Stephen Dixon - Fall and Rise

Funny girl, sounded mad, can’t wait, just to get inside some place, what’ll he say? aiee, aiee, at this hour the apartment can’t have much heat, only don’t get playful, just Hello, thanks — play it straight — Don’t want to trouble you any farther — further — So just…eighth…seventh…show me the rug or couch or whatever it is I’m to rest on, and if it’s still okay a shower first if you don’t mind, as you can see I really need it, and a towel in any state of dampness or decay would be much appreciated, so you just go to sleep, night-night, don’t worry about me, and much more than my thanks, you’ve been, what can I say? divine…second…first…

Bathrobe, something for underneath, just a pair of panties from here or there, like to put up her hair but hasn’t time, tie the belt tight, tuck the top in, nothing needed for her feet.

Door opens as he has his finger—“Hi, heard the elevator door open,” closes.

“Hello, thank you, you startled me,” holds out his hand, “—forgot my key. I—”

“Shhh — neighbors.”

“Sorry, and no dumb, and besides, confusing that dumb remark when you also consider that I lost my own housekeys. But anyway, seriously”—her hair down, more blonde than orange now, how’s that? could be the ceiling light — smooth, shiny—“I don’t think I should leave my shoes here, do you? They’re not wet and I wouldn’t want to lose them.”

“Why, is it raining?”

Big breasts, thick thighs, small waist, under the robe, what he can detect—“No, why? Don’t know why I even said it, I mean,” cute little feet. “I’ll leave them on. They might be dirty, I guess that’s why. Said it, I—”

“It’s all right, this isn’t a Japanese household. Come in.”

“Thanks.” She steps aside, he shuts the door, she locks, her back, large buttocks. “Nice place.”

“You haven’t seen it.”

“The lobby downstairs, the vestibule. Which is it? The second entrance room, with all the marble. Oh, befores I forgets,” gives her the cab money in his hand.

“No, I don’t want—” trying to give it back.

“Please, it’s not mine — Then a dollar for the subway tomorrow, which I’ll mail back,” takes a dollar bill. “But I always get those two rooms mixed up or never had them straight.” Face, smile, teeth, height, high cheeks, those sweet feet, almost oriental eyes, simple powder-blue bathrobe, paint, print, light fixture in this small room, all in good taste, tons of books shelved, don’t let it get to…turn your…make you…something, what? No time.

“Lobby,” she already said. Also: “Vestibule’s the first one with the nailed-down floor runner and bells.” Now: “At least I think—”

“So the door from the outside’s the vestibule door and one to the lobby’s the lobby door. That hold true for going out? Lobby door leading to the vestibule still the — well, not important, except for a translator’s zealotism, zealotry —zeal for the exact word. I bet you thought with that last one I wasn’t serious.”

“I didn’t think. Anyhow—”

“Sure: no talk; sleep. I’m sorry, and by nice place downstairs — just to finish this up, so you don’t think I’m altogether bats — I meant old New World New York or something or another. Handsome. Hatful. Tactful. Those aren’t it, blubber blubber, so whatever words I mean.”

“You’re tired.”

“Us both. I’ve kept you up and up. Lucky you’re still talking to me.”

“I don’t know how much longer I can.” Yawns. “There”—another—“see? I’m catching a yawn, and for all I know I’m dreaming in my sleep.”

“If you are, where’s that leave me? Where would I be if—”

“No taxing thoughts. And maybe you should take off your shoes. How’d they get so muddy?”

“And my hands,” untying the shoelaces. “I should also probably leave them in the anteroom do you call this room? The shoe room? You have a newspaper I can put these under?”

“Leave them. I’m doing a big clean-up tomorrow. And this room is my apartment’s equivalent to the downstairs lobby. Or foyer. That’s what this and that one downstairs is. Foyer. No, bring your hands with you. You’ll need them to pull out the couch bed. I haven’t the strength for it anymore.”

Goes, follows. “Hmm, nice room. And nice couch. Don’t worry about sheets or anything. All I need’s a blanket or heavy coat.”

“The bed is already made. And I’d say ‘Let me take your coat,’ or would have in the foyer, but you really don’t have one. You didn’t when you came to Diana’s?”

“It was stolen. I didn’t tell you about the newsstand?”

“You did. I’d ask to hear the whole story”—yawns—“as you can see,” pointing to her yawning mouth. “Mine always seem to come in twos.”

“Makes no diffieren—” Shudders.

“Ooh, you’re really chilled. I can make you tea. Or a drink of something. Scotch, vodka? Somehow Zubrovka sounds medicinal — know what it is?”

“Buffalo grass. I’d love it, thanks. And look at the view. Mind if I look?” Goes to the window. “Incredible. I once knew an editor — he had me come to his endless apartment overlooking the East River in the Seventies. About a translation — first I ever published — around ten years ago — it was a literary magazine. Now he’s got to be the most successful writer of other people’s autobiographies in the country. Every book he ghosts he gets a quarter of a million for and he does them in a year. He also appears in an American Express Cheques ad, saying ‘You don’t know me and never will know the titles of the books I write, but four million of you bought my books this year,’ or that’s what someone told me, since I never saw it. But forgot what I was going to say about his apartment. What’s that? Looks like a floating lit Christmas tree.”

“In the water?”

“Moving very slowly.”

“Probably a tug.” Comes over. “A tug.”

“Why’s it alone? And where’s it going upriver this late?”

“They’re often alone. Picking up ships there — Yonkers, Albany — barges with concrete or coal on them, sometimes pushing eight at a time. I know that editor-writer. I’ve gone to his parties and seen him on TV.”

“Really. When I sold him the translation I was told — it was also in a New Yorker Profile about him and his distinguished family — that every contributor for the year was invited to his annual New Year’s Day party, but I wasn’t. I was disappointed. They’re known to be — were then — now he’s married, has children—”

“His parties still are. Elaborate smorgasbord. Bar with bartenders making real bar drinks. Servants scudding around with the most exotic finger foods and champagne. Lots of well-known or interesting or very smart people there or all three. Quartet playing Schubert or pianist playing Broadway medleys. It’s not what I like to do or have time to any other daytime day, but it is a great illusionary way to start the new year.”

“He never took anything of mine after that, though it’s true other people now edit most of the magazine for him. No big deal. I wanted to go to eat and drink well and, to be honest, to meet women — society girls involved in literature and literaturists, I understand, and just women writers and artists of every kind, and I’d probably want to go for the same reasons now. Maybe I would’ve met you there one of these last years if I’d sold one of the many translations I sent his magazine in that time and he had invited me, if he still invites contributors.”

“I don’t think that’s how most of his guests get there anymore. I went with a friend and Sanderson talked to me for an hour about post-World War Two alcoholic writing and has sent me an invitation for the last three years, but hasn’t invited my friend since the first time. I don’t know how it works. I think my friend and he pumped iron at the same health club. I’m not yawning anymore but I am as sleepy. I’ll get you that vodka now, if you’re still interested, and say goodnight.”