Stephen Dixon - Fall and Rise

I’m reading a student’s paper on “Postconstructionism and Morphology in the Postmodern American Novel”—I’m sure he has the first term wrong, if he’s not sending up that critical school, and even if he is, the entire department by now, students and teachers both, has to know how I hate those words and themes, even parodies of them, since there’s rarely anything in them for me except material and writing to help put me to sleep when I can’t sleep — when the phone rings. Answering service closed more than two hours ago. I don’t like answering it, as at this hour there’s a good chance it’s a crank. “Yes?”

“Then you got home okay. Good. I was worrying.”

“Who is this?”

“Excuse me, because why should I have thought you’d recognize my voice? Arthur Rosenthal. And excuse me too for calling so late.”

“Thanks for your concern, Arthur, but it’s too late to even talk about it being too late.”

“Now I’m very sorry I called. I didn’t think it’d be that late — late italicized I mean. Because I called only fifteen minutes ago—”

“You couldn’t have. I’ve been home more than half an hour.”

“I did. And a half-hour before that, and a half-hour before that too. Maybe I just missed you the second half-hour ago and you were someplace else the last half-hour — in another room, am I wrong?”

“It’s possible I was in the shower then and didn’t hear it, so all right. Still—”

“Anyway, I certainly called, but that’s not to say I couldn’t have dialed the wrong number and that number didn’t answer. But I don’t often dial the wrong number no matter how late at night. Maybe five hundred to one. I can’t even recall the last time. A year ago — two.”

“But you do often call late at night.”

“No. I only called you to see if you got home okay, and when you didn’t answer, half-hour after that and then this call. When you didn’t answer the first two times I called, I assumed you weren’t home yet and that it’d be safe to call now.”

“Did you ever assume I might not have answered deliberately and that each time you rang you were disturbing me more and more, waking me up each time?”

“I should have assumed that. But it wasn’t what happened, was it? Because you said that a half-hour ago—”

“No, it wasn’t, but still. To me any call after eleven at night and before seven A.M., and maybe even eight, except between very close people — forget the early morning calls, let’s concentrate on the late. But people very close to one another — lovers if you may. And even there the caller should think ‘Do I know, if I know this person is up, if he or she would be disturbed by my rings or is too tired to answer the phone?’—should be for emergencies only — for physical or emotional help or something like that. And after midnight even lovers should hold off their calls unless it’s an extreme personal emergency, between them or very deeply affecting them and where the caller is sure the called lover would at least tolerate the call. I didn’t put that well — and I didn’t mean to exclude calls from immediate family, since my thoughts about those calls are about the same for nonfamily — but it’s one of my rules.”

“You put it well. And I’m sorry I didn’t know your rules, even if I suppose every intelligent person should have the same rule. And no question it was wrong of me to call. Even if I was only concerned about you, and more concerned each time you didn’t answer, which was presumptuous of me. But also because — what the heck; I’ve come this far I might as well say the rest — I didn’t especially like this fellow Peter — may I speak openly?”

“I don’t want to hear about him now. And Peter is or was a friend of mine, so it’s not right, at any time of the day or night, for you to—”

“I disliked him thoroughly. I’ve never seen anyone so caught-up with himself — so, so…who gave the impression of — he’s a born bastard and good-for-naught, that’s what. I was almost afraid for you with him, and that if he were there with you when I called, which would be your own affair, but if someone called he’d know that someone else knew he was there and that if he was planning any harm—”

“You don’t know how wrong you are. You’re going on like this only because of some resentment you must have towards him because of me. But you’re blowing this thing way—”

“I know, but that was my fear. Not out of jealousy. He looked capable of doing anything heinous. I don’t care what kind of sophisticated work he does and how brilliant and dynamic everyone says he is, he’s a goddamn snob and peacock and I bet even a chiseler and heel of the highest order — not a chiseler, I’ve no basis for that — but that’s what I believe. I’ve never believed anything so much and so fast as that without utterly knowing that person or the facts, but you just tell me he’s not. Of course you’ll say he’s not, and why shouldn’t you? That would be the loyal and right thing to do.”

“Please stop about him.”

“Of course. But if you can believe it, except for that I wanted to make sure you got home safe, all that’s not even why I called. I won’t keep you another minute. I only wanted to say that tomorrow’s Saturday, neither of us has to go to work, so how about lunch, say one o’clock at The Library, which is on Broadway and Ninety-second, halfway between your apartment and mine. It’s even less than halfway for you, and no splitting the check. After opening my trap the way I did, I should stand you to two straight lunches and at a place a lot better than The Library, which for what it is is very good of its kind.”

“Thanks, Arthur, but I just made a vow—”

“Is it because of what I said about him? Even if I shouldn’t have said anything, I wasn’t too far off in my assessment of him, was I? Excuse me, but what about your vow? It can be broken for an hour or two, can’t it?”

“You’re not taking me seriously. What I vowed was not to see anyone for an outing for the next month, since what I have to do first is crank away at finishing something and also prepare for the spring term. I’m carrying two lit courses and a composition, which can’t sound arduous to anyone not in university teaching—”

“It does, I know what it is. But the next month you said, which is December. It’s still November. Five whole days left. So you’ve five more days to have lunch with someone, so how about it? Lunch — an hour or less — no more.”

“Tomorrow at one? No, I can’t.”

“Yes you can. I’m sorry, I know how valuable your time is — but an hour, sixty minutes to the dot. And The Balcony, not The Library, which is a five-minute walk for you — you must know where it is. Next door to the Olympia, which is a lot less than less than halfway down and sometimes live chamber music there and always a decent lunch. I’ll even pick you up by cab — you can be waiting downstairs at twelve fifty-five.”

“Don’t pick me up, and can we make it at two? That way I might be able to get some work done, since I know I’ll sleep late tomorrow and maybe even wake up with a slight hangover.”

“What’s sleeping-late for you?”

“Just answer; I have to go.”

“Two it is, you kidding? Anything, even two-fifteen. And I’m glad you got home safe — you did, didn’t you? You’re not going to tell me tomorrow about any of tonight’s hand-to-hand skirmishes and battle wounds?”

“I’m safe. Don’t pry. Goodnight.”

Didn’t want to but how else? Not true, because — Damn, just should have said “Listen to me, it’s not only audacious of you to”—Not “audacious,” but — Oh, no big deal, and he’s looking out for me, isn’t that a laugh? No, it was stupid of me. Should have said “Call me another time, I’m bushed, goodnight,” and hung up. But it’s just lunch, falls in with my new directives, and though nosy and a bit nutty he’s a sweet enough guy and was he ever on-target about Peter. But I’ll establish right off with him — Already have a dozen more friends than I can hardly see even now and then — But come December — Clever — five days left in November — he caught me on that one — guy’s fast. Wait, do I have a luncheon date tomorrow? I look at my appointment book. No, and it’s only tomorrow, so I should be able to remember without writing it down. But I don’t know how groggy I’ll be in the morning or how much drink makes you forget overnight, so I write “Arthur Rosenthal, 2, The Balcony,” in tomorrow’s box. But come December I’m putting the kibosh to any frivolous social-going. Get a special phone-gadget installed so when I press a button it’ll keep the phone from ringing when I’m busy or sleeping and the service is closed. Heard of those.