Stephen Dixon - Fall and Rise

There’s no toilet paper. No tissues, hand-towel paper, cloth towel or even the paper holder on the wooden spool in the wall the toilet paper comes on. My handkerchief is in my raincoat as is the napkin with the pâté. I could use my fingers, but there’s no soap. My briefs have several small holes and frayed places in them and the elastic’s about to go. I start taking my trousers off. But as long as I’m going to dispose of the briefs I tear them off my legs by pulling at one of the unfabricated holes and chewing through the band, blow my nose in it which I have to do, rip the briefs in two and wipe my behind with the smaller part and drop it into the bowl and flush, hoping it all goes down. It does. I throw the other part into the can under the sink, then think I should have looked in or behind the can before I tore up the briefs for little pieces of soap or what could have been clean to semi-clean paper of any sort and also saved the clean part of the briefs for a possible emergency later on.

I splash water on my face, dry it on my sleeve and hands on my pants, check the toilet to see that none of what I flushed came up, look in the mirror at my face and say ‘“Now as Hasenai says in his humorous poem “Optics in Inner Space” would be a well-chosen moment to reflect on myself and place in the luminous race,’” want to pull a hair out of my nostril but because of the impending pain which has stopped me about one time in four, push it back in till it stays and go to the bar.

“That was an excellent selection that beautiful piano music you played before,” man at the end of the bar says as I pass him.

“You mean my concerto came on?”

“No, a solo, soft and sweet — delicious, unless they have concertos for just one instrument and no accompanist or orchestra. You know what it was?”

“The Brahms intermezzo? Much as I love it it wasn’t my choice. I put on that screechy violin piece before, though paid for and chose a slow Mozart piano concerto movement.”

“Must be mine then,” the barmaid yells over. “Just threw in money and with my eyes closed, pressed.”

“Your own money? Doesn’t seem practical with so few customers and such lousy tippers like myself.”

“Not real money. Sure, real, but with red nailpolish on it, which means it’s the bar’s and the gorilla who collects for his company gives it to us back. You have to have music in here, but why classical? Neither of you answer me that. It’s a classical music bar, so people expect it. But I don’t like it and aren’t afraid to say so.”

“What does she know?” the man says low. “She’s ignorant. She likes disco. She likes hip-huggers and guys with safety pins in their lobes and roller skates. She’s not supposed to but she wears those new kind of wheels in back of the bar. You see them?”

“I don’t believe so, though I don’t see how I wouldn’t have heard them.”

“They’re the new silent kind I said with something like polyurine wheels that make no noise. She knocks our music but thinks those things are the ultimate creative achievement of Western mankind till now, along with every single movie made. She’s pathetic.”

“I don’t know. She seems sort of nice. And if the owner doesn’t mind her skating or he’s not around to see, I don’t see why I should.”

“You’re right. That’s what I should think. I should mind my business and not be so critical of people. Thank you for telling me that. Thank you.”

“Excuse me, but I didn’t say you were wrong or even imply what you should think or do.”

“You don’t understand. I’m thanking you. Take the compliment you deserve when someone gives it because you may have to wait a long time for the next one to come,” and he sips his drink and looks at the bar mirror. I go back to my stool but don’t sit.

“Can I open you another one?” the barmaid says.

“Not yet. Hardly touched this one. By the way, he says you wear roller skates, so if I peer over the bar at your feet it’s just for that, okay? Oh that’s stupid.”

“Roller skates?”

“No really, forget what I said. I’m embarrassed by it. Trying to be provocative or something with my silly talk. Sorry. I’ll shut up.” I put my hand over my mouth and say through it “I’ve shut up.”

“He said it though, true?”

“He didn’t mean anything by it.”

“But he said it.”

I take my hand away. “What do you want me to say? If I said he said it he said it.”

She shoots him a dirty look, puts her sneakered foot on the counter next to my glass. “Other one’s like this one down to the broken laces. So whatever his reason for saying it, and I can tell you why but I’m a much nicer person than he, you could be an even bigger fool for believing him, not that I meant that as an insult to you — just to that troublemaker.”

“Look, what are you getting so riled up about? I’m sure he was kidding me. Playing around, man to man — you know. Besides, right after he told me it he apologized and said your roller skates were none of his business, so now I don’t know what to think. What does it matter anyway? And I’m the one who started the trouble, so blame me.”

“Maybe you have your own reasons for wanting to take everyone’s blame, but that bastard started it this time, not you.”

“And maybe you’re only looking to fight with him over nothing and for your own reasons and using my stupid roller-skate remark as the excuse.”

“And maybe you don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re only a first or second timer here and know nothing about what goes on around. Because that guy — yes, I’m talking about you,” she says to him and he says “Huh? What? Me? I can’t hear so good from so far away. Bad ears and I also can’t read minds or lips.”

“Sure you can’t. Oh, go back to your drink,” and he says “Anything to help keep cemented relations, but I’m still not so sure what you said,” and he looks at me and raises his eyebrows and shoulders, then looks at the mirror while he sips his drink.

“Anyway,” to me, “he’s always doing something like that about me with new customers. One time he told somebody I was a man in drag. Another time that I put laxatives in the drinks of customers who don’t tip. Those are jokes? Maybe if you don’t take them seriously, but both times those stupes seemed to believe him and who knows what else he says when I’m not around. I ought to really tell him where to stick it.”

“You just didn’t? Could I have change for a phone call please?” pushing one of the dollar bills at her.

“You’re just changing the subject.”

“No, I have to make an important call to my — and oh, before I forget. There’s no toilet paper in the ladies’ room. And I’m not saying that to change the subject from your saying I changed the subject before. I didn’t then and am not now and there’s no paper. Just thought you’d like to know.”

“That’s the truth?”

“About the paper and everything else, I swear.”

“Henry,” she yells to nobody I can see in back. “The girls’ room needs paper.” Man’s still looking in the mirror and sipping his drink.

“No hand towels either or soap. Face towels. Whatever they are.”

“All kinds of paper, Henry, and soap. I hope you didn’t have to go too bad,” she says to me.

“Just number one. And those papers in the pull-down metal container are hand or face towels, aren’t they?”

“Just paper. If they’re cloth, they’re cloth, but now we’re talking about a long linen roll.”

“Okay, gorgeous,” a man shouts from the back. “Toiletries and roses for the heavenly bodies. Thy will is mine done.”

“And you,” she says, going over to the man at the end of the bar. “You I want to have it out with now.”