Stephen Dixon - Fall and Rise

Turns the sound up but movie’s so good that she’d rather risk seeing it in a revival theater some time than see it now, and turns it off. Clock. Six mins, Mr. Krins. Then it’s lights out in this gritty city, far-off or nearby, to tumble into the night where I hope my tumefied dreams will multiply. Say . Not good but bad. Should buy a shade for this window, I keep saying, and not for the little bowlered man across the river and his superhighpowered telescope.

Marietta, talking about telescopes. Superhighpowered for sure — what a dandy idea. One great thing about having your best friend in California is she can call you before eleven A.M. at the maximum overnight discount rates and you can call her when you can’t call anyone else in the city because it’s too late.

“Marietta, Helene, it’s not too late?”

“Is a bit, but it’s okay. Great to hear your voice, but past twelve, Helene — anything wrong?”

“No, and darn, damn time difference again, because I thought it was just eleven where you are. And me, of all people, after this big long debate with myself tonight — not with myself but somebody else—”

“Who dat?”

“Oh, no one. Boy, stupo, stupo,” tapping her temple with her knuckles. “But what I meant was that I’ve always been such a stickler about phoning people at a reasonable hour. I’m sorry. And I know I’m over apologizing in excess of and above and beyond that, but I’m sorry. Listen, before I completely don’t make any sense, I’ll — I only wanted to hear how my only godson’s doing, but I’ll call tomorrow at a decent hour.”

“Nah nah nah, we’s up. And it’s not that late. Just that I’m in the mist of breastfeeding it — he, him, little Nick — sorry there, butch — so I won’t be too clear myself.”

“I’ll call back when you’re finished. How long?”

“No guarantee. Could take twenty minutes, could take two times twenty if he still wants what I seem to too quickly run out of and he has to go on form. Just that it’s tough to talk when I’m breasting. I’d give you Bob but he seems to have conked out — Bob? Bob? He’s really gone this time, not just a-possuming. He’s done it before — snore, snore — when Nick’s ready for the bottle or to be burped, since he thinks they’re the most monotonous jobs possible next to reading Freshman English comps, right there, Bobby? — Really out. We’re both so beat since Nicholas was born. Ech, now he wants me other breath. When he latches on sometimes, watch out, sport. But here’s the big tunity for you two to talk. Say something to your g-mother, Nick. Your other mother, not your udder mudder. This will be his first phone talk if he talks. He’s bound to howl when I switch jugs on him and keep him off the dug for a few sees. He digs that dug. You do dig dat dug der, don’t ya, ittle Ick? See the usage I’ve reduced myself to. I can’t speak to adults no more and particularly colic per-fects. Here, speak to godmamala Helene.”

“Honestly, you don’t have to—”

“Say hi to the old boy. You don’t, he’ll feel rejected and won’t sup.”

“Hi, Nicholas Erasmus sweetheart of mine, how you doing, honey?”

Baby cries.

“There, his first words,” Marietta says. “Let me get them down for post-puberty. ‘Whaa-whaa,’ or was it ‘ya-ya’?”

“‘Ya-ya,’ I think. What do you think he said to me?”

“What did you say to him? He was only responding. Six weeks? — sheet, you can’t expect much more than that from him for a few more days.”

“I said ‘Hi, Nicholas Erasmus’ etcetera.”

“So he was saying ‘Hiya baby, etcetera’ back. Now I have to switch breasts. He’s right between us in bed and I have to be careful Bob doesn’t flip over during one of his Ph.D. exam dreams and thrash and crush him. Phone receiver will be right above my head on the pillow, so tell me what’s been happening with you lately and every so often I might be able to divorce myself from this formidable pleasure and say a syllable or two. Cracked nipples and engorged mammae and all, sometimes I feel so sunny and voluptuous doing this that I think I’m the one being held, musically mobiled and fed.”

“Sounds nice.”

“Here comes Peter Cottontail.”

“What the mobile plays?”

“Mmmm.”

“You’re gone.”

“Yuhhh.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Work?”

“Going well. Nothing new. Book too. Working hard.”

“Ten?”

“Chairman’s made gestures but I won’t take if offered. Don’t want it. I’ll either try something new, get a better book contract for the next one and live rather penny-pinchingly for two years, or go to another school.”

“Daft.”

“Why? I don’t want to be screwed into the same school the rest of my life or even teaching or the East Coast or maybe even America, I think.”

“Sab.”

“Sabbatical? No, I want to do something different or the same thing in a different place, but not take a year off on the university when I might never come back. It’d seem like cheating and also would be keeping a needy scholar-teacher from getting my job.”

“Bob?”

“Way ahead of you. Months before I leave I’ll tell him and then recommend him to my chairman.”

“Years.”

“Been looking?”

“Two.”

“Delaware.”

“He’d even take a job in Delaware.”

“U. of. In the last MLA listing. And you?”

“Too. But Bob best. Rest. Me. You just talk.”

“My folks are fine. They’ve sent Nicholas something. It’s extravagant, so don’t send it back.”

“Yes.”

“No. They love you and only wish the same for me.”

“Two.”

“Two babies? You’re already planning to have another?”

“Me too for you. Rest.”

“Boy, I’m really getting it about that tonight. If and when the time comes, all right?”

“Now!”

“Stop?”

“Man?”

“Hey, wilt, will ya?”

“Well?”

“Several. Nobody special. This one and that. Part of the reason I called. One I met tonight, not even a this or that, is on his way here—”

“Yeah?”

“Nothing to get excited about — he got himself locked out of his apartment and that’s that. But I’m waiting and waiting. Met him at Sven and Dot’s wedding reception.”

“They?”

“Okay.”

“It?”

“Glittering. Grim-visaging. Wanted to commit partycide. What the hell. Their affair. But this man there — met him for a minute — no, that was at Diana Salter’s earlier homier affair — Dan, and what do you know goddamn, he called and is coming over to sleep on the couch because of that lockout and I’m waiting and have nothing to do, not that I don’t always love talking to you, except when you’re pressing me to get wed — been, remember? been — so thought of calling you.”

“Glad.”

“After this call — even during it if he rings from downstairs — not answering or letting him in. The phone, the door — heck with it, it’s already become something of a joke.”

“Do.”

“What, let him in?”

“Do.”

“Why?”

“Why? Want some honest but for a change good advice? No. Can’t. It’ll still the mill. Rest.”

“I’m curious though. Just take a few elucidative sees.”

“Feel.”

“Feel isn’t to see. Because he doesn’t seem that interesting. Nothing I said made him out to be. Locked out — what’s that? Translates lits — hot stuff? Just a nice nervy and slightly flaky bright guy who’s kept me from sleep too long. And if he was that interesting or more interesting than I see and interested in seeing me again and I thought him interesting enough to want to see, he could always or I could always, call me or call him, but another day next week.”