What Is All This?

by Stephen Dixon

  “I hope you’re not angry with my remarks before, I was only trying to be accommodating.”

  “And my most profound humble thanks to you, m’lady,” and he swept his arm in front of him and bowed low to her in mock gallantry. Straightening up, he said “Now what do you say we drop the subject and walk?”

  “It’s still raining.”

  “Just a ways—I promise. Then we’ll duck in someplace for coffee.”

  “Now that’s the most intelligent idea you’ve had since you suggested lunch.”

  He walked out from under the arch, and she followed him. The rain had let up a bit and the cloche hat she’d bought yesterday was all the protection she needed. But he was walking much too fast again—acting like a disgruntled schoolboy and not making any secret of wanting to lose her, though she wouldn’t let on she knew. She’d play his little games, have coffee and tolerate his moody silence and get him back to the hotel for a nap and later some cocktails and dinner and a show, and maybe by tomorrow, or the day after, she’d have convinced him he’d already tied up half the pewter imports to American so didn’t he think it was time they headed back to their children and home in New York?

  “You don’t feel you’re walking too fast?” she said.

  “Maybe it’s you who’s walking too slow.”

  Then how about if we compromise? You go a little slower and I’ll do my best to stay even with you. I’m sure we can work out a delightful walking arrangement that way.”

  He continued to walk fast.

  “Now you’re not fooling anyone,” she said from behind. “I know you’re only doing it so you can get way from me.”

  “Oh geez. So I’ll stop if you want,” and he stopped, giving her only enough time to get beside him before he set out again, this time walking so slowly that she was always a step or two in front of him.

  There’s no end to your playful games today, is there?” she said, slowing down herself.

  “No games. I just don’t like dragging my behind. I don’t know, for some reason I feel extremely energetic,” and he widened his stride till he was a good ten feet in front. She ran after him and tugged his arm till he stopped. “What?”

  “If you don’t want me with you today, fine. But at least have the balls to tell me.”

  “I certainly appreciate you’re harping on that again.”

  “But you would rather be alone—I mean: right?”

  “If that’s what you want me to say, okay.”

  “You’d rather be with that woman friend you met on your last buying trip—isn’t that true too?”

  “Again, if that’s what you want me to say, okay.”

  “Stop mimicking yourself. You sound simpleminded.”

  Then stop being a pain in the ass. Stop bugging me.”

  “All I want is for you to say if you want to be alone. An honest yes or no. I’ll find something to do without you.”

  “You really expect an answer to that? Because all your suspicions and assertions have been groundless since you first started up about this fictional beauty.”

  “Sure they have. But ever since we landed in Ireland you’ve been beating the drums to get to London like some breathless Romeo.”

  “Oh yeah, I can really see myself doing that.”

  “Who is she, Peter?”

  He stuck his palm out and squinted at the sky. “It’s stopped raining.”

  Thank you for the weather report, but all right, when did you first meet her?”

  “Who?”

  “Just tell me. I’m no kid anymore. And I’d never ask if I felt I couldn’t accept the answer. I’ve been half expecting it for a couple of years.”

  “Make sense: expecting what?”

  “Hey. Why don’t we just separate for the afternoon right here? You could then do whatever you want without me and I could finish my shopping.”

  “Knock it off, Cyn, I’m tired of it.”

  “It’s for your benefit I’m making the suggestion.”

  “And again, I appreciate it to no end. Your considerateness is an absolute wonder to me.”

  “Yes,” she said, eyeing his composure and not as sure now. “Let’s see then.” She placed her hand on her chin. “You know, I really don’t know how many hours I should give you—for the truth now: how long does a man need to make love to a woman he hasn’t seen in four months.”

  “Four months.”

  “With me you hardly take four minutes these days.”

  “I do my best.”

  “Your best—but never mind. Tell me, did you drag us around this wet neighborhood because she happens to live here? I’m not complaining about the choice, mind you, because it’s a lovely part. London can be so pretty, and so clean.”

  He looked away from her to a few cars passing.

  “Well, then is her apartment done up Modern? Neo-Victorian? Old Depression? No furniture at all? Poor dear, and quite an inconvenience for the two of you, but maybe you can fix that. All right, if the topic fails to interest you, then just tell me what color hair she has. Women are curious about such things. It’s probably a well-brushed mousy brown, although you’ve always preferred real blond—long and artsy-like and casually billowing over the shoulders like those California college girls you said you used to flip over so much and who never gave you a tumble.”

  He continued to look at the street, then at his shoes, then at her new suede walking shoes, the soles caked with mud because the storm had opened up on them while they sat reading in a little park nearby.

  “Don’t stand there gaping like an idiot at nothing—pretending she doesn’t exist. I saw her envelopes in your pockets—even in your billfold once. She writes you at the office, right? About once a week from what I can make out. For a moment she thought she had him: his bottom lip dropped and his face froze. She was excited at the prospect of his spilling the whole story of the woman and thus clearing up the fuzziness of it in her own mind, because just by his silence and cunning avoidance of the issue she was starting to feel like a fool. But now he returned to his old maneuvers, gazing out at the street, at nothing at first, then at a passing bus, trying to give the impression he wasn’t concerned with anything she said.

  That last one got you, didn’t it? Well, you needn’t have looked so worried. I didn’t pry inside the envelopes. That’s not saying I wouldn’t have, but I just never had the chance.”

  Those letters you refer to—that is, if they’re the same ones I’m thinking of, were business correspondence from a silver company in England.”

  “London, England?”

  The main office is in London, yes. But the factory’s in Edinburgh.”

  “And this company always makes it a practice of writing you on salmon-colored stationery and with pale-blue feminine script?”

  “Knock the ways of British business if you want, but it’s what helped send us over here on the cuff.”

  “And doesn’t that make me delirious. But the owner, or salesperson, couldn’t by any chance have the first name of Margaret?”

  “If you mean Miss Pierce—she’s their corresponding secretary. She must be a damn efficient woman from what I can make out, though I’ve never met her. Both times I was in the office, she wasn’t there.”

  “It’s a lovely name, Margaret—as if it fits for this quiet English Sunday. Seems any woman who’d have it would be the type to light your fires, eagerly mix you drinks and such, and later make perfect shy love.”

  This one’s probably a pursy seventy and maybe an Anglican deacon on the side.”

  “If I ever wanted to be named anything, it was Margaret. I think I would have been much different for it.”

  “I kind of always preferred the name Morris for you myself.”

  “Would you like my being called Margaret? If you did, I might even change it for you.”

  “If you feel that name would suit you better, fine. Now let’s get a move on then, sweetheart, though to where, I don’t know.”

  She sailed. “Just
lead the way, my dear.” She looped her arm through his and they began to walk at an even pace. After a minute, he broke away from her and walked ahead. She kept abreast of him for a while. Then he walked faster, his arms and fists pumping back and forth like those people in sweatsuits she’s seen on the park side of Central Park West from her apartment window, looking as if they were in a speed-walking race.

  “I can’t keep up with you,” she said.

  “You have your thirty-dollar walking shoes on—so walk.”

  She stopped, wheezing from nearly running a block alongside him, and said “I was right before. You do want to hurry off somewhere without me. Every action of yours says so.”

  He stopped and trotted back. “When are you going to give up on that worn-out crap?”

  “When you start telling the truth.”

  “I can’t insist what I say is the truth. And there are people around. This is getting embarrassing. You’ll just have to start believing what I say, that’s all.”

  “But you do want to walk much faster. At least admit that.”

  “Yes, I want to walk faster. It felt good, but not for the reason you have. I just feel like moving today—almost like running like a kid.”

  “So why don’t you then?”

  “Yeah, I can really see myself doing that too.”

  “I’m serious—run. Don’t let me hold you back.”

  “If you don’t shut up, I will.”

  “But that’s what I’m saying—run. I’m being honest with you, and you’re a dope not to take me up on it. Say your goodbyes and run the hell away from here, back to the hotel for your things and then back to this neighborhood or some other, or wherever, but run, goddamnit—just go.”

  “Oh, screw it then,” but he stared at her a few seconds as if waiting for her to change her instruction, and then began walking in the direction they’d been heading, quickening his steps when he was a few feet away from her and then starting to run. People on the street turned to look at him as he ran past. At first all she could think was how silly he looked from behind, his jacket waving and his buttocks jiggling and his legs cockeyed and flailing as if this were the first time he’d tried running, although he more likely forgot how to run as he used to or was running that way because he’d been out of shape so long. By now he was more than a block away, surprising her with his wind and at a distance much farther than she expected him to get in such a short time.

  SEX.

  I think life is worth living just for the sex in it.

  Say that again?

  Life. Life can be worth living just for sex.

  I see.

  I believe that.

  And I see. But what happens when you get old and there’s no sex. You commit suicide?

  Old people do it.

  Once a year and hurray, today’s the day, and maybe every sixth federal holiday.

  They can do it almost as much as us. Though it takes longer and the men have less juice to squish out and the women are a little drier down there. So I’d use a lubricant, that’s all.

  Oh, wiggle me one of your drier-down-heres—I love that.

  It’s true. In the Times. There was a study. A report of one. If you’d read, you’d know.

  I still don’t think so. The heart, the sudden palpitations—who’d have the guts to?

  So you go slower, side by side. There are ways. Whatever, will you try to hustle it up a little?

  And don’t give me that. about my reading. It doesn’t have to be newspapers.

  Just be quiet and move, twitch, do something because you’re becoming a dead weight on me again,

  You’re also supposed to move.

  Let’s just keep a lid on it till we’re through.

  Right. You about through now too?

  I was through two minutes ago.

  You never said anything.

  Said? What the hell you think my screams were about?

  Those were screams? I thought that was you complaining I was too heavy.

  Those were sexual moans. I hit the top, I yell like everybody else, except maybe you.

  I yell; I scream.

  You titter. You go meow like a pussycat—and then fall off and doze or pretend to because you think it’s cute. You’re a boy getting his first screw. You’re hopeless.

  Thanks. I’m still not done yet, so thanks. My uncle, my whole family, say thanks.

  Don’t blame me.

  No, I’ll blame my uncle, my whole family—thanks.

  You had your chance. When I’m up there that long I’d think you’d get there too.

  Well, I wasn’t.

  You had time.

  What’s time got to do with it? I was enjoying the nuances, the textures, each little speciality of the act. Gradually building to the peak of all time, or one of them. Then you came in with your sex-is-life line.

  Life is worth living, etcetera. Anyway, will you get off me?

  Maybe I can still work it out.

  Work it out on some other girl, not me.

  Give me a minute more.

  Minute more on someone else, now off.

  Hold it. I’m there. Just give it another shake or two. Oh, that’s it, that’s it.

  Oh, that’s it, what? I’m not doing anything. God, you’re a load.

  There.

  Bull.

  No, there, I did it.

  You did what? You did nothing.

  Feel it down there yourself.

  Whatever stuff might he there is from me, not you. Wow, what a zero I have in you.

  Zero; that’s a hole. That’s you.

  Then I got a one, but a limp one. You’re the worst.

  That doesn’t help, by the way if you want there to be a next time. The mind remembers—the subconscious—even if I don’t.

  Next time? I really look forward to that.

  You never know. It just comes.

  I come; you don’t.

  Oh? Next time I’ll get in the same place from the other side when we’re all turned around and going cookies, and send you to heaven, baby, send you to heaven.

  Send me into a state of frustration and depression, maybe.

  I might as well be doing it to myself.

  It’s never the same.

  There are ways. Chopped liver. Somehow. There are also other men.

  And other women.

  That’s what I’m telling you to do. But not with me again. How could I?

  When you get the itch, you just lie on your back, or I get on my back with my itch, and—

  No, sir. Don’t even think the possibility exists.

  Sobeit, my love.

  Good. Now how about getting off, up, dressed, out and far from here.

  Right. Up, out, off, dressed, out, up, away and far from here—got it. But in that order, or should I start from the last first or first laugh?

  How did I meet you?

  Excus-e me?

  How did I ever meet you, and why? What did I see in you and how? What was it that brought us to this? What in God’s name kept me going with you? I’m asking myself. What the hell was I thinking?

  What are you talking about?

  Why you? There must have been a dozen other guys in the bar, so how come you?

  You were attracted to me at the time. Now you’re not.

  I wasn’t attracted. It was because of where I happened to sit at the bar—next to you.

  Maybe you sat next to me intentionally.

  I sat there because it was the only stool left at the bar. Maybe the person before me was a woman who you also bored to death, but she was smarter than me and left.

  The person before you was a man.

  Maybe you bugged him to death and he left. But that still doesn’t explain it. And don’t give me that you remember who sat there before me. It was too long ago.

  Two months to the nose, almost, and I do. It was a man. He had blond hair, and probably still does. And was around my age, build, height, handsize, and he said he was a film editor or som
ething. He talked a lot about film, carried film books. Several on top of the bar getting wet.

  I should have met him. He should have held out and bugged you out of the bar. Then your stool would have been the only one available and I would have taken it and talked to him and maybe liked him and given him my phone number, and two months later I’d be here with him, instead of you.

  He was gay.

  The truth now.

  He wasn’t. Or didn’t seem so, at least. In fact, he said “No chicks here, for my money,” and left. That’s what he said.

  You remember that too? I don’t believe it.

  I’m telling you. I came in, sat, drank. He was already there and didn’t seem too interesting. He mostly spoke to the soldier en the other side of him who was getting worried this man’s books were getting wet.

  The soldier sounds nice. How come I don’t remember him? You’d think I’d remember someone in uniform.

  Because he also left before you got there and was replaced by another man. A drunk, though nicely dressed, who was in his own world singing songs to himself out loud. Said he could be a singer again, was at one time.

  Oh, yeah. Funny guy, in a raincoat, but a fool.

  Right. And after ten minutes of this fool singing and right in this man’s ear most of the time, he got up—the editor did—and said to me “No chicks here, for my money,” and left. Then you came in.

  I wish I hadn’t.

  No matter what you wish, face the music—you came in and sat down.

  Who was sitting on the other side of you—just in case I had gotten your seat?

  Skip, the ex-actor, who’s an unbelievable eighty-two. Sitting there when I came in and when we left.

  I like Skip.

  Maybe you should have tried something with him.

  Don’t be obnoxious.

  I’m not. I like Skip too.

  Not that he’s unattractive. I mean, don’t be obnoxious about him. He’s beautiful—a beautiful man—and gentle and witty and filled with wonderful interesting stories about his travels and professional life. And he’s had his heartaches, too. Losing his wife early. Throat cancer that forced him off that soap and practically killed his acting career. A son who couldn’t care less that he’s alive, and grandchildren he’s never seen. He’s told me. He’s told you. Don’t dash his memories.