Stephen Dixon - Fall and Rise

“Really, it’s okay,” when he puts his hand in the pocket he put the dollar in. “I thought you were great.”

“Neh, maybe there’s more. I don’t want you to be unhappy with me or think I’m lazy and maybe left some for you behind.” Holds his palm up to his nose and shakes it. Puts it to his forehead and closes his eyes and his lashes start fluttering. Makes a fist, opens it, closes it, opens, closes, opens and opens his eyes, lashes stop fluttering, and looks at it. “If anything is hiding in there it needs sometimes to shake it apart or unlock.” Holds his fist to his ear, says “Wait, I hear, it’s getting closer — here it is I think,” and looks at his palm. “Yes. And it still says it won’t be easy what that message from my hand and head called out to you, but it gives words of advice how to go out and get them and again in numbers of three. One, be not as strong as young teeth, not as weak as old bones, not as quick as quick lips with swift tongues, but someplace inside each of these: easy and hard, fast and slow, throw and catch, the in-between.” He looks up. “That’s all I can say. Even for many more dollars from you, because all there was of the message I read. Now I must go. Time is late. I’m not afraid, but sisters and mother who wait up for me are. And you don’t want beautiful red flower, others along the way might. Goodnight,” and he picks up the shopping bag and goes. “Night,” and get home safe if home’s where you’re going, though bet he can handle himself on the street better than I, and take out my notebook to write down the letters and numbers that were on his palm, but have forgotten everything but a reverse S and the upside-down nine.

Uptown. Shoes and socks seem nearly dry. Shoeshine box. Bit of a lie. Went out a number of times with one my father bought originally for the home, though he wasn’t against me trying to make some money on the street and I was probably around twelve. Said I had to be home before dark and if I broke any part of the box I had to pay for it and also for the shoeshining supplies. But almost everyone I shined for said I gave a lousy shine and most didn’t tip and a few wouldn’t pay the dime. Smeared and maybe stained too many socks and skin and cuffs above them with shoe polish and a few men said something like “You know what the cost of a new pair of socks is compared to this stinking shine?” Soon gave up shining with that box except at home for my uncles and parents’ friends, though free for my father, and later for myself and my father when he was in bed convalescing or in his wheelchair eating or watching TV and I’d take a few pairs of his shoes out of his closet shoe rack and say “Just doing it because the leather’s cracking and for when you’ll be up and around wearing them again,” and in front of him also to have something to do in front of him gave them a good shine.

I go over to two attached pay-phones. Receiver of one hangs by its cord below the shelf. Other’s on its stirrup and I lift it. Operational tone so so far the phone’s fine. I put my dime in and wait for the dial tone. None comes. Dial? Don’t. I start to, stop. But what I got at first was probably the dial tone, even if the sign on the phone says to wait for the operational tone before putting a dime in. I punch out the remaining numbers. Man’s recorded voice says “Your phone requires a ten-cent deposit before dialing. Please hang up and—” I hang up. Coin’s not returned. I press the coin-return lever and coin comes. Other phone? Something tells me the odds are better with this one, and my coin was returned. I try again. Same thing. Same man’s voice imparting self-confidence, forbearance, anyone can make a mistake, next time please try to read the instruction plate first, I am a man who makes his living through his diction and believable tone, lever repeatedly, coin comes. I leave the receiver hanging below the shelf, lift the receiver of the other phone and press its stirrup. Dial or operational tone, dime in, dialing dial tone, punch out the numbers to my mother’s home. Phone’s ringing. Most people I wait a minimum of four rings. My mother, because she might be resting or sleeping or on her breathing machine any time of the day, I usually hang up after the third ring, when she answers with a hello.

“Mom, it’s me, how are you? I have to drag you to the phone?”

“Oh, Dan. I was wondering who’d be calling me so late.”

“I shouldn’t have, right? But I felt I really owed you a call and I tend to forget — Actually I almost never tend to forget, got a memory like a you-know-what, but thought you might be up because you’ve said your hours are so erratic. But did I get you out of bed or from any place inconvenient? Because if you hadn’t answered after the third ring—”

“It’s all right, and good hearing your voice. How are you too? You sound fine. We have no heat you know.”

“Because it’s past eleven?”

“Because we never had heat. For two days. On Thanksgiving, imagine?”

“Thanksgiving? Yesterday? Christ — never called to see what you were doing.”

“I went to your cousin Bernard’s and Dotty’s as I usually do. They again asked if they should invite you but I told them you’d never come. They picked me up and sent me home by hired car.”

“That was very nice of them. How are they?”

“Fine and their kids are wonderful. You eat out last night?”

“Nope. Bought a thick veal steak and a good bottle of bock for the occasion. But your heat.”

“Boiler oil shouldn’t run out. Not at the average old age of the tenants in this building. It’s the landlord who should run and keep running till we never see him again. I wish it weren’t so, but sometimes everything people I don’t normally listen to say about landlords turns out to be true.”

“You used to speak very highly about the ones who owned the building before the current guy. Mrs. Innerstein for instance.”

“She lived in the building so went through what we all did, and think she would jeopardize her cats’ health? Cats like a hot place. Maybe the expense of oil today would make even Mrs. In greedy. They say it’s regulated by computer, the amount of oil the building needs. But either he’s draining our tank to heat his buildings till twelve where the apartments go for more, or he’s finagled with the oil company to once a month let the oil run out on the two most freezing days it takes to bring in a delivery. But do I sound too caustic and paranoid? I try not to be, it’s unhealthy, but occasionally in this building it’s impossible not to. Who knows? Maybe this time the landlord has a pardonable excuse.”

“You sound plenty reasonable, so don’t worry. It must be very uncomfortable without heat.”

“Where you calling from? It sounds like noises on the street.”

“A pay phone. I went to a party and was walking home.”

“It’s safe? You don’t want to take a subway at night, but why not a bus or cab?”

“I’m walking to get air.”

“You drank too much at the party?”

“Mom, will you stop it? I drank a little. Maybe even more than a little, but I’m all right.”

“Thieves see a drunk on the street, they see a target. You have to be careful everyplace today. No matter how big you are, they come at you two and three at a time and can knock and keep any man down. I worry about you alone at night. You’re too quick to leap in if you see any trouble. Maybe yesterday that was okay or you’d end up with only a bop on the nose, but today you can get killed. If they start chasing you and they’re young, they’ll win.”

“Believe me, with all the exercising I do I’m even stronger than I was, but I no longer jump in. I’m as wary as the next guy.”

“Too much exercise at your age and you could be setting yourself up for a heart condition. You ought to do only light things like yoga.”