Frog

by Stephen Dixon

  He walks his horse. Once rode a horse. Or the horse rode him. In summer camp. His folks gave the camp extra money to teach him to ride. It’s what he’d wanted to do for years. Saw himself as a future Canadian Mountie or a cowboy shooting a rifle in the air while leading the last great cattle drives, but both where he ends up marrying a beautiful pinchwaisted lady who knows how to ride. Horse was big but he wasn’t afraid to get on it. When he was told to mount, he said to the riding instructor, a young wily-looking guy, tight Levis, no shirt, tatoos, huge arm muscles, bandanna around his neck, no fat, “Left side you get on it, right? Or right side, maybe I forgot.” He either had it right or he didn’t, right now he couldn’t say which side the rider’s supposed to get on or why, but he needed no assistance. Foot in the stirrup, grabbed the part that sticks out of the Western saddle, hoisted himself on. It was so high up. Why’d it seem so high? Or why didn’t he think it’d be so high? Already knew the horse was big, and he was a little guy. He supposes, for some reason, he saw himself sitting at the horse’s eye level—and maybe when its head was bent over a little—rather than his own. It was scary up there but he didn’t show it. “Try not to fall,” the instructor said. “You can break your neck and be paralyzed for life. It’s happened but was never my fault. If you do fall, try sliding down the horse’s side but away from the hooves, as one kick from that mother and he can squash your head for good. That’s what happened with a few of my people learning too. I didn’t feel too bad because I told them not to and they thought they knew more than me, so they got what they deserved.” Now he didn’t want to ride. Afraid of the horse and being up so high and didn’t trust this guy. But the money was paid, couldn’t be returned, his father would give his mother hell over it, since he felt they were paying too much for this camp as it was, and word would get back to his bunk he’s a sissy, so he stayed. Was also afraid to get off and be hit by a hoof and this guy seemed so tough and mean he didn’t want to ask him how to. “Giddyup,” the instructor said. “What?” “Best way to learn is to start galloping right away, I say. Same like tossing you into a pool. That’s what I’d do if I was teaching you how to swim. Hold your head down under water, even, so you know what it is to hold your breath. You learn riding instincts right away, how to hold yourself in the saddle, use the reins right so the horse knows you’re not scared and the boss, so he tells the other horses in the stable—I’m not kidding you; they speak. You might get thrown but you’ll at least have that out of the way and if you don’t give your horse some fun like that he’s going to get angry at you. But if you want—” “I do, thank you.” “Sounds pretty chickenshit to me, but OK, we’ll go at a walking pace first. I’ll follow you. Give him a couple of heel kicks to get him started.” Howard kicked it gently. “Harder, harder, what do you think it’s got horse hide for?—like this,” and kicked the horse’s rear. Horse sort of snorted and grunted and then bolted off, galloping or cantering. Just going very fast. He pulled the reins and horse went faster. Yelled “Grab him, call him, I can’t stop him.” Horse went off the path, down between some trees, branch slapping Howard’s face, up onto another path, instructor behind him somewhere yelling “Pull the fucking reins, you stupid shit; the straps—pull them with all your might and then hold on tight.” “Did.” “Hard.” Pulled them very hard and horse stopped, stood almost straight up, his front legs sort of making a boxer’s jabbing motions at that bag they practice timing and maybe punching with, a punching bag, then came down hard on his front hoofs twice and Howard fell off, immediately scooting away on his hands and knees, but the horse was already some thirty feet away, eating grass. “You stupid idiot, you OK?” the instructor said from his horse right above him, slapping at some bugs on his chest. “Why’d you run off like that?” “Me? Why’d you swat my horse?” “What I swat?” “Swat, kick, like it was a football you were booting.” “What are you, fucking nuts? It was you. But go around lying like that to anyone and I’ll come take your dumb face and stick it in the freshest horseshit.” “All right; I kicked, you didn’t.” “You still saying I did?” and he threw one leg over the horse as if he was getting off. “No, I’m saying that’s what I did and you didn’t; kicked. But too hard—not the way you told me to—I mean.” “That’s because you don’t belong on a horse. You could’ve broken its leg, run him into a tree or rock and your pop would have paid plenty for it, enough for ten pansy campers at your camp for a month. I’m taking your horse in before you kill him. You get to the stable any way you find and tell them you don’t want lessons anymore, if I was you. I know I’m through teaching you.” “Truth is, I don’t want to ride anymore. Just not for me.” Instructor rode off pulling Howard’s horse. Look at those stupid muscles, he thought. I hope the mosquitoes kill him, no shirt. He sat in the grass, ripped out a blade and chewed on it, ripped out handfuls and yelled “Fucking pig. I’d like to tear your head off. I would. Give me a fucking chance. Give me a gun. I’d sneak up on you at night, even if you were sleeping like a baby in bed, and blow your fucking dumb head off.”

  A whore rode him. A friend came over, waited till his mother was out of the kitchen, said “I had a great lay yesterday; best in my life. Biggest tits you ever saw; nipples as fat as your thumbs. Great body. Almost no bush. Nice lady too. Young; pretty good looks. Small nose and nice breath and so clean the whole place smelled of soap. When I was on top of her I got my nose in her armpit and not a whiff. She made it so nice it was like screwing your own girl friend. And she told me to bring my best friends. If I get her five guys, shell give me a lay free. Ten, and she’ll throw in the works, anything but up the ass. Make sure you tell her I said to call.” He phoned from the corner candy store, she said “Yeah, sweetheart, I know Fred; a funny guy,” and he should come by tonight seven sharp. Fred sat on the stoop outside. She wasn’t that young, sort of plump, plain looking, through her bathrobe she looked like she might have big breasts, told him to take off his clothes, but if he wants leave on the socks, and let her wash his dick, he stripped, put his penis over the bathroom sink while she sat on the toilet seat lid, he got hard in her hand while she washed him with soap and she said “Jesus, I don’t know how I’m going to stuff this thing in me, big as I am down there. I just feel a little tight today, but we’ll give it a try.” She patted him dry, led him into the bedroom, opened her bathrobe, let him feel her breasts—“You like them, huh? You younger guys go ape over big ones but to me they’re a pain in the ass”—took off her robe, got on the bed, said “You too, come here,” he sat on it, squeezed her her nipples, tried kissing her, she said “Come on, I don’t want to seem grouchy but I only got so much time, just stick it in,” she did, pulled him down almost flat on her, they went up and down awhile, she said “Hold it, pull out, will you? That thing of yours is killing me—it’s too farther in than feels good. Maybe I am a little tight like I said or you’re too big. How old are you? Usually I can take anyone your age—even dicks bigger and fatter than yours—for as long as it takes them to make it. Here, let’s try something different,” and slapped his behind, he said “What is it?” she said “That’s the signal to get off, sweetheart; haven’t you ever been laid before?” he got off her, she motioned with her hand for him to get on his back, he said “I’m sorry again but what are we doing?” she said “I’m getting on top of you, dummy, something I don’t do for everyone and for sure not for what I charged you,” got on top, put it in, leaned over him and began moving up and down, he tried moving with her and she said “You don’t have to; leave it all to me this time, OK?” sat straight up and went up and down on him, he closed his eyes, she said “You like it like this, right? I can see by your expression,” it felt so good he couldn’t speak, “Like ride-em-cowboy, right?” he kept his eyes shut, nodded, also didn’t want to look up at her because last time he did she had this ugly grin, maybe it was the light and shadows doing it, but which might take something out of it, felt himself coming, still had some time, saw himself as a boy on a horse bareback, nude with no pubic hair, lots of
curly head hair waving behind him, riding in a field and then into the sky and the horse, with him sitting straight up on it, jumping right into the flaming sun, came, “Felt good for me too,” she said when she stopped bouncing on him. “Didn’t hurt and where I finally got slipperier. So, worth the switch all around, right? Now let’s get off and cleaned up.” Went to her once after that but she said that last time was special because she wasn’t feeling good but wanted him to get what he paid for. If he wants her on top again it’ll cost double because the guy usually holds in twice as long and sometimes goes dead limp on her and she’s doing all the work. For the next few years with whores he’d ask them to do it that way and they’d always ask for more and he’d think it too much or would never have enough. He’d argue, saying it usually took him half the time that way, but not one ever gave in.

  He walks the car. Got the keys out of his brother’s dish on the boys’ room dresser. It was their dad’s car but mostly Alex who drove it. Afternoon, Saturday, he supposes, because at that age, sixteen or seventeen, he was always working after school weekdays till around six. Stick shift, he feels good behind the wheel and would like to start reading the book in his back pocket so people who see him will think it’s his car, starts it up, knows he’s not supposed to, his dad’s at his office downtown, Alex off somewhere so not likely to catch him and if he does but he sees him in time he’ll just say he’s sitting in the car, car’s parked down the street from their brownstone, so his mother and sister won’t see him from the front bedroom windows if they happen to look, hopes no neighbors or tenants of his parents will see him and if they do, don’t tell, releases the handbrake, knows how to do that all right—with his foot on the foot brake—shifts to first, feet now on what he thinks are the right pedals, starts raising both feet, car stalls. Let’s see: clutch for this foot, gas and brake for that one—makes sense—but if the pedal’s no longer being used, how long’s the foot supposed to stay on it and how quick should it move to the other pedal if it has to get there? Pulls up the handbrake, practices on the pedals a few times, opens the window, spits out of it as his father’s done a lot, though nothing much had collected in his mouth, releases the handbrake, starts it up, car jumps forward, stalls, forgot from before to put the stick into neutral. Does, starts it up, go reverse first so there’ll be plenty of room coming out, but how to shift to reverse? It’s a tricky movement, Alex said when he taught him how to park for about five minutes, where you have to go down from third but with a little detour, tries where he thinks reverse is, car stalls. Spits, starts, stalls, starts, stalls, gets it to creep in first, feet very light on the clutch and gas pedals, then in jerky back-and-forth movements, out into the street, quickly shifts to neutral and pulls up the handbrake. What he’ll do is drive around the block, and if he gets the hang of it, then a couple of times around, in first and maybe second and if nothing’s in front of him when he comes down this block, in third and park here and if the space is filled by then, in one of the other spots on this side but as close to this one as he can get so Alex won’t think the car’s been moved. Shifts to first, gases it, car won’t move, releases the handbrake, car stalls. Starts it up, shifts to first, honks from an oil truck a few feet up the street, it can’t get past the way his car’s sticking out, he doesn’t know if he should creep and jerk farther and pull up alongside one of the cars across the street, or go back. Turns the key to start it, buzz-saw-through-steel sound, pulls key out, won’t come, shifts to neutral, car stalls. Truck honks, starts the car, shifts to what he thinks is reverse, car stalls. Spits, starts, stalls. Maybe he should go around the block only in first and come into the spot frontways, seems to be enough room and if not then a larger one a few spots down, lock up, put the keys back in Alex’s dish and forget about doing anything like this till Alex is in the car with him teaching him to drive. If Alex notices the car’s been driven or moved, he’ll just say he was trying out parking but will never do it alone again. Truck honks, so do about five cars and a truck behind it, he gets out, “Something seems to have conked out in the car,” yells to the truckdriver, “maybe the battery; I’ll have to push it in,” tries steering it with his hand through the driver’s window while pushing the car back, it doesn’t budge, leans in and releases the handbrake, car starts inching back on its own, he tries stopping it by pulling on the window frame, then runs around the back to stop it, its back wheels bump against the curb, car’s now jutting out at a right angle to the street. Honks, beeps, air horn from the truck, scaring him, someone yells “Hey, move it or I’ll pick up the fucking thing myself and put it on the sidewalk,” gets in, starts it up, wonders if he should try reverse again to go over the curb enough so the trucks and cars can pass, or go forward and down the street and around the block. Maybe he should ask one of these drivers to help him park it, saying it’s a friend’s car he borrowed, he knows how to drive automatic shift but not manual. “You crazy dickhead!” Alex, running up to his window. “What the hell? Get out of there, turn the ignition off. Leave the key in. Just give them to me. What are you doing with them anyway? They mine? Where’re the brains you’re born with? Just move over.” Does, Alex gets in, truck horn, car beeps, “Hold your horses, why don’t you?” Alex yells out the window. “Don’t you see I’m taking care of it?—Ass schmucks. And you, you putz. Boy, if I told Dad would yours be in a sling.” Drives the car out, stops parallel to the next car, smoothly parks it in two moves.

  In a car with Dora. Hers, she’s driving, they’re arguing. They argued on and off for their five years. The first few weeks were great, maybe a couple of months, love, when they walked they stopped to kiss on almost every block, after that, intermittently nice, now-and-then passion, but lots of fights, always reconciling. Lived with her for two years, wanted to marry her and have a child, she didn’t want to have another baby but he thought if she married him he’d eventually convince her to, she got pregnant, wanted an abortion, he didn’t want her to, reasoned with her, begged her, threatened to hole her up in their apartment for months, tether her to the bed when he went out, keep her tied up and gagged in a closet if he had to, releasing her only when it was too late for her to abort and too dangerous for her to induce a miscarriage. He wanted a child, he wanted their child—all this was taking place in the car on the Taconic Parkway to her parents’ home upstate—and he’d do anything for her if she had it and married him, or she didn’t have to marry him (when she gave him a look), just have it but continue living with him, or not even that, have it but also have her own apartment if she wants, one they have now or a smaller one, don’t ask where he’ll come up with the money for two flats but he’ll get it, he’ll work doubly hard, doing any kind of job, more bartending, waiting on tables when he wasn’t bartending, cleaning up the restaurant’s kitchen after closing for more pay, plus living like a slob to keep his own expenses down, so long as she’d let him see his kid whenever he wanted, or just weekends, month in the summer, during the week a little, he’d never leave the city while his kid was in it and if she moved away he’d follow her just to be near it though he’d never be a nuisance to her, he’d even babysit it while she went out with men, here or in any other city, while she even stayed out all night with them, that is if she was absolutely adamant about not marrying him or continuing to live with him or even seeing and sleeping with him after she had the baby. She said “Really, that’s nice of you, and all that might be a great deal for someone else, but it’s simply not the right time for me to have a baby.” “It’s never the right time for you with anything,” he said. “That could be true, and try to hold your voice down; you know it distracts my driving. Anyway, unlike you, I already have a child, so there’s no urgency for me to have this one, and now that she’s in school I can finally find some time for myself. I want to get a good-paying profession, not these pimply demeaning jobs all my life where I can’t save a dollar.” “You can have all the time you want if you have the baby. I’ll keep us just fine, in one place or two, for a couple of years. Then, go out
, study, work, anything—I’ll help cover whatever education or babysitting you think you need. Or start studying while you’re still at home, taking breaks from baby work. Or stay with the baby for just a year after it’s born—half a year if that’s all you want. It’s not what I’d choose for it but I’ll spring for the day care too. I’ll borrow from my mother, even, or my brother—they’ll give for something I want or think as important as this. Or I’ll both work and take care of the kid whenever you need me to so you can study and work and get jobs and go out with men and do whatever you feel like. I’ll even keep the baby myself—I’d love to. Bring it up from day one if I have to—all alone; you can be anywhere you want. Visit it or be with it whenever you like too. Weekends, month in the summer; two months—I won’t need long stretches in the summer with it since I’ll have been with it the rest of the year.” “Stop talking crazy. My decision’s final. Abortion’s on Tuesday. I’m not putting if off for anything. I can’t put it off—it can only be done the first trimester and I’m coming to the end of mine.” “I want the baby. It’s mine as much as yours. Just because it’s in you doesn’t mean you own it. I love you and I’ll love it and I want our baby. Please,” crying, “please,” banging his lap, the car seat, she said “No tantrums, talk calmly, you’ll knock us off the road.” “Listen, I’ll be a good father—” “I know, I know, you’ve been wonderful to Gretchen. We both love you for it but I don’t personally love you enough to marry you now and I’d only have another baby if I were married and I’ll probably never marry you. We should in fact probably end this thing of ours for good, because it won’t work out. It’s not. We knew it almost from the start so why were we so stupid to carry it this far? It simply wasn’t the right time for it, no matter how much you hate that word, and with marriage and babies timing and right moves based on rational and right decisions are everything, and you got me two weeks after I left my husband.” ‘Two months.” “A month then. But on the rebound. Not the first man I slept with after him but first I got serious with. But now we’ve got to believe all that’s finished. That’s almost a must. Better you get your own place and move out and I’ll take care of myself.” “Please, I’ll change. Whatever you might think wrong with me and us—a total transformation. I know I’ve said that before, but being parents this time will do it.” “Oh shit, shut up about that already.” “But it will. Your attitude and feelings to one another—your mate, your wife, everything’s strengthened.” “Or weakened. Or they kill each other.” “Not us. And you’ll never see a father like me. You think all men will be fathers like Lewis was to Gretchen.” “Not true. I’ve met lots of wonderful ones, and he wasn’t that bad. Maybe I painted him unfairly; I was wrong if I did.” “Then I’ll be different. I’ll cook and clean up for us, I’ll change all its diapers, do everything—please don’t laugh, I’m not being silly; I’m giving examples. I’m saying I’ll do everything there is or you want me to or just make if fifty-fifty if that’s what you want, and not because you want it but because that’s fair. You deserve to finish school and get a job you like and which pays well and do what you want outside the home for a change. And I’ve the energy for it all, work outside and in the home and work on my own work—” “No and that’s final.” “Please reconsider.” “No and that’s final, the end, finished, we, the matter, talking about it, whatever we’re talking about, everything, done, finito.” “Then let me out. I don’t want to ride with you anymore. I don’t want to see your face anymore.” “Hey, if that’s how you feel, ditto, but I can’t let you out on the highway.” “You can. Just pull over and leave me on the shoulder. I’ll walk to the next town or to a gas station on the highway and get a hitch to a town from there. I can use the time to walk—to think, I mean. I need to think a lot about it all and walking to the town or gas station if they’re far enough will do it. And then I’ll take the bus back to the city and you can explain to your folks why I’m not with you when I started out with you and you’ll be glad to be rid of me, so let me out, now. Now. I want to get out,” and he opened his door, she said “Stop it, don’t be insane, close it, put your seat belt on, close the door, you stupid idiot, and lock it,” and he said “Then stop the car and let me out,” and she slowed down, he closed the door, she picked up speed, he opened the door, she slowed down and signaled right, he closed the door, she pulled over and stopped along the highway. He got out, was crying again, sat down on the embankment with his back to the highway, “Go, don’t worry about me, if that’s what you’re doing, which I’m sure you’re not. I’ve got good shoes on. It could even turn into an experience—it’s a nice day—I used to do a lot of this, walking, hitching, here, Europe, years ago, before I knew you, so just go,” and she said “Fine, you were a daredevil those carefree days, but at least let me drive you to a town with a bus station. The one you walk to might not have one,” but he waved her away, under his breath said “Eat shit, you fucking witch,” she said, his back always facing her, “You have enough money on you?” and he said yes, though he didn’t know, and she said “OK, then I’m going,” dropped his book beside him, draped his sweater over his shoulder and drove off. He sat awhile, heard a bird but didn’t feel like looking for it, saw an ant and smashed it with his fist, ripped grass out around him, tore some of it up and flung it around him shouting “Bitch, bitch, bitch, and I don’t care who the fuck hears me,” looked around, cars and trucks passing, all the drivers looking at him, got up, wondered which way to go—back? should he cross the highway?—he didn’t remember the last time he saw a sign for a town or an exit though that didn’t mean there hadn’t been one a minute or two back, he just hadn’t been looking, go forward, something tells him an exit’s coming up, so maybe he did see something and if he gets tired he’ll stick his thumb out. But then he should cross the highway, for if he does get a ride maybe it’ll be going all the way to the city. Crossed it, didn’t get the equivalent of two city blocks when a car honked behind him, recognized it as hers. She pulled over. “I was coming back to go around for you. Really, come with me, my parents will be disappointed. And maybe while we drive we can talk some more about it if you promise not to make any more demands.” “Then you haven’t changed your mind about the abortion?” “Please not again—promise not to—literally—or I’ll drive off and this time not come back nor be home whenever you get there, or anything.” “At least kiss me.” “I can’t now. It’s the last thing on my mind. Please get in so we can go. My mother worries.” He opened his door. “But you’ll promise before you get in?” “I’ll try not to talk about it.” “Not enough.” “I won’t talk, no demands.” He sat with her in the hospital, holding her hand while she was in bed waiting to be wheeled in, not saying anything, book opened on his lap but not reading it. If only she’d say “I’m making a mistake, let’s get out of here before it’s too late.” Then the nurse came in and said “You’re next,” and he said “Last chance to change your mind. I still want it very much and I’ll do everything in the world for you and the baby and you wouldn’t be, I’m sure of it, the first one to change her mind here like that.” “I’ll see you later, sweetheart. You’ll be here?” He drove her home after, she fell asleep against his shoulder as they were crossing the George Washington Bridge and he was about to point out the huge spotlit American flag spanning the two main supports on the New Jersey side.