Stephen Dixon - Fall and Rise

“Nah, you have too many important interests and aims, which I’m not knocking, but they and you come first. You’ll get married again — eventually — but you won’t let a kid come into it.”

“Don’t be so dogmatic about me. People change. I’ve my rigidness and routines, but I surprise myself sometimes too.”

“All right. I believe that marriage-mit-kit is a very definite strong possibility for you pretty soon.”

“Pretty soon. Reasonably soon. Because—” I step inside the revolving door, but before I can push it he squeezes in behind me and we move in short jerky steps. “One more spin around?” when we’re outside. “I was just getting started.”

His car is parked near the entrance. A man’s standing next to it and says “Pardon me for a moment, folks—” Peter takes my hand and backs us up a few feet and looks into the lobby. “Now don’t be alarmed. I mean no harm. Besides, look at you, sir. You’re practically a giant, so who’d mess with you, not that I’m that type in any shape or form. All I’m politely asking for is enough change to put me on a public conveyance home.”

“I think I have a quarter.”

“That’ll put me almost halfway. Thank you. And the lady? — You couldn’t contribute something too?”

“A quarter’s plenty from us. There are other people to ask. I’ve a lot more change but that’s all I feel like giving. You don’t like the quarter — give it here.”

“Peter.”

“No, he doesn’t think it’s enough, let him give it back as I said. Fuck this shit. I’m not letting us get harassed on the street every other day.”

“Pardon, no offense, I don’t want to get myself killed by this guy,” and he walks away. “Didn’t mean to cause any trouble,” to himself or for us to hear.

Peter unlocks my door, I get in, unlock his while he’s putting the key in, he says “Thanks,” gets in and shuts the door.

“God,” I say, “—quiet. I can’t believe it. I’ve had so much chitchat and bullshit tonight starting from the minute I got to Diana’s party that I think—”

“How is she?”

“Please, give me a minute. There must be something else we can talk about, if we have to talk for the next minute. Or music. Maybe you can put on public radio or NCN if they’re not the same. One of them should have something nice.” He starts the car and turns on the radio. Station he was turned to has country music, one he turns to has a busy Brahms serenade with too much wind and brass. “Not that.” He turns it off. “No, you can leave it on.” He turns it on, low. “I’m acting so spoiled, but what I wouldn’t do for a solo flute. Bach, just Bach. I don’t even know if he has one for solo, but someone like him. Maybe I should just pray.” I close my eyes, clasp my hands and pretend to pray. All I really want is quiet or sleep. To wake up, as I used to, in my father’s arms, with the car parked and the family home and my shoes off and my body being lowered into my bed. He leans across me — I jump back because I think he’s going to grab my leg — opens the glove compartment by my knees, pulls out a number of tape cassettes, slips one into a hole by the radio and turns the dial up and Brahms has become flute and harpsichord music and I think Bach’s.

“Close enough?” He buckles up, helps me to and drives off. “And low enough? Loud enough? Sorry for the harpsichord obligato, but it is obligato. But whatever’s your pleasure, ma’am, this nifty sports job will supply.”

“Everything’s fine, thanks. And before? To clear up a possible wrong impression? I didn’t mean that chitchat’s so bad. Just I’ve my saturation point. It’s like knickknacks, chitchats. Though I have those too I also have my saturation point with them. No more than five knickknacks to a radiator cover I say. What am I saying? Believe me, I was fine at the start of the evening, but now I’ve become ridiculously chitchatty myself.”

“No you haven’t.”

“Have to. So goddamn condescending. I crit others what I myself do. Because chitchat and bullshit have their days too. Just right now, for me, they’re — This music’s also too chatty. If only we could speed it up to a slow part. Mind if I shut it off?”

“Slow part’s coming, but I can speed up the tape to it.”

“No, no music. I don’t know what I want. But same way? The radio dial? Never saw anything like this,” shutting it off. “What else can it do? Record, take in, give change? Oh, shut up, Helene, till you get home, and then, if you have to chitchat like this, do it in your sleep.”

“You can’t. You have to keep the driver talking so he doesn’t fall asleep at the wheel.”

“Then let’s talk about something interesting. But you start, I can’t. But let’s see if we can talk about only one thing till I get home that keeps us unwinkingly stimulated and our minds unmoronically — oh my God, that man!”

“Where, what? Don’t startle me like that. You’ll run us off the road.”

“But that man we just passed. On crutches — I think being robbed.” I look back. “It still seems the younger one’s going through the pockets of the older man. Turn around, go back.”

“Come on, you couldn’t have seen all that so fast.”

“But I’m still watching it — now no more — too far back. Slow down and make a U at the next left.” He slows down but passes that left. “Peter, we can’t drive by knowing someone’s—”

“And I’m saying, if you did see something, you don’t want to get involved in a possible dangerous robbery. Because suppose we go back — then what?”

“We can get near enough to see if he is being robbed, and if he is, we can drive past slowly and honk and wave our fists. If the man’s already been robbed and the robber’s gone, we can drive him to a police station or stay with him till a police car comes. If he hasn’t been robbed, I want to find that out by asking him so I know I didn’t drive past anyone being robbed. And if it’s only what I think is the robber who’s there, then we’ll quietly drive past.”

“All right. Okay.” He makes a U-turn at the next left and slows down at the first red light.

“Don’t stop. No car’s coming, go through.”

“And if a cop—”

“All the better. That’s who I’m looking for now.”

He goes through the light. “I hate going through red lights.” The older man’s leaning against a lamppost, two canes, not two crutches, at his feet. We stop, I roll down my window, “Excuse me, but were you just robbed?”

“You undercover? If you are—”

“We’re not. We thought—”

“Still, he ran up that sidestreet and you can still catch him but you’ll have to go against a one-way.”

“We don’t want to try to — either thing — and get hurt. We saw you from the uptown side and thought we could help with a honk and shout if he was still here, or help you in any way. You’re not hurt? Did he get anything?”

“My wallet. Fifteen dollars. That’s what you have to carry on you today in case you get robbed. My watch two other punks took last year, so I don’t wear the new one when I’m out.”

“What are you doing out alone so late?” Peter says. “This neighborhood’s deserted.”

“I like to walk. If I get that itch, I take it. There are just so many directions to go. Last night I went the other. But I don’t go far. My place is two blocks down.”

“Can we do anything?” I say. “Take you to a police station or wait with you till a patrol car passes?”

“It’s not worth it. Fill out a report, nothing happens. If I made a bundle it might be worth having that report as proof for a big loss on my taxes. I’ll go home.”

“We’ll drive you.”