Stephen Dixon - Fall and Rise

“No, they all want to see the whole work first, intro also.”

“I’ll still look for your book when it comes out.”

“His book, but I shouldn’t minimize my own part that much. Sounds fake and is, since it’s not what I feel at all. But the glasses — what’s that?”

“Sammy my cat. Just jumped into my lap. He likes to speak on the phone.”

“Sounds like a baby crying. Siamese?”

“Yes. I’ll get him away. No, say something else, Sammy — show him you’re no kid; he’s twelve.” Sammy says nothing. “Never talks when I ask him to. Gurgles, sometimes moans or hums. Okay, Sammy,” and I put him on the bed, where he rolls over on his back, stretches, wants to be petted. “What about the glasses?” rubbing Sammy’s stomach.

“My eyeglasses. Got scratched, so I couldn’t use them anymore along with everything else going — wallet, keys, etcetera. Good thing I wasn’t also schlepping my one and only typewriter tonight or—”

“If they got your keys and wallet—”

“Only one man did and he wasn’t connected to the two who clubbed me, or receivered me, since that’s what it should be called. While one man held my arms back the other hit me with a receiver that had been cut from a pay phone. But the man who stole my coat with most of those things in it was just standing there — I thought another innocent observer who was going to watch me get receivered to death — after I’d stepped in to help this newsguy in his stand who was being roughed up and robbed.”

“Still, aren’t you afraid he’s not right this moment unlocking your door? He has your address and keys.”

“That’s what I told the policemen. They said to get a locksmith, but the phone numbers of all-night locksmiths they gave me and some others in the phonebook either didn’t answer or were answering machines or the two who did answer said they’d only open my door if I paid them cash on the line.”

“Then you shouldn’t have told the second one you had no cash till he opened it.”

“He might’ve got mad. You can’t get away with something like that in this city at one or two in the morning, and you ever see the tools locksmiths have? I’ve nothing to steal anyway except an old manual typewriter, twenty-dollar radio, lots of classical records with no player, and those other books of Hasenai’s and what I’ve already translated of them, which he’d never take or any of his pals would if he gave them my keys.”

“They won’t know you’ve nothing to steal till they get there. Then they’ll turn over your apartment looking for what you don’t have or they think you’re hiding and all the translations you’ve done could be destroyed.”

“I doubt anyone will come. Why wouldn’t they also think I got in with a spare key someplace and then bolted the door or had the money to have the lock changed tonight? And the guy who grabbed my coat off the sidewalk, where I threw it to defend myself more easily, was an elderly derelict and saw how furiously I defended myself once I got receivered on the head, so I’m sure he’ll be happy with just the coat and the wallet he didn’t expect to be in it.”

“After all you’ve gone through tonight, or say you did—”

“I did. If you saw me you’d know.”

“You’re a mess?”

“Worse. But nothing spilling out or that hasn’t dried by now, so I’ll live if I can find a place to bunk down.”

“I’m sure you will. But the police. They can’t take the door off for you or the lock?”

“The lock cylinder and they couldn’t because all the proof I had on me that I lived there was in the wallet. And to get the proof I have inside that I lived there, I needed proof on me that I lived inside.”

“Then this. You can’t expect me to do more. I’ll loan you enough cash to pay a locksmith to open the door.”

“Too late for that now, but thanks. Because ‘all-night’ doesn’t mean all night for them or to the two who answered.”

“I’ll make other calls for you. Meanwhile, you should start getting up here. I’ll find one, but you can’t just stay on the street.”

“Excuse me,” the operator says, “please deposit ten cents—”

“Miss, Miss,” I say, but she keeps talking and then begins repeating the message. “Give me your number there, Dan, quick.”

“Three-two-six, or eight — got that?” he says over the recorded voice. “One-zero, eight or nine I think it is — yes, eight or nine, and then eight. Thirty-two, six or eight, ten eight or nine. And then eight.”

“Give it again. I think I have it but—”

We’re cut off.

“326(8) 108(9)8,” I wrote on Leonard’s title page. I pick up the receiver, put it down. It’s too crazy. And he’s got to be lying. Head, phone, locksmiths, newsguy, coat snatcher, numbers scratched out, one and only book and so on, and I drop the manuscript and pen on the floor and shut the light, hoping he won’t call back. He does, I’ll say “No, goodnight,” hang up, pull the plug out of the jack and go to sleep.

But I can’t leave him waiting. It’s raw out, or sort of, or was, and if it wasn’t all a story he gave just to come up here…I turn on the light, go into the living room, see out the window it’s not raining but is very windy, tree branches and some trees — not just the leaves — swaying, thermometer reads 45, but could be ten degrees warmer where he is since I’m sure he’s not on the river, and get his book out of the shopping bag. All this fast. Looking for some sign he’s real and no fake. He’s the one who said he could be but didn’t want to and that’s the time I really start believing someone’s one, but doesn’t always have to be so. Jacket photo’s real enough. No pose, eyes caught in the act of wanting to avoid the camera. Fine, but if he was faking it, then again trying to present himself as he wasn’t. But photo was at least four years ago. His actions at the party. Seemed real and honest enough. He was attracted to me, came over — all right, at the last moment, but could mean he was shy but could overcome that shyness if he thought the person he was attracted to was about to leave, or that he’s not so shy but wanted to give the impression he was because a shy person was what he thought I’d be attracted to. Could also mean other things, but don’t forget my actions to him. I was attracted too. He knew that. Only man I was like that to at this and maybe my last five parties. I was looking at him on and off for half an hour before he stopped me at the door, caught him looking at me several times, hoped he’d come over and then gave up he would. Right before I left I thought I’d ask Diana about him in a few days and if she said he was available and all right, maybe try to get her to encourage him to call me. I also thought of going over to him and saying “Odd as this familiar approach must sound coming to you from a woman, or maybe I’m a bit out of date and don’t know what approaches women have raised themselves to make to men today, but you look familiar — do we know one another from some place?” But I find that hard to do to a man even when I do know him from some place. But fast, he’s out there, waiting, it’s got to be cold, might start to rain, so what’s it to be, call or not? Maybe he intuited I wouldn’t call back and has left. Thinking right now, block or two from where he called: “Knew it would never work; clever girl, can’t be conned.” But if his story’s real? “Stinking bitch, knows my head’s aching, maybe bleeding, I’ve no money, and in this freaking weather? Least she could have done was call to say she didn’t want to keep me waiting out here and she’s turning in.” Fool, go to a hospital if your head’s really bashed, but if your story was bunk, then bad try and goddamn gall, calling so late.