What Is All This?

by Stephen Dixon

  I took the headcheese sandwich, though I never liked it because it’s gelatinous and all those foot and mouth parts.

  “Don’t take it just because I suggested you to. What’s your favorite tea sandwich here?”

  “Headcheese.”

  “Truth now.”

  “Actually, I prefer an unadorned cream cheese, but they don’t have any here.”

  “What they didn’t supply for us here is not what I asked you.” He seemed miffed.

  “I’m sorry, you’re right. I was being selfish. Out of all these, the hard cheese on the black bread there. I like that best of all.”

  “Then put down the headcheese.”

  “Headcheese is nice too.”

  “No, put it down. Eat what you like. You don’t get that many opportunities for that now, am I right? Food is generally scarce. Not for me—I won’t lie to you. But I’m sure it is for you. So here you have a choice. More than a choice—you can have all these sandwiches when you leave. Tell the commanding office that I said so.”

  “He’ll believe me?”

  “It’s what I usually do. He knows. You only don’t get them if you don’t tell him.”

  “I’ll tell him. Thank you. All the other girls would probably like some too, so we’ll divide them up.”

  “Do that. Very generous.” Then silence. He sipped his wine, was looking away from me. I didn’t think I should say “Don’t you want to remove your robe?” as I would have with any other customer by now. No: wait for the signals. He was paying more, for one thing. And he was who he was and would do it at his own time. And I’d made too many mistakes already. Though who could say—maybe he wanted me to take the lead. Maybe he was shy and unassertive in bed…but someone would have said, or maybe they hadn’t heard. And maybe the commanding officer also didn’t know and was only guessing at the right approach when he said don’t be suggestive or aggressive.

  “Would you like to come under the covers with me?” I said.

  “In time.”

  “Of course. In time. I’m sorry. I knew you knew better what to do. I think I said it out of force of habit. That’s the truth now, even if my saying that about habit and all it alludes to might also be the wrong thing to say. But I’m getting in deeper and deeper, but I also have to admit I’m feeling more than a little nervous in your presence and I don’t know what to do about it.”

  “Calm yourself. As I said, I’m not unlike any other man in many respects. Act natural. I want that. Not fright or anxietude. I chose you because you seemed the one young woman downstairs who’d be least afraid of me and so would do what I want her to.”

  “I’m not too different. A few of the other girls would have been like that too.”

  “Yes, but I chose you.”

  Thank you.”

  “Come all the way out of the sheets this time and I’ll sit on the bed more.

  We did.

  “Very nice breasts. Strong body. You are very nice. And you will be very nice to me too, all right?”

  “Of course.”

  “Lovely hair. Kiss me.” I kissed him. A little kiss. “Soft lips. Lovely lips.” He stood up and untied his bathrobe. He still had all his clothes on underneath except his jacket and belt with revolver. He got undressed, touching my thighs and forehead every now and then. Nude, he looked his fifty or so years in physique. He sat back on the bed. “I’m tired, though not much.”

  “I’ve time. Really. And energy—all you wish.”

  “Touch me. Hard if you like. Don’t worry. Everyone can take a little hurt.”

  “Down there?”

  He nodded. I held and rubbed him.

  “Now I’m going to lie on my stomach and I want you to do something.”

  “I think I know what it is,” I said.

  “No, you don’t. Not even with your educated guess. I want you to urinate on me.”

  “I couldn’t.”

  “Yes, you can. It’s easy. And you must have done it to others. And everyone can urinate a little at most times. So do it.”

  “Where?”

  “Waist up, but principally on the top of my head. Now, please.”

  I stood over him. “It’s not as easy for us to direct it,” I said. I urinated on his shoulders first and then made it up to the top of his head.

  That’s good. Thank you, Now defecate on me.”

  “I could never do that. And I never have.”

  “It’s harder, but try.”

  “No.”

  “You don’t want to?”

  “It’s not that I don’t want to. I’ll do all the other things you want.”

  “You can sleep with twenty men in succession in one evening—that’s true—that’s maybe an exaggeration—so you can’t do this for me once?” He was getting angry again. “Please, dear—what’s your name?”

  “Gerta.”

  “Please, Gerta, be nice. You said you’d be very nice, And you had the face of a nice girl, which is also why I chose you. So you do it once in your life. What’s that? Once, and it’s done. What is it even having it done to you once? And after, you can run to the bathroom without making an excuse. I don’t ask for this all the time, I swear. Now, I’m ready.”

  He put his head face down into the pillow. I got over him again. “It might take time,” I said.

  “All the time you need.” His head was now right below my behind. A funny thought I had was that I suddenly felt like one of his bombers circling over an enemy town. His head was the town center—the primary target, where the enemy’s command post and warworks were, and maybe I sprayed it and a little of the town’s outskirts before with my urine like bullets. If I told him this now, would he laugh? No—no jokes. Serious business with him, bombing, and I better get serious too. But a town eager to get bombed—pleading for it, in fact? Enough. Must concentrate. I tried. Nothing. His head turned a little to the side and one of his eyes was now visible and looking up.

  “How are you doing?” he said.

  “Soon.”

  “Good. If you need another glass of wine, take one. Take two.”

  “I think I’ll be all right without it.”

  “Better to take it, and fruit.”

  I drank standing up on the bed with him still flat below me. Poured myself another glass and drank that one down too. I reached over for a pear, bit into it and threw it back into the bowl, but I missed and it fell to the floor. He didn’t stir. I got over him again.

  “I think you should be ready,” he said.

  “I just about am.” It came. First direct hit on the town center, and he moved his face back into the pillow. He made noises like a man making noises during the sex act rather than at the end. Then it was over. The enemy town was totally destroyed. Mission accomplished and with a first strike also, or whatever the expressions are that air force people use. “Excuse me,” I said.

  “I understand.”

  He was still on his stomach with his face in the pillow, though you’d think he’d want to get out fast too. I got off the bed and went to the bathroom and cleaned myself. I looked in the mirror. Hitler, I thought. Nobody would believe it. Or rather: for my own sake, nobody was ever going to have a chance to believe it. He didn’t have to tell me that. The woman he lives with: she does it to him too? Has he always done it this way and only with young women? She isn’t that young. Nice figure, though: I don’t know about her behind. But he said no—“I swear,” he said, “not all the time.” But that girl who cracked up after being with him. Having someone like him plead for you to do such a thing must have been too much for her to bear. Suppose she once worshipped him. She might have been to rallies or at least seen newsreels of rallies with him speaking to half a million cheering people. If only she could have been like me. I’m not tough but I’ve been around long enough to take the healthy way; in many respects he’s inferior, a crazy pathetic pervert, simple as that.

  I left the bathroom. He was gone. And the soiled linen was gone and a perfume had refreshened the roo
m. I dressed and left. The commanding officer was waiting outside the door.

  “So everything went well?” he said.

  “I think he was satisfied. He didn’t complain. I treated him as nice as I could, just as you said.”

  “If the report back from him is a good one, then I hope we’ll see you again.” He snapped his fingers. The same two guards came over.

  “Drive her home in an officer’s car or to wherever she wants to go.”

  “Home,” I said. “And thank you.” We shook hands. The guards and I walked to the elevators. “Wait,” I said, “there’s something else. Hitler said I could have all the sandwiches in the room.”

  “Forget the sandwiches,” one of the guards said.

  “But he said I should ask your officer for them.”

  He ran back and knocked on a door. The officer came out. “She says he told her she could have all the sandwiches in his room.”

  Then get them for her.”

  “You must come with me, sir. I’m not allowed in unless with you.”

  They went into the room I was in with Hitler before. The guard came out carrying the tray of sandwiches and gave me it. The officer went back to his room.

  “But it’s silver and belongs to the hotel,” I said. “Hitler only said the sandwiches, nothing about the tray.”

  “If my officer says it’s what I should give you, nobody will mind.”

  I held the tray, offered each of them a sandwich as we rode down in the elevator. They each took one. I thought maybe one of them would ask me what Hitler was like in the room. As a test of my silence, perhaps. Or maybe because of his curiosity on the subject concerning such a man, he might lose his head for a moment and ask. If one of them did, I’d say “I’m sorry, it’s something you know I can’t talk about, and if you insist, I’ll have to report you to your officer.” That would be the right answer. I also thought that maybe one of them, if he didn’t know what Hitler was like in the bedroom, would want to pay to be the first one to make love to me after Hitler. But, that too, neither of them asked.

  THE GOOD FELLOW.

  “Help.”

  Lenny said it to himself, though for a moment he wanted to say it out loud.

  “Help,” he said softly. He looked around the Student Union cafeteria. Thank God nobody had heard him. His voice was normally deep and resonant and carried much farther than he liked.

  A novel was opened in front of him on the yellow table. Underneath it was a cup turned upside down, as a prop. He was getting a headache. He was astigmatic and had broken his glasses a month ago, but hadn’t replaced them because Student Medical Service didn’t cover eyeglasses and a new pair would set him back thirty dollars. He gently massaged his eyes through the lids.

  He’d been on the same sentence for the last five minutes. For sure, he didn’t want to read. He looked through the all-glass wall to the outside: there were no windows in this ultramodern room, which was about the size and as brightly lit as a big city’s airline terminal. The moon was nearly full tonight, and low, so low it seemed caught in the eucalyptuses in the distance like a helium balloon. If he were with someone now, he’d ask why.

  “Question,” he’d say. “Why is the moon so frigging low tonight?”

  This person could tell him it had to do with the time of year or the vernal equinox or something. But a simple answer, which he should have known and this person might have picked up in a high school or college general science course. People remembered so many more things than he. He wasn’t a well-informed person in anything but literature, and even that, mainly twentieth century fiction.

  “Question,” he’d say to this person beside him or even a group seated around the table. “What do you say we go to the Dunes for a burger and beer?” The Dunes was the most popular off-campus hangout. There you could get dark or regular beer in huge pitchers and a real California hamburger, which was grilled and came on a warm sesame roll with tomato slices, onion slices, shredded lettuce, relish, mayonnaise, mustard, ketchup, spices and a bag of tortilla chips or garlic-flavored potato chips on the side. Lenny was from New York and was used to having his hamburger broiled and stuck on a cold bun with only a single pickle round on top.

  “Question,” he’d say. “What the hell am I doing back in college after graduating six years ago. Forget it; I know.” He was here on a much-coveted creative writing fellowship for a year that carried with it a three thousand dollar stipend and a chance to meet book and magazine editors from the East, scouting for new writers. He’d also come to meet female students, all tanned and blond and built for the beach. But he hadn’t had much opportunity to meet them. The English Department parties he’d heard fantastic stories about before he got here, were almost nonexistent, and the one he went to—the first one he futilely drove around looking for in the hills above campus for an hour—was boring and stuffy and he felt totally out of place. And because he wasn’t going for a master’s like the nonfellowship students in the graduate writing program, he only had one three-hour class a week. Each of these workshops the past two quarters was composed of intense-looking and opinionated students and some professors’ wives. The exception, this past quarter, was Miss Prettyface Louise, a senior—she was allowed into the class because her fiction and criticism was on a level with the graduate students, the teacher said—who sat with her thighs locked and breasts high and eyes demurely down. He could go for her and would call her now if she wasn’t betrothed.

  “Question,” he said to himself. “Why’d he drive to campus just to sit in this cafeteria for two hours? You really want to know? I haven’t met any women at the Dunes—they all seem to come in with guys or in groups of women that want to be left alone—and I thought this place would be a good one to, since I’d also been told writing fellows were considered choice company and prize catch by a lot of the unattached literary-minded women on campus. If I met one, or really anybody here to talk to, and I could convince this person to come with me, then on to the Dunes for burgers and beers. For you see, I’d become almost a nightly regular there and want to show the bartenders and barflies that I don’t always have to come in alone.”

  Maybe he should call the other writing fellow and invite himself over. B.J. Aimlace was married and quite sympathetic to Lenny’s loneliness out here and often said he had a standing invitation to visit them anytime he liked. They lived more than an hour’s drive over the mountains, in a rented house facing the beach with an ancient redwood growing out of the living room roof. Lenny had been there once, during the first quarter. B.J.’s wife, who after dinner shared a hashpipe with her husband, which she said always made her feel more congenial if not beatific, suddenly swung around to Lenny and said “I loathe you.” Just like that. “I truly loathe you, Lenny Polk. You’re so infuriatingly straight.” Mercedes was English, and her long articulated drawl on the word “loathe” made her opinion of him seem that much more virulent. B.J. lit up some more hash, shrugged when Lenny again declined to take a toke—he’d told them he was frankly afraid of drugs like these and could never see himself driving home along winding roads turned on—and passed the pipe to Mercedes. Lenny didn’t say anything to her about her remark; he only smiled helplessly at both of them as if there were no excuse for his loathsomeness and lack of courage. Then he whispered to B.J. if she’d been serious. “She’s more likely just after your ass,” B.J. said. “I am not,” she said. That’s a big fat lie.” “Believe me, if she truly loathed you she would have fled to the bedroom and singly sulked.” Little later, Lenny said he was getting tired, thanked them for a delicious dinner and great time, and sat embarrassed while they stood waving goodbye to him from their porch for the ten minutes it took to start up the car.

  He stared at his book for a few minutes. Then he turned the page, though he hadn’t finished it yet, just in case anyone was watching him. At the next table, which was a flaming red, a very attractive girl sat down with a mug of tea. A heavy girl with bad skin sat across from her, biting the top off of
a tall chocolate freeze.

  “So what did you think of him?” the attractive one said.

  “Who?”

  “You know—him, the lead, the one with the brows.”

  “Oh. I thought he was cute.”

  “You mean great.”

  “Yes, great. That’s the word I was looking for. I also liked the way he moved.”

  He wondered what movie actor they were talking about. Or maybe it was someone in the university’s graduate theater program. If it was a movie actor—brows? Doesn’t immediately register—then he’d probably seen the picture. There were four theaters in town and he went to just about every movie they played. Movies were an effective way to horn into people’s conversations, mentioning from the next table he’d overheard them and apologizing for what could be considered eavesdropping, but he’d seen that movie and enjoyed or had some problems with it too. He also always tried to toss in something clever and perceptive so these people would have more of a reason than similar moviegoing to ask him to join their discussion and perhaps later their fun. He’d done it successfully last spring in a Paris bar favored by Americans. A Smith student who’d just sat through two straight showings of Dr. Strangelove in French and was dying for someone to clear up a lot of what she obviously missed in the film. She thought his comments elucidating and brilliant, especially when he explained the more hidden scatological meanings of some of the characters’ names. Later that night they made love in his cramped hotel room, which he’d been living in for several months while he tried to find a job and learn French, and the following morning she left with her college chorus for a concert in St. Paul’s in London. If she’d given him her correct American address and last name he would probably go home now and write her a long funny letter or lonely poem.