Stephen Dixon - Fall and Rise

“Why should you go? I’ll grab a cab downstairs.”

“I was about to go myself,” Peter says. “I know — I just came — but I only drove down to do my courtesies, since I’ve a long workday tomorrow. And you’re on my way home.”

“I’m twenty blocks north of you.”

“I’ll drive you — you’re not feeling well.”

“Go with him. This time of night — who even knows if cabs come down this far?”

“I’ll say my goodbyes and get my coat,” I say.

“First, someone has to make an official toast to the bride and groom,” Peter says. “Has anyone done it?”

“Several.”

“But a wedding toast? I came all the way down here to hear one. I’m a minister’s son, what can you expect? Doesn’t reinforce my argument, does it? But with the band on a break, it’s the best time for one.” He stands up, clinks his glass with a fork and says “Attention, everyone — please. I know several toasts have been made, but I haven’t heard them. And being a minister’s son, I feel called upon to make at least one official one. Another toast — what the hell, right?”

Most of the room of about a hundred people get quiet. A few people near the food table are still talking and laughing.

“Shh, shh,” some people say.

“I won’t make a toast till the room is totally quiet.”

“Boy, this fellow really takes command,” Arthur says to me.

“A toast, everyone,” Peter says louder. “Everyone has to be quiet. A toast, everyone.” The room’s now quiet. “Waiters, please see that everyone has a fresh glass of champagne or fresh champagne in their glasses.”

“I can’t believe this friend of yours,” Arthur says. “No let-up. What’s he think the waiters are, his slaves?”

The waiters bring in several trays of glasses and bottles of champagne. In a couple of minutes nearly everybody’s holding up a glass of champagne.

“Dorothy and Sven,” Peter says. “Please come to the middle of the floor.” They do. “Join hands.”

“Hey, get on with it,” Arthur says in a disguised voice. “We’re thirsty; our hands are getting heavy.”

“Maybe I should,” Peter says to Arthur, who looks around as if someone else had yelled it out. “Thank you, sir — Dorothy and Sven. I’m not good at toasts — not even at making toast. I burn my toast half the times I make it. Maybe that means I should get a new toaster. But even a halfway good toaster doesn’t blame his bad toasts on his toaster. But it is true that while my toaster’s dial is always aimed at ‘light,’ my toasts, if I don’t watch it, always end up dark. I don’t like dark toasts. But my toaster also doesn’t pop, which is another reason why my toast is usually hard and dark. But the champagne tonight certainly has popped. And months before tonight one of you must have popped the question to the other and the other accepted that pop. And maybe one day not too far off one of you will be a pop, and the other will be what in most traditional families goes with that pop, as in a mom and pop store — so, what’s in store for you. You might think this is funny”—Dorothy and Sven are laughing—“but it’s very serious. But one thing neither of you will ever be is seriously burned, unlike my toast, nor will you be roasted by this toast. You were made for one another, like toast is made for breakfast and roasts are made for supper. You are bread and butter for each other, one spread on top of the other, but which of you will be the bread and the other the butter nobody can say, since those rolls are transposable today. As far as putting rolls into my toaster, that’s out of the question and one that can’t be popped. Since how can the rolls pop if they can’t fit into the toaster? And if they can’t fit, they also can’t be burned or toasted and certainly not roasted, since nothing gets roasted in a toaster. But I’m sure both of you will always fit together and keep the other toasty — something on the order of a perfectly functioning toaster. So, I toast to your order of that perfectly functioning toaster and the bread that won’t be burned that goes into the toaster. And the butter that will be spread but won’t go into the toaster, though will be closely associated with it after the toast — perfectly toasted, the way you love it and each other and the way toast and bread love butter — pops out, but not to the floor. Pops out for you both to handle easily and without it burning your fingers. So here’s to all of those and lots of rolls and no more toasts tonight at least from this imperfectly functioning toaster and especially to you both, Dorothy and Sven Baker — and I swear only now do I see the connection between your last name and my toast — sip sip away.”

Almost everybody says “Sip sip away,” and drinks up. Peter drinks up, puts the glass on the floor and crushes it with his foot. There’s lots of applause, he sits and says “Drink. You haven’t touched a drop.” I drink a little.

Arthur says to him “I might have been a smart-ass before but only because I’m jealous of any guy who can take over the way you did. But that was without doubt the best toast I ever ate. I didn’t want to like it. In point of fact I hate all toast: dark, light or roasted — but I liked yours. It was palatable and kosher and I now think you ought to send them a real toaster as a present, maybe one that can take rolls. If you don’t, I will, but not your old one or my toaster-oven-broiler. I drink to you, sir — you’re a clever sonofabitch as there ever was one.”

They click glasses and then mine on the table. I drink all my champagne, say “Excuse me,” and go over to Dorothy and Sven and kiss them both. The music’s started. They take my hands. “No, I couldn’t.” We start dancing, just holding hands, sort of a Jewish dance to Jewish music. Other people take our hands and soon twenty to thirty people are holding hands in a circle and doing this dance. Arthur breaks the circle, takes my hand and the hand of the person I’ve been holding and dances around with us. Peter takes my other hand and the other hand I’ve been holding — Sophie’s. Soon about half the guests are part of the circle and the other half and most of the waiters are clapping in rhythm to us. I see the two women from the ladies’ room in the circle. The one who was sick drops her hand and waves to me and I nod and she takes back the hand of her friend and kisses it. The music stops. I’m panting from all the dancing. Sophie hugs me and says “My darling, all the same for you,” and I say “One day, maybe, but no rush.” Dorothy and Sven kiss Sophie and then me and then one another and Peter puts his arms around their shoulders and squeezes them into him and then hugs Sophie and then me and kisses my cheek and says “Why can’t I stop thinking about you? This is no b.s. I’m such a fucking fool. Can’t live with, can’t without, that’s my problem.”

I get out of his grip. “It’s all right, please, and stay. You’re having fun. I am too, but too much partying tonight.”

“No, I promised, and my work tomorrow starts early.”

I tell Dorothy and Sven I’m leaving. “Peter’s driving me home.” She raises her eyebrows. My look back says “Not what you think.”

“Before you go,” Sven says, “have you seen the view?”

“I’ve looked outside. We’re very high up.”

“But from the outside? Half of what Soph’s paying for is the balcony view. It’s memorable and I want the party to be remembered. You too, Peter. Arthur. Nils. Who else? Everybody who can fit out there, come with us to the balcony. Sophie, you too.”

“I can’t,” Arthur says to me. “I’m phobic when it comes to heights. They were lucky to get me up here, but I haven’t looked outside once tonight and did you notice how I stay away from the windows? Minimum of fifteen feet. I couldn’t get near the crudités table because of it, and I love those things, so someone had to bring me over a plate.”