Stephen Dixon - Fall and Rise

“Want to phone them from here?”

“No, and I’m sure I’ll never get it back.” I look inside the shopping bag. “Looks like more books than before.”

“It was supposed to be a surprise when you got home. I found some other Japanese books — beauties, one only on cats in Japanese art. Nobody loves cats more than you and maybe no people but the Chinese painted them better than the Japanese. You even have two Siamese. Sammy and Sue. How are they? I miss them. Getting off your couch with my pants plastered with their hair. Fish. I remember those long white sausages of slightly digested fish I’d step in early in the morning on my way to your john. And your temperament is practically Japanese. Soft — I’m talking about stereotypically Japanese — and your voice mostly softspoken and your attitude so polite and deferential in company, so it’s perfect these gifts.”

“You don’t know what you’re saying about me, but you win.”

I have my coat on and he hands me the two bags. “My apologies, Helene. It’s been a bad night for us and my library but not Japan. You might even think of changing fields after several close thumb-throughs of these books, so maybe also a bad night for American literature but Japan’s gain.”

“You never know. But there are plenty of things Japanese I’ve always liked. Music, food — movies, other than for the ones where dogs walk around with human hands in their mouths.”

“With Yatsuko — talking about food — I never walked out of those restaurants the way most people say they have — hungry. She ate sparingly. I used to have my plateful and then half of hers. But one last time.” Before I can stop him he has his arms around me and is kissing my neck, working his way up diagonally to the jaw. I try to squirm free, bag of books drops to the floor. “What are you doing? You can’t get herpes from kissing or hugging either, unless I’ve sores on my lips or open wounds on my fingertips which I’ve kissed with my herpes-infested lips. But I don’t. Just on my dick.”

“God, was coming up here ever the mistake. What’s next on your list, rape? Get off me?”

“After I leave you downstairs,” letting me go, “I’m going to whack off. Put vaseline on it, which I do only in extreme cases when I need a walloping release,” and he grabs his penis through the pants, “and jerk the thing till it hurts,” and demonstrates.

“Why do you have to elaborate so much? Don’t answer.”

“I don’t have to elaborate. I do have to answer. I’m disappointed, so I’m trying to be nasty as shit to you, which includes being graphic. But in the end, to myself, well—”

“Let’s go.” I unlock the door and leave.

“Don’t forget the bag of Japanese.” He gives it to me, “No, it’s too heavy,” takes it back, and we wait for the elevator, standing several feet apart, and take it down, two of us against opposite walls watching the floor numbers light up. I say goodnight to Russell, who says “Don’t be a stranger.” Peter whistles for a cab and says “You have enough money?”

“You don’t think it’s a little late to whistle so loudly for a cab?”

“Don’t worry, they’re my neighbors. And listen, Helene. Maybe in a few weeks—”

“Got ya.”

“Lunch I’m talking about. Only lunch. It’s clear to me now that anything but that would never work.”

“We’ll see.” He opens the door, leans forward to kiss my cheek and I pull back my head. “As I said, let me check with my doctor first to see if it’s safe,” and I get in the cab.

He puts the bag of books on my lap. “You cunt.”

“Bull. You brought it on and have always brought it on and will continue to bring it on yourself,” and I slam the door.

“What?” he says through the window, and raps on it. “I didn’t quite hear that. What, you cunt?”

The cabby’s laughing.

“Don’t you laugh, you moron,” Peter yells, and slams the cab roof with his hand.

“Hey,” the cabby says. “Hey! Hey!”

“Hundred-tenth off Riverside,” I say, “and don’t get out, don’t fight — please.”

“Okay,” and he drives away.

“I’m sorry about what happened back there. Any damage done to your cab, not that much could have been—”

“Is nothing. Not my cab. Forget, forget,” still angry.

He has an accent, kind of a high Russian voice, I look at his hack license: Jascha Papinsky. “ Vy —excuse me— vy Russki, da? ”

“ Da, ” smiling, “you speak?”

“Just those few words I learned at a party tonight, which I think are the same few words I learned at this same person’s party last year. There were a number of novy Amerikanets there. You the same? New?”

“No understand.”

“The Soviet Union. Have you recently come from there?”

“ Novy . Here. Yes. One year. Engineer. Too bad you not speak. I want to speak Russian for hours, but all Russian émigrés in New York is drivers of taxi, no riders. And old Russians many years here no more take taxi or look my name and to me not speak. Ah, my English very bad. A big problem. Adres . Take.”

He drives me to my building. For the whole ride from a tape deck beside him is some slow old jazz which I sit back and listen to and get to like. “Please wait till I’m in my building,” I say, paying him. “And if you could also be so nice. Since this neighborhood sometimes isn’t safe. Wait till I wave to you from inside my building before you go? Understand?”

“Sure thing. Glad to.”

I have my keys out and leave the cab, unlock the lobby door, go in, look around, let the door close, ring for the elevator, and when it comes, look at the convex mirror on its wall to make sure no one’s hiding inside. I wave to the driver, who beeps once, and take the elevator to my floor.

Sammy is speaking to me from behind the door second I step off the elevator. Sue had to be put to sleep because the pain from her terminal cancer was getting too great. I didn’t tell Peter because he knew how close I was to my cats and how close they were to each other and by that time I didn’t want his sympathy, genuine or false. “Okay, Sams, I’m coming — don’t fly out the door.” Elevator closes, so even if he does run past me he can’t get into the elevator, which he did once and it took me a while to find what floor he ended up on. I open the door, he’s scratching the floor that he wants to jump up. I put down the bags, wiggle my fingers for him to come and he stares at my stomach while he hums and then jumps at the spot he stared at and making squealing sounds runs up my chest till he’s lying across my shoulder, purring, head against my cheek. I walk into the kitchen with him, set him down, he’s finished his food and is pushing the plate with his forehead for more. I open a jar of strained-veal baby food and spoon two globs of it onto his plate, leave the spoon on the plate because he likes to lick it, drink a glass of seltzer, undress, shower, take two aspirins, brush my teeth and floss them and massage the gums with the brush’s rubber tip and get into bed. That’s it with parties for me, at least for a month, even if it is the season. Write that down. I jump out of bed — Sammy, sleeping next to me, gets startled and jumps off the bed and runs out of the room — get my appointment calendar and write on December’s four pages a letter a day with “onth” on the 31st: “No more parties for me at least for a month.” And at the bottom of the last page: “Meet people instead for breakfast or lunch, read for and outline spring term, finish 30pp of the book, just finish the book! try not to even see a man after 5 except maybe new year’s eve, and even there, but who’ll that be? — Oh, no woes if you stay home alone that night and on great wine and black forest ham and poached salmon fillets get high.”