Friends

by Stephen Dixon

  “Now you’re being too honest. But that’s the best of the bunch I guess. You know…”

  “What? Really what? Because actually, I have a—”

  “Don’t talk about work you have to do now.”

  “Okay, I won’t. What is it you were going to say?”

  “I really did think there might have been a chance.”

  “Then you’re saying you were serious? Because if you were, then I apologize.”

  “I was, very much so. It was a long shot, but a chance. You rat. Because now, finally, you’d be happy with me.”

  “Please, no more?”

  “Very happy—believe me you would. Me too. Oh, you’d feel horrible about her for a while, but you’d eventually get over it. Because you’re still in love with me somewhat—admit it—and that would be enough to start on. Or actually don’t. Say you’re not if you want.”

  “I’m not, really. I think about you a little and dream about you more than I have in years, but I’m not quite sure what that all means. Maybe I’m anxious—you know, that I don’t want to happen with Magna what happened with you, because if it did I’d think that’d be the end of ever having a close relationship with a woman—so that’s coming up. Because the situations in some ways are the same. Being with one person so long, thinking about having a baby, possibility of marriage, and so on. But in that special way, I’m now only in love with Magna. Now that’s the truth. I swear it.”

  “I believe you believe it, but just a little of me says you feel you have to believe it. Anyway, goodnight, you lucky dog. And forget about dinner together with Lilly—that would be impossible now. If you want to see her, arrange it for yourself. In fact, this should probably be the last time we speak to each other for a long while, unless there’s something important—even borrowing my car if you really need it—that I can do for either of you in some way.” She hangs up.

  Will the Writer

  He calls up a bookstore and says “Do you have a book by the name of Forewarned by William Taub?” The man who answers says “Who’s the publisher?” and Will tells him and the man says “Just a second.” He goes, comes back and says “No, we haven’t got it but I can order it for you,” and Will says “I need a copy right away as a present, but thanks.”

  He calls another bookstore and says “Do you have a book called Forewarned by someone named Taub or something—I suppose that’s his last name. The publisher is South Street Press.” The woman who answers says “Fiction, nonfiction?” and he says “Fiction—a novel or collection of novellas I think. Anyway, one of those, and in hardcover.” She says “I never know what we have around here, let me check,” and goes, comes back and says “His name’s William Taub, it’s a novel, and we don’t have it. Like me to get a copy for you?” and he says “No thanks—I don’t need it immediately. I’ll drop by in a few days and if there’s a copy there, I’ll buy it then.”

  He calls another bookstore and says “Do you have the newest novel by William Taub? Though maybe he goes by William E. Taub as he did with his first novel, but I guess it doesn’t make a difference.” “What’s the book’s title?” and he says “I don’t know but thought you might if I just gave you his name. I know the book’s out though, from a South Street Press—maybe a month ago, maybe a month and a half. You have a way of looking up the title if you have the author’s name?” and she says “In a supplementary publication called Forthcoming Books if it’s not in the main one Books in Print. Can you hold on?” She comes back and says “Forewarned—that should be the one. Are you interested in buying it?” “Yes, do you have it?” and she says “No, but we could special-order it, which would mean an additional charge of fifty cents. It’s from a fast distributor, so should be here by tomorrow or the day after at the latest.” “I’ll be in,” he says and she says “What’s your name so I can put it aside for you?” “Oh, I’ll be in, don’t worry,” and hangs up.

  He calls another bookstore and says “There’s a new book I was asked to get—Foreshadowed or Forearmed or something like that—I know it has a fore with the hyphen at the beginning of the one-word title and an e-d at the end. I’m afraid I’m going to make it a little tough for you today, because I also don’t have the author’s name or his or her publisher.” “Forearmed?” the woman says. “Foreshadowed? Doesn’t strike anything familiar. Maybe someone else here has heard of it.” She says away from the phone “You know of a new book, no author or publisher given, called Forearmed or Foreshadowed or Fore-something else perhaps?” The person she speaks to says something and she gets back on the phone and says “Could it be by William or Warren Taub and the publisher South Street Press? The manager here says she remembers from their catalogue or their salesman’s sales pitch a book with a title close to that by an author with a name similar to one of the ones I gave you.” “I don’t know. I was told it’s a novel—I forgot to tell you that—and to pick it up for a friend, but that’s all.” “Well, if it’s here—no, the manager just waved to me we don’t have it—she went through both the new fiction and nonfiction shelves. If you want I could get it for you in a few days.” “Maybe I’ll try another store first, because this person really wanted the book quickly, and if let’s say two more don’t have it I’ll call back and order it from you.”

  He calls another bookstore and says “Do you have a book by W. E. Taub? I don’t know if that’s a woman or a man—I assume it’s a woman because of the initials—but the title is something like Forenoon or Foretaste. Maybe the last one can’t be it. Anyway, it’s a novel, or collection of stories, but fiction, and new, and the publisher I’m sure is South Street Press, not one I’ve heard of but maybe you have.” “Oh yes,” the man says, “—a very good publisher.” “Good. Anyway, it just came out, this book, and because of its theme, which apparently applies to what I’m working on now, or at least this person who told me about it thought so, I was told to get it.” “I do remember seeing something written up in one of the publishing weeklies, I think, about a book called Forewarned—could that be the one?” “Forewarned. Yes, that’s it—you have it?” “Let me check.” He comes back. “We don’t have it. I could easily put in an order for a copy—even send it to you if you have an account here or if you want to pay for it through a credit card and it’s one we honor.” “I don’t have an account with you and I let my credit card lapse. Can you do me one more favor and tell me the price of the book and if W. E. Taub is the author’s right name?” “I’d have to look that up.” Will says nothing. “This might take a couple of minutes,” and he goes, comes back, says “It’s William Taub. And sixteen ninety-five, for a hardbound, which isn’t bad for today. Probably around a hundred-sixty to a hundred-eighty pages.” “But you don’t have it in stock,” and the man says “If we did, believe me there’s no reason I’d hold it back from you.” “That’s really too bad. You see, I’ve tried around and every bookstore seems to know of the book and says there’s been a demand for it—or at least some people have asked about it—but no store so far has it. You’ve any idea why that is?” “Perhaps they’re all just about to receive it after having put orders in some time ago. Or else they had copies and they all recently ran out of them because of some television or print coverage of the book or a major book review or some kind of publicity, though I’m unaware of anything like that.” “Maybe South Street’s a particularly slow publisher in getting its books to the stores.” “Not from my experiences with them, but I do know we haven’t ordered any copies of this book. It would be on this list I have in front of me now. One more thing. If you do order from us, you’ll have to come in and pre-pay by cash or send us a money order for the exact amount.” “I could do that myself through the publisher, couldn’t I?” and the man says “I suppose so, but it’ll take two weeks to a month longer to get it that way. And by ordering direct from the publisher you’ll also have to pay the mailing costs of a dollar or more. But do what you want, sir, please.”

  He calls another bookstore and says “I was in last we
ek for a new book by William Taub, called Forewarned, from South Street Press. You didn’t have a copy then, so I wondered if you might have got it in by now.” “Did you speak to me aboutit,” the woman says, “because sometimes the books come in and they’re not on the shelves yet.” “No, I didn’t speak to anyone. I just looked, didn’t see, and left.” “Let me see if we have it,” and she yells out “Henrietta, check if Forewarned by Taub in the—what category is it?” she asks Will. “Fiction, reference, history?” and he says “A novel. Thin. About two hundred pages. With a painting on the cover by Anselm Morand of an empty white room—maybe you know of it—empty except for two easy chairs, which have a just-sat-in look, and a lit fireplace in it.” “No, I don’t know that one by Morand. —In the fiction section,” she yells out. Then to Will: “We don’t have it, nor it seems have we ordered it. Would you like me to order a copy for you?” and he says “Truth is I’d like two copies, one for me, one for a friend. Can you get them in a relatively short time?” “I can if you pay for them first. You know, we’ve had miserable luck ordering books which the customers then don’t come in to pay for or pick up or even bother to inform us that they’re not interested in the book anymore. Very often it’s the author himself who orders these books, or relatives or good friends of the author. That’s just my assumption, of course, but one borne out from what other bookstores have told me. You’re not this William Taub or a blood relative or good friend of his, are you? No, of course you’re not—just joking. Would you like me to place that order for two copies? You’ll have to come in and pay by cash, as I said, or else give me your credit card number over the phone if you’d prefer doing it that way.” “No, I’ll take my chances that another store has the book, but thank you.”

  He calls another bookstore and says “I was in your store two weeks ago—maybe three—but anyway, I asked one of the clerks there if he had a new novel by a good friend of mine, William Taub. The title’s Forewarned.” “Yes? So?” the man says. “Well, the clerk said it was on order. Has it come in?” “William Taub’s novel Forewarned? No, we don’t have it…nor do I see any order for it. Did you pay for it by cash, credit card or charge?” “None of those. I didn’t have to. The clerk said that copies of the book had been ordered a week before I even went into your store and that he’d phone me—he took my name and number—when the book came in.” “P and P Bookshop you’re talking about?” and Will says “P and P? No, I don’t even know where that is. Everyman’s Bookstore on Eighty-Sixth and Third. I’m sorry, I must have called the wrong store.”

  He calls another bookstore and says “About two weeks ago one of your clerks said—at the cash register—that a novel I inquired about, Forewarned, by William Taub, would be in in a few days and she’d call me, but she never did. Do you know if you got it in yet?” and the man says “Forewarned! Nobody here ordered that book.” “This is Everyman’s Bookshop, am I wrong?” and the man says “Bookstore, Everyman’s Bookstore, you’re right, but I’m the one who does all the ordering here and I’m certain I didn’t order it. South Street Press. Publishing date was November or December. I know the book. You recall the name of the clerk who took care of you?” “No I don’t. How can I? It was a woman though.” “Around what age was she?” and Will says “Young, or not that young. Thirty-five I’d say, or a little less or more. Really, I can’t even be sure of that. I wasn’t paying much attention to her looks. I came in with my little girl—she was in a stroller—so my attention was going back and forth from the clerk, my child, the book, ordering, and so on. Maybe the clerk would remember me.” “We only have two women salespersons in this store. One’s quite young—Karen—and the other has been with us for almost thirty years and was around the age you say when she started here, so she’s much older than the woman you even vaguely describe. But since you say it was Everyman’s Bookstore you ordered this title from, I’m sitting here trying to figure out how the error could have been made and what to do about it now.” “Maybe it wasn’t Everyman’s then—I was almost sure it was but I no longer am. I’d been out for about three hours with my baby that day, and between—you know—ducking in here and there, taking care of her, looking for an un-crowded luncheonette at the peak of the lunch hour when she suddenly got hungry and I realized I’d forgotten her food—it was around noon or one when I was in your store, or just a bookstore. Anyway, let’s say yours wasn’t the one on Madison I ordered the book from—” “We’re right off Third, not Madison, on Eighty-Sixth.” “Then I’m really confused—blocks away from where I thought I was. No, mine was—well now I’m not even sure what avenue it was on. Madison, I thought—the upper East Side I’m sure. Look, since I don’t think I’ll ever remember what store I ordered the book from, why don’t I just ask if first, you have any copies of the book in stock, and if you don’t, could you possibly order a couple of copies for me?” “We haven’t the book but we can order any number of copies for you if you don’t mind paying for them beforehand. Nothing personal to do with you, you understand, but we had a terrible time last year taking special orders over the phone—I’m not going to go into it—so we’ve discontinued that policy except for our oldest customers. What I suggest is you come in, if it’s no inconvenience for you, pay for the books by cash or credit card, and we’ll have them in a week or so and we’ll even mail them to you if you also pay those mailing costs.” “Actually, it would be a little inconvenient to come in in the next few days.” “Then perhaps, not that I like steering business away from us, you’ll have better luck ordering the book over the phone in one of the other stores around here. P and P, for instance. Or Greer’s on Eighty-Third, Classics and Company on Lexington and Seventy-Fourth, or any of the three Ralston stores further downtown.” “Thanks. That’s a good idea. Maybe I will.”

  Only The Cat Escapes

  Magna comes into the room. “Oh, Will, you’re reading in bed. That’s what I had decided to do. Would you mind if I joined you?”

  “Come ahead.”

  She lies beside me on the bed and opens her book. I return to my book. She says after about a minute “Suppose I told you I don’t want to read right now?”

  “Let’s say you just told me.”

  “That’s what I meant. Suppose I did. What would you say?”

  “I’d say ‘What do you mean you don’t want to read right now?’”

  “And suppose I answered that I don’t want to read right now because I have something else in mind?”

  “Then I’d ask what that is.”

  “Let’s say you have asked.”

  “Let’s say I have.”

  “And let’s say I then said I’d like to sleep with you right now.”

  “So?”

  “Well, what’s your reply?”

  “My reply?” I put my book down and think. “My reply?” She puts her book on top of my book between us. Her cat jumps on the bed and lies on my feet. I say “Do you think your cat should be on the bed at a time like this?”

  “What time is that?”

  “A time when I’m about to say that I think it’s a pretty good idea if we do sleep together right now.”

  “If you did say that then I’d say it probably isn’t a good time for my cat to be on the bed.”

  “All right, let’s say I said it.”

  “Then I suppose I should tell the cat to get off the bed.”

  “Why don’t you?”

  “I will.”

  Just then the cat jumps off the bed and runs underneath it.

  “It seems,” she says, “I didn’t have to tell the cat to get off the bed.”

  “Seems so. But what next?”

  “What next what? That I should do something about getting it out from under the bed and maybe even out of the room?”

  “No, let it stay there, what’s the harm? I mean about our sleeping together.”

  “About that I’d say I think we should start.”

  “And to that I’d say that I think we already did start when we began talking
about it and put our books down.”

  “But we put our books down between us. That might end up being a little too uncomfortable for us if we actually do start sleeping with each other right now.”

  “‘Sleeping’ as whatever figure of speech it is for ‘making love,’ I suppose. I mean, that is what you had in mind when you said ‘sleeping,’ isn’t it?”

  “First making love, then maybe sleeping together on this bed if we like.”

  “That’s what I thought.” I take the books in one hand and drop them on the floor. The cat runs out from under the bed and down the stairs.

  “I didn’t intend, I want you to know, to scare the cat away by dropping the books.”

  “If you say so, then you didn’t,” she says.

  “Didn’t intend to.”

  “Right.”

  “But you did think I might have intended to scare it, isn’t that so?”

  “I thought you might have intended to, but I didn’t worry about it much.”

  “You worried about it a little, though, no?”

  “What happened was this. When you dropped the books and that cat ran out I thought for a second or two you might have intentionally scared my cat by dropping the books you were getting rid of for us and that that act could indicate something about your personality or nature or whatever it’s called that I might not like about you. But it turned out not to be so. You didn’t try to scare it. Or did you?”

  “I didn’t. I even forgot the cat was under the bed.”

  “Which I think is really, if I had had more time to think about it then, what I would have ended up thinking had happened. But where did we leave off after we stopped talking about figures of speech and sleeping together as meaning making love?”

  “We left with that, I think. But are you saying you think we should try and carry on from that point?”

  “Not try but do, if you still want to.”

  “Do you?”

  “I’m sorry, but didn’t I just say I did?”