What Is All This?

by Stephen Dixon

  “Come on, Zysman,” Jacobs said. Throw off the wrapper and tell us about those gorgeous young ladies in Hollywood.”

  “I can’t. You want to see a body of just scar tissue? And I used to be such a handsome rake. With a full head of hair and a big chest and powerful ticker and still able to get it up when I wanted to with the most exquisite and demanding showgirls. Now look at me.”

  “I’m looking,” Jacobs said, “but all I see is a big lump under the sheet. Come on, show us that thing you used to dazzle your showgirls with.”

  “Never.” He burrowed deeper under the sheets. “Not today, tomorrow, or in a million years.”

  “We should all live so long,” and Jacobs went back to sleep.

  They should get Mr. Zysman a private room or curtains he can pull from under his sheet,” Spevack said. “But every time he asks, they say they will, and then you never hear of it again. You should’ve gotten into one of those nicer homes I hear about in California, Ray. There they treat you like a golden-ager should.”

  “Food, everybody.” It was Mrs. Slomski, one of the nurses’ aides. She wasn’t the most pleasant woman and seemed to drink on the job, but most of the men liked having her around. She was occasionally exuberant, told raunchy jokes and, for a few extra bucks, snuck in food for them they weren’t supposed to have.

  “So how are you today, people?” she said.

  “Sleeping soundly,” Jacobs said.

  “And I’m not quite ready to sit up,” Zysman said, “so could you please slip my tray through the hole I made in the covers?”

  “No chance. Today, good friend, you’re seeing the light.”

  “Lay off the guy,” Spevack said. “It’s his business if he doesn’t want to come out.”

  “But God’s own handiwork is out there for the viewing,” she said, pointing to the treeless parking lot and the home’s other wing.

  “Not only that, the doctor ordered it.”

  “What doctor? Name me names.”

  “Doctor Gerontology, that’s who. He said: ‘Mrs. Slomski, I think it’d be beneficial today to have people see Mr. Zysman, and Mr. Zysman to face up to people seeing him,’ though naturally I can’t tell you the doctor’s real name. Professional courtesy and all that.” She placed a tray of food in front of Spevack and then tapped Zysman through the sheets. “You coming out, sweetie?”

  “If you insist on seeing me,” Zysman said, “put a screen around the bed.”

  “Enough dillydallying, Mr. Zysman. First of all, all the screens are in the new wing. Secondly, I raised six kids and saw to my own dear parents till they were in their nineties, so it’s not as if I don’t know how to handle people.”

  “I said to lay off the guy,” Spevack said. “He’s got a bum heart and everything that goes with it. You continue and I’ll report your drinking habits to Kramer’s office. You’re probably tanked up even now.”

  “You think they don’t know? They encourage it, in fact. Drinking and drug-taking are the two professional hazards that all nursing homes accept from their personnel, because how else could we bear looking at so many crotchety old men? Two.”

  “Have some pity, Mrs. Slomski,” Ray said. “If Mr. Zysman doesn’t want to come out, respect that wish.”

  “You, Mr. Barrett, should think to mind your own business. Talking about disgraces, you’re the worst. Occupying a bed that rightfully belongs to a senescent is one of the most despicable crimes against hunan nature a person could do. To me, you don’t even exist.”

  “I’ll be occupying it for one more week. Then my father gets it.”

  “Listen to that lie. You’re running away from the world, that’s what you’re doing. Or maybe writing an exposé for a scandal magazine. We’re wise to you—the whole staff. We all think you’re a misfit,” and she swiveled around to Zysman, said Three,” and flung the sheets off him. When they first saw his scarred body—his gloved hands covering his eyes and a scream so tight in his throat no sound came out—everyone but Mrs. Slomski had to turn away.

  “Get a doctor,” Jacobs said, “My heart. My heart can’t take such a sight.”

  Mrs. Slomski daintily put the sheets back over Zysman. “Now that wasn’t so terrible,” she said. The truth is, you don’t look half so bad as you think. It’s all in your head. Because nobody here hardly winced except for Mr. Jacobs, and you know what an old fuddy-duddy he is, besides being a great one for a practical joke. Take it from me: what I did was therapy. And now that everyone’s seen you, how about coming out on your own accord and eating these nice goodies?”

  Zysman didn’t move. After about a minute Mrs. Slomski said how her curiosity just seemed to get the better of her at times and lifted the sheets off him though held them up in front of her so nobody else could see him. She let the sheets fall back on him and said “Know what? I think the poor man’s dropped dead on us.”

  Ray phoned his father a week later and said the two weeks were up.

  “Yeah? So what do you want me to do?”

  “Have Mrs. Longo pack your bags and drive you here so you can take over the bed.”

  “Look, I don’t know if I’m ready to go there yet. Why don’t you fly back to California and let me work things out on my own.”

  “If I leave now, I not only lose the deposit, which is a lot of money to me, but they’ll take the bed away from us also, and then where will we be? No place. It’ll take a month or two to find you another home or another place in this one. Believe me, if I had the strength, I’d come and get you and, if need be, carry you here myself.”

  “You feeling sick?” his father said.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Your voice. It’s weak. And this business about your strength.”

  That was just a figure of speech. All I have is a little cold.”

  “Give me another week. The extra time will do your cold good, and then I’ll be there to take over your bed.”

  Ray didn’t tell him about Zysman and that he felt his death had in some way started the decline of his own health. He’d never seen a dead man before, not even in the army. He lost ten pounds in a week and, for unknown reasons to the staff and himself, wasn’t able to hold down any solids. And Mr. Lehman, the patient who now had Zysman’s bed, was screaming again, something he did half of every day and night, till Ray told himself he’d had it here for good. He threw off his covers, said “Let my dad find his own home if he wants, but I’m getting out,” and jumped off the bed, but crumpled to the floor. Nothing was going to stop him from leaving, though, and he stood up but his legs collapsed again, Spevack rang for an aide, who put Ray back to bed. At first Ray thought it was the flu. There was a bug going around the home, though he’d never heard of a flu that made his hands tremor and his up-till-then 20/20 vision so bad that he had to be fitted for thick corrective lenses. When the doctor made his rounds the next day, Ray asked if anything more serious than the flu could be making him feel so sick and weak.

  “If you were forty years older,” the doctor said, “I’d tell you your illness was simply another common geriatric problem that someone your advanced age had to accept. But you’re 33, if your chart is correct. So all I can say is that your condition is caused by some minor, though unique fluke in your metabolism, and that it won’t be long before you’re feeling as healthy and vigorous as a man your age should.”

  Few days later, the barber came around for the patients’ monthly haircuts. As he snipped Ray’s hair, he asked if he wanted any of the gray touched up.

  “What gray hair? I’ve got as many as you’ve got fingers. Just finish the trim.”

  “You patients here,” the barber said. “You’re all as vain as the high school Casanovas I cut,” and he held a mirror up to Ray’s hair. Not only was it partially gray on the sides and top, but it was thinning in spots and there were lines on his face that a fifty-year-old man didn’t have and his neck was beginning to sag. What the hell’s going on? he thought. Just a couple of months ago he was so youthful-lo
oking that other teachers on the campus often mistook him for one of their students.

  Every day after that, he studied the increasing changes in his face, hair and neck. And every day he phoned his father, who was less inclined than ever to go to the home.

  “I’ve been getting these disappointing reports on you,” his father said, his voice more resonant than Ray had heard it in years. “From your Mr. Kramer, who says you’re an unruly patient and giving everyone there a hard time. That isn’t like you. Place getting you down?”

  “I’ll say it is. Believe me, I’d be on the next plane to San Diego if it wasn’t for this damn flu.”

  “Flu? Before it was just a cold. You got to take better care of yourself.”

  “Flu, eye trouble, maybe the early signs of ulcers and a urological disorder—I’m not kidding you, Pop. But once I’m better, I’m getting the hell out of here, with or without my deposit, and then you’ll have to find your own nursing home.”

  “Fine with me, because I’m feeling so good I think I might not need a home after all. Fact is, I’m feeling as good as I ever have in my life. Would you like me to visit you?”

  “How? If you use up all your strength getting here, then make sure it’s when you’re coming to stay.”

  His father came the next morning, looking better than Ray had seen him in ten years. He’d lost weight, his face was rugged and tan, he had an energetic gait, even his spirits seemed up, and with him was a very pretty young woman in her late twenties or so, whom he introduced to Ray as Ms. Amby Wonder.”

  “Amby, meet Raymond.”

  “How do you do?” she said, extending her hand. “Any friend of Barry’s is a friend of mine.”

  “Friend? This is my son. Raymond Barrett—don’t you recall my saying?”

  “Oh, yeah. Barry did mention you. So, pleased to meet you too, Raymond.”

  “Who’s Barry?”

  “Why, your Daddy, most certain. Barry for Barrett. Isn’t that what everyone calls him?”

  “Who is this woman, Pop—your nurse?”

  “You won’t believe this, Ray,” and he moved closer to the bed so Amby wouldn’t hear, “but she’s my girl.”

  “You mean your daughter? Someone not from Momma?”

  “Girl like in woman. You don’t understand?”

  “I’ll tell you what I don’t understand? I’m looking at you and I almost don’t recognize you. You seem several inches taller than when I used to walk you to bed and tuck you in. You got a glow on your face you never had. And your clothes—right out of a stylish men’s shop. What’ve you been doing, taking rejuvenative pills?”

  “Sure, why not? Great stuff, those—you want my doc to prescribe you some? Take two after rising and four before bedtime, and whoopee!” and he twirled around twice and squeezed Amby into his body.

  “Pop, you’re embarrassing me,” Ray said, glancing at his roommates.

  That’s one of your problems: too self-conscious. But listen, it’s not just the pills. It’s my new disposition. Mrs. Longo suggested I see a psychiatrist. I said ‘What, me, a shrink?—never.’ But she harped on it and to get her off my back I went, and in just five sessions he got me, straightened out fine. He said ‘Throw away your sadness and walker and get yourself a piece of ass,’ and that’s what I did. But you?”

  “What about me?”

  “Your scalp, for one thing.” He ran his hand through Ray’s hair.

  “Even I got more than you.”

  “It’s from the flu. But it’ll all grow back.”

  “And that nice red color your hair used to have? That’ll grow back too?”

  “I’ve been worrying a lot lately, and a little gray won’t kill me.”

  “I still don’t like it. Ailments, balding, your face kind of sickly-looking. I think you should be in a real hospital. Want me to admit you into one?”

  “I’ll be okay, I said. In a few days I’ll be up and out, and then it’s goodbye to New York forever.”

  “I’m glad, because you can really use that warm California sun. As for Amby and me, we’ll be getting some sun also. In Antigua. If you’re really not feeling that sick, then we’ll be flying there tomorrow.”

  “You crazy? Pills, psychiatrists or whatever therapies you’re on-they can’t keep you going forever. You’re committing suicide. You should take it easy—rest, like me.”

  “Let him go to Antigua if he wants,” Amby said. “His doctors say he’s as healthy as a horse, and you should be happy to see him having fun.”

  “Don’t give me that claptrap, young lady,” Ray said. “I don’t know how much dough you think he has and how much of it you’re planning to finagle out of him, but I think you should know first that he has a very serious heart condition.”

  “Heart condition?” and she laughed.

  “And diabetes, liver trouble, glaucoma, plus a half dozen other equally enfeebling afflictions. He’s an old man, if you must know the truth,” and Amby kept on laughing, his father joining in with her. “His doctors said long ago that a person in his condition can barely stand the strain of walking, less any great globe-trotting with an adventurous young woman—a tramp.”

  “Now hold off, Ray. Amby’s a fine young lady.”

  “She’s an insidious conniving tramp who’s going to ruin your life. So get her out of here—I don’t want to look at her anymore.”

  His father took Ray’s hand and shooed Amby out of the room. “Calm yourself, Ray. You’re upset and tired, besides not feeling too well. We’re only going for a week. When we get back, we’ll come see you again, okay?”

  “You won’t find me here.”

  Then in San Diego we’ll come visit—but just take care.”

  “Don’t bother visiting with her. I won’t have you both out there, and not because I don’t have room.”

  “Anything you say. But relax, son.” He put his fingers on Ray’s temples, as he used to do when Ray was a boy and had a headache, and rubbed them so gently that Ray soon felt himself falling asleep. His father whispered goodbye to the other patients and left the room.

  “Dad?” Ray said a minute later, jolted out of sleep by a pain in his side. He dragged himself out of bed to the window, and opened it.

  “Dad?” he shouted to his father hustling through the parking lot with Amby. “You’re being used, fleeced, swindled by a pro. You’ve got to get out of her scheme fast before she takes you for every dime you have. Now you’re coming to San Diego with me when I’m feeling better, you hear? We’ll take long ocean walks, sit out in the sun, talk over good times, go out for nourishing dinners, and see all the better TV shows together. We’ll take good care of each other is what I’m saying, and I’m going to have to insist on your coming, you hear? I said, do you hear? Goddamnit, Dad, you get so headstrong where you can’t even listen to me anymore?”

  PALE CHEEKS OF A BUTCHER’S BOY.

  Max Silverman figured he had about the softest job in the Bronx: assistant manager of a large five-and-dime on Jerome Avenue, under the El tracks. Most of the administrative duties were handled by Mr. Winston, the manager for fifteen years, so all Max had to do was roam the aisles to prevent kids from pocketing merchandise, relay Mr. Winston’s orders to other workers and fill in for him when he wasn’t there, and do a little bookkeeping and stock-control work at his mostly empty desk in his windowless office in the back of the store.

  Then another recession came, this one, as the newspapers put it, the worst economic downturn since the end of the Korean War. In a month, four salesgirls were fired on the spot. A few days later, after the President had said on TV that all reports of a serious recession were grossly exaggerated, Mr. Winston gave Max a check for his salary and three weeks’ severance pay, told him how much the company appreciated his efforts to raise the store’s sales volume during this unfortunate reversal, and regretfully said goodbye.

  The two times Max had been laid off in the past, he blamed it on the ineptitude of government and the greediness of big business
moguls and stockbrokers and the like, whom he pictured smoking fat cigars and playing cards beside the pool at some swanky West Indian hotel, while he and other victims of their bungling and schemes were being tossed into the streets. But this time he didn’t feel so had. The way he looked at it, he hadn’t been fired as a common laborer, which is all he was in the past, but that part of management which had to be sacrificed for the economy to survive. And then his mother, who was planning an early semi-retirement for his butcher-father on Max’s future earnings, took it lightly—even lifted his spirits a bit by saying she’d heard he had an A-1 reputation as assistant manager and would be sure to get a similar position sooner than he thought. But after a month of job-hunting and Wednesday morning visits to the State Unemployment Office, where the lines each week seemed to get longer with men much better dressed and groomed than he and who looked much shrewder and so were more likely to find work, he became depressed, lost what confidence he had, and once more was blaming his being unemployed on the President, Congress, the New York Stock Exchange and top executives of huge corporations and businesses.

  A week later, after having no luck at three employment agencies before it was even ten o’clock, he became so disgusted with everything that he decided to call it a day. He took the subway back to Burnside Avenue, waved to his mother as he hurried through the apartment, and shut his bedroom door behind him. Putting on his pajamas and yelling to her that nothing was wrong, when she asked through the door, he got into bed and soon fell asleep, a cigarette, which he’d taken only a few drags from, still lit in the ashtray on his night table.