Stephen Dixon - Fall and Rise

“Wish I could, but thanks.”

“Say. Later.”

“You’re so admired,” Arthur says, “and desired. I never saw anything like it.”

“Only when I’ve drunk too much. Then, I must look like an easy mark and a good dancer.”

“No, it’s obvious. Everyone’s magnetized by you. Women, men. Strangers. The way the waiter spoke to you. He’s probably a sour fucker normally — excuse me — to most people, but you lit him up. I can tell: people are naturally pulled to you. I was, this Lon, and just the way half the men here look at you when they go past — even the little kids. It must get very distracting at times.”

“If it’s so, I don’t really notice it. If I do notice it, what’s it mean? It’s your face they’re looking at — or your body. Half of them are only thinking Oh boy, would I like to — what was the word you used? — fuck her. It’s not just to me, it’s to most of the younger women here. We’ve all touched up our faces, done our hair, shaved our armpits, put on our prettiest clothes, so what do you expect?”

“Not so, with you. It’s also your intelligence they’re seeing. And that particular complex of characteristics — your personableness, for instance — that distinguishes you from everyone in this room.”

“Really, except for minor variations, I’m no different than anyone here, woman or man.”

“What are you saying? You know, you need someone to make you believe more in yourself.”

“I believe plenty in myself, no problem there. I look at myself clearly and regard myself fairly and don’t think of myself excessively and that’s the extent to which I want to deal with myself that way. It’s because I don’t respond with open arms to cajolery and compliments that I don’t mind beating them back with self-deprecating jokes or something to discourage further flattery and complimentary attacks. Oh, compliments and the accompanying gushing attention can sometimes be all right, if in moderation and short order and, when the timing and setting’s okay, come from someone you really like. But not when I’m pooped, sweaty, bit of a headache coming on, little stomach-ache already there, diarrhea probably next, and I’m slightly grumpy and somewhat tight.”

“You’re absolutely right. Say, how about a dance?” and he gets up and dances in place.

“No, really.”

“I was only doing an imitation,” sitting down. “So, been teaching long?”

“Long enough. And you? Tax-lawyering long?”

“Twelve years. What grad school you go to for literature? I’m assuming you did. Ph.D., I betcha, and Yale, because it has the best. I went to Yale Law and while there audited several literature courses.”

“No, didn’t go there.”

“Where did you go?”

“Honestly, Arthur, I don’t want to talk about my schooling and job. It’s simply that the way I feel — but food, yes. Excuse me, but food should help me. A ladies’ room too. Water on my face, maybe soap and water on my face, and to retouch up my face, redo my hair.”

“You have absolutely — pardon me for coming right out with this—”

“Then don’t.”

“Glorious hair. I’ve never seen such hair. I can’t believe what it’d look like loose. The color looks like the inside of a fireplace. The fire, or place, when lit, I mean.”

“I was wondering.”

“The orange inside the fire when there’s lots of carbon in the wood, I think it is. But not red flames, just orange-red. It’s both eene and unearthly.”

“Thank you, but plenty of women have the same color hair and plenty of pussycats too.”

“But it’s so smooth. Smooth like a real eating orange almost. It makes me want to reach out and touch it, but I won’t.”

“It’s really messy and dirty. It should be combed.”

“Suppose I said — no, I shouldn’t say it.”

“Fine. Now let’s forget my hair. It’s just a slightly untypical mop.”

“It’s highly untypical. I’ve never encountered a woman with that particular color orange whose hair was so straight. Usually that orange is on a kinky-haired woman or at least one kinkier-haired. Yours isn’t kinky at all.”

“That’s because I washed it tonight, but now it’s full of smoke. Really. I should go to the ladies’ room. I also have to pee. Excuse me.” I stand up.

He stands. “I’m sorry. I pushed you away.”

“No, I’ll come back if you want. Stay here or go to the food table, better. Have some champagne while I’m gone. Go on. I’ll meet you over there because I think some smoked fish — they have some, don’t they?”

“About a dozen different kinds, but only three or four are left.”

“That’s what I’m sure will help sober me up. The Russians use it. One of them told me at a party I went to earlier tonight. They’d never drink as much as I did without lots of smoked fish. So I’ll see you over there.”

“I’ll be very surprised if you do come over.”

“Shoot, what am I going to do with you? Are you a friend of Sven’s?”

“Yes. Are all of them as unself-confident as I?”

“No, just wondering. Sven’s a lawyer, so it makes sense. I don’t recall Dorothy mentioning you, but maybe she did.”

“We’re not in the same firm and he’s not Yale. We served under the same district attorney.”

“You were an assistant D.A. too?”

“In Queens. I can’t say we’re the closest friends, but we’re evidently on friendly enough terms where he thought to invite me. Were you at the ceremony?”

“Sure, how could you have forgotten? I was her maid of honor.”

“I wasn’t there. That wasn’t what I meant. I wasn’t invited. I was very happy for them, of course, but anyway, I was out of town then on a tax case.”

“I see. Okay. At the smoked fish table. If you’re not there, don’t worry about it — I’ll know you found someone else to talk to.”

“Never. Why would I?”

I nod and smile, think Poor guy, and head for the ladies’ room. It’s at the entrance to this room and I have to walk around the dance floor to get to it. A man grabs my hand and says “Show me how to jitterbug. You look like you know how to do a great jitterbug.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t.”

“You’re the best lady, be my best lady. You’ve got to be good if you’re Dorothy’s best, since she’s the best, so be good to me. Don’t be annoyed with what I say. I’m smashed, best lady.”

“Thank you. I’m a bit smashed too. Now please let me go.”

“Jitterbug one solitary jitterbug step with me first.”

“Leave her go, Teddy,” the woman he was standing with says.

“When she jitterbugs one solitary step with me.”

“I don’t know how to jitterbug,” I say to her. “Really, Teddy, I don’t.”

“I’ll show you.” He puts his arm around my waist, continues to hold my right hand with his left and walks me forward, walks me back, quickly switches hands and flicks his right leg around his left and faces me again.

“There, I did what you said, now let me go.”

“We have to do it once the same way from the other side.”

“Not fair,” Lon says, dancing by.

“It was an accident.”

“No accident,” Teddy says. “The best man gets the best lady wherever he goes, always.”

“Sven’s brother was the best man,” I say.

“So I’m Sven’s oldest cousin on both sides, so that’s why I’m here and who gets the best lady.”

“Leave her alone, Teddy,” the woman says. “Can’t you see you’re too old for this girl and a disgrace?”

“God,” I say, “is this what happens when everybody gets drunk? What have I been missing?”

“Me, sweetheart. Marry me tonight, best lady. My wife won’t mind.”