue, she touches my shoulder for me to step aside. I do and she passes.

“Diana,” I say, going over to her while looking at my shoulder to see if the cuticle was left there. It wasn’t, or fell off, and Diana’s introducing a Czechoslovak novelist to Gurygenin. Now his work I like and I wouldn’t mind talking to him. “Pardon me,” I say to the men. “I don’t mean to bust this up, but may I plunder Diana for a moment and then maybe return with her?”

“Sure,” the Czech says, “go ahead. But don’t — what did he say? — plunder her to the point of making it not possible for her to come back to us to stay. This poet man. He may not have something to say with me and then I’d be bored to stand here.”

“Speak English,” Gurygenin tells him. “We’re among friends.”

I take Diana by the arm and walk her to a free corner. “You needn’t explain,” she says. “I overheard enough of what you said to Sally and another guest told me much of the rest. What’s wrong with you? These are nice people. Intelligent, some of them gifted, and my friends. You’re my friend also, so I’m trying my best not to say that if you want to stay my friend, as well as at the party, and I’m probably going too far with that to a friend, don’t insult anyone else here to his or anyone else’s face. I also think you’ve had plenty to drink already, and now I know I’m going too far with a friend, but okay?” and takes the glass from my hand.

“I am feeling a bit too self-pitying for one jerk tonight and deservedly disliked. In a way it’s related to you-know-who.”

“Oh please. Let me go back to my friends.”

“You know so many people. I don’t know how you do it.”

“I work at it, not against. Take a lesson from me. That’s what my mother said to me when I was a wearisome kid and what I’m passing on to you. Be tolerant, be kind, be warm, and if others can’t get along with you, they’ll be in the wrong. Now as far as Helene’s concerned—”

“From what I can tell, just someone like her is what I meant, but because of some ineluctable eternal puke in my nature I can never get. Would I try to be getting away with too much if I said can’t we just say I’m drunk and be done with it and start anew? Nah, because I know I’ve screwed it up entirely with you and all your friends, haven’t I?”

“I wouldn’t know. And you haven’t been listening. And didn’t we run through this before? And why make everything sound worse by allying yourself with puke and the eternity? And are you sure you used ineluctable right? And these days everyone in everything has to settle for less. And really, come nearer…you’re behaving so intemperately besides nonsensically besides in the most mawkish pea-brained way that I don’t know if I care anymore. If it’ll make you feel any better, and this will be my last heroic act, sleep it off in the bedroom till the party’s over, though keep half the bed free for the cat, and maybe we should forget about eating Chinese.”

“No, got to go.” I kiss her hand, start to leave. “Hot fool, hot fool,” I say, pushing through.

“Dan,” she says behind me. I’m out the door. Collect my umbrella and coat and put it on and umbrella under my arm and wait for her a few seconds I’m not sure what for and go downstairs. Young man just buzzed-in and running upstairs says “Party breaking up so fast?” and I say “An international star-cast of nyet.”

“Tar cast of net?” and I say “Sorry, I meant yep, yep yep, yep yep yep.”

“Hey, watch it with your umbrella,” nearly speared, dodging past.

I look back and see him and then only his banister hand rounding the staircase. “Zeke,” Diana shrieks, “you old son of a Z, where have you been, my big man?” and their lips smack.

“Who was that guy I—” before I’m out of range.

Outside I don’t know whether to go right or left. I go straight. Wind and cold feel good and clear. Through the park on a path. Man sitting on a bench says “Excuse me but is there any way possible you can help me to get something to eat?”

Snowing. Covered his hair, shoulders, shoes, bench. Snow’s on the ground. Dog tracks. Someone not long ago slipped a few feet or intentionally slid: Yippee, look at me. Several lampposts away a figure’s cutting across the grass on skis. “By God it’s snowing,” I say, feeling my hair and accumulated crunch.

“I know and I believe I froze,” still with his head leaning over his knees and staring at his feet.

“Seriously?” His eyes close. I look around. Nobody’s around. Snow’s become sleet and light rain. I open the umbrella, touch his hand. “Still warm, almost hot,” holding the umbrella over us. “Maybe that’s a sign of frostbite — the first, only and last. But what do I know about frostbite? That if the affected skin stays hot but you can’t feel it — can you or my touch?” Eyes stay shut. “Then probably is or close and you should get to a hospital for it. Get into some cover at least. Don’t just keep your eyes dry. And gloves. You have to see to yourself. You could also lose your nose.”