Dana Spiotta - Eat the Document

“Better?”

She nodded. “Thank you.”

Caroline shook her head.

“I was having a drink at the Timberline.”

“A logger bar? Why would you go there? Who were you with?”

“No one. I went on my own.”

“Why?”

Berry shrugged, sniffing. She wiped her nose with the edge of the dish towel.

“I wanted to. You know, I wanted to go to a bar by myself, and I wanted to see men with muscular arms. I didn’t want some groovy guy. I wanted to see real, straight men — the guys who look good in their jeans. And I know women don’t go in that bar by themselves. So that’s what I wanted. I didn’t want to be scared of any place.”

Caroline nodded.

“I wanted to see if I could pick up a guy, in a real bar. And not have a relationship, just use a guy like a sex object. I wanted to overcome my hang-ups about sex, you know? And I wanted some unhip guy so I could blow his mind with my liberated ways. Besides, some of these guys are sexy.”

“I guess.”

“Anyway, I thought there would be a sort of Kris Kristofferson type, you know, working class—”

“Unpretentious.”

“Yeah, down to earth and at least a little grateful for my attention, not entitled to it or expecting it like these longhairs around here, you know?”

“I guess, but Kris Kristofferson is like a Rhodes Scholar. And he has long hair. And a beard,” Caroline said.

“Okay, you’re right. I’m dumb, I know. But I felt lonely and I needed some attention.”

“Actually, I understand, I do.”

“You don’t, but anyway. I sat at the bar, and right away this group of guys starts talking about me to each other, whispering but not hiding it at all. Sort of pronounced whispering. This was happening quick. Everyone knows freak chicks will fuck anyone, right?”

“Or women who go into lumberjack bars by themselves, anyway.”

“But what I hadn’t expected was this whole group vibe, you know? And this whole hostility trip they were on, like, right away?”

Caroline nodded, frowning. She uncrossed one of Berry’s legs and undid the sandal. She pulled it off and undid the other.

“But you do know men find women like you threatening?” Caroline said.

“Why? Men want sex. What could be better than a sexually liberated woman, you know?” Berry said.

“They don’t really want free sex. They don’t feel comfortable with women. They want fraught sex. They want to go to the bar and be with other men and be far away from women. They are in the bar to not look for women. But once you are there, once a woman is in the room, they all have to try and screw you, and they’re mad, because they really want to drink a beer and not deal with women. If they wanted free love, they’d go to a hooker and pay for it.”

Berry sighed and chewed the last bite of bread. She no longer seemed so weepy and drunk.

“So what happened?” Caroline said.

“One guy did approach me and said something real clever about my forgetting my bra. And the other guys he was with laughed and stared. So gross. This guy was way too aggressive. Besides, I wanted to pick, I wanted to approach. That was the whole point. My feet are filthy.”

“They are. Do you want to take a bath?”

“No, not really. So I saw this cute guy in the back, by himself. Do you have any more of this bread?”

Caroline cut another piece and handed it to her on a napkin.

“Thank you. So this guy by himself was very young, maybe nineteen or twenty, and he was sipping a beer and smoking a cigarette as though they were still novelties to him. Like he wasn’t quite sure he was pulling it off.” Caroline sat on the floor next to Berry. She wore the loose embroidered cotton nightgown that Berry had given her. She started to rub Berry’s feet, pushing her knuckles into the soles, kneading slowly. She liked taking care of someone. It made her feel less wounded and more solid. Berry always wound up sitting on the floor, and Caroline again noted that this had a definite effect: it made you feel earth-tied and natural and safe. You can’t fall or get tipped over. Furniture towers around you, but you are self-contained and somehow liberated from the structure of chairs and couches. It sounded silly, but it was undeniable. If you were sitting on the floor, you would be one sort of person and not another. You couldn’t picture Spiro Agnew on the floor, say, or Henry Kissinger. It was a litmus test, one of many — can you picture them cross-legged on the floor?

“I walked over to him and asked if I could sit down. He said, ‘Of course,’ and then got up to hold my chair. I swear. I said, ‘Don’t, I can sit by myself. I can do lots of things by myself.’ Anyway, I asked him if, for instance, I could buy him a beer. He said he would buy me a beer. I said, ‘No way, I buy or I don’t stay.’ So he let me buy him a drink. He looked at the other guys, who naturally were all staring at him. I ordered a shot of tequila. Then another.”

“At least you were being cautious.”

Berry frowned.

“I’m sorry. But what were you thinking? You don’t even drink tequila, do you?”

“I don’t drink tequila with you, Caroline, but I do, in fact, drink tequila. I do when I want to get my nerve up. I really wanted to see this through. But I admit, it gave me the heebies having them stare at me. And I think I was off a little, I didn’t read it the way I should’ve. I didn’t take very long to ask him to leave with me, to go to my room was how I put it. I didn’t want to be coy or have repartee or use any bullshit euphemism. I just wanted to be real and straight about it. So he blushes. I’m not joking. He says, Sure, all casual-like, but he is totally red, even in the dark of the bar.”

It was nearing dawn. The room started to fill with weak, gray Oregon morning light. It was unlovely, flat, toneless light; not at all golden, not tender. The damp sunsets were subtle and lovely; the sunrises diluted, murky, unremarkable.

“The others made comments as we left. Really nasty stuff, like ‘Watch it, these libbies have dicks’ and ‘Use a pool cue on the dyke.’ I was getting a little queasy at this point. It was not yet fun. I was thinking maybe this was a bad idea. But there we were on the street, away from the bar, and I reached for the guy, kissing him. He tasted like Budweiser and unfiltered cigarettes. He was instantly shoving his tongue in my mouth. And grabbing at my tits. Apparently not wearing a bra really gets them tit obsessed, even with the baggiest dress. I said, ‘Hey, hey, let’s take our time,’ like couldn’t he kiss my neck a little. He pressed himself against me and pushed his leg between my thighs. I was turned on but sort of grossed out too, you know? Both at once. I can’t really explain it, but I hesitated, and he pressed my hand against his cock and said something corny like ‘You know you want this.’ I had this vision, suddenly, of a porno film I saw once, you know, where the guy is just balling the chick and she’s practically bouncing around, and it is superaggressive and not, you know, at all Kris Kristofferson — like, and I thought, I am not into this. I didn’t want to get screwed by this guy, and no matter who I think is screwing who, that’s how he’ll look at it. For once I actually figured out that getting pummeled by some smelly John Bircher who thought he was really gonna show me was not going to make me feel too hot. So I lost my taste for it, just like that. I told him, sorry, I wasn’t into it, I had to split.”

“Now I get the picture.”

“So he grabbed me, and I said, ‘Get away.’ He saw the fear in my face, and he slugged me. He fucking punched me, one shot, knuckles to nose and mouth, bam. And he held his hand like it hurt him and I ran.”