30 Pieces of a Novel

by Stephen Dixon

  So they went to her apartment. She asked for his jacket, hung it in the closet alongside hers, and went into the kitchen to make coffee; he stayed in the living room, flipping through some of the books on her end tables, cocktail and dining tables, and a few on the couch. “Would you like some of that brandy in your coffee?” she yelled out. “I see it’s Spanish,” and he said, “On the side, why not, sure, thanks, if you’ll join me, but even if you don’t,” and she said, “Yeah, I could.” They both had brandy in a small glass that looked like half a shot glass with a stem. They had another. “Two of these is just one,” she said, “so don’t think you’re going to get sick by the morning.” She sipped from her espresso coffee—she wasn’t able to figure out how to operate the steamed milk part of the machine and didn’t want to disturb him to try and help her; he didn’t touch his coffee, and she never referred to it till it was cold. “Want me to heat it up? Or better yet, make a fresh one for you?” and he said, “The brandy’s all I need,” and then, “May I?” and poured himself another. They talked about a lot of things quickly. Does her waitressing job cover her rent and other expenses? No, not in this city, so her parents contribute about half. Does she get in some reading at work? A little, during customer lulls or when she escapes to the toilet, but there’s this dismal recorded restaurant music that never stops and the readings she has to do are often unnecessarily complex or unpardonably impenetrable, so it’s hard to concentrate. Next year she’s supposed to be a teaching assistant, which will mean full tuition waiver and a stipend, so she can give up the waitressing job. “You’re a teacher, so give me advice as to what to do when you know a student isn’t doing the assignment. I’ve always wanted to know, and I think now I’ll have to.” “You whip him or her,” and she said, “Be serious, this is important.” He told her his tricks how to make sure the students read everything he assigns them. She said, “I should get this down on paper, but I’ll remember,” and he said, “Or you can ask me at the time, if you run into the problem,” and she said, “You may be too busy with your own work then,” and he said, “No, I’m always accessible, and to my friends even more so.” She asked if he liked teaching; he said, “Not especially.” She said, “Maybe because you’ve been doing it so long.” He said, “No, I’ve never liked it, and if your next question is why do I do it”—“It would’ve been”—“Well, to support myself and the things I like doing.” She asked what they were and he said, “Too few to enumerate,” and she said, “Come on, don’t get highbrow and fussy; it’s the one thing I’ve disliked most about academics,” and he said, “You’re right. Reading, long-walking, my daughters, of course; my typewriter diddling most times, and for more than twenty years of our marriage, my marriage and my wife, who is still quite nice.” “What made you break up?” and he said, “I thought we talked about that. If we did, I shouldn’t have, as I don’t like discussing it, I’m sorry,” and she said, “Please, no excuses or apologies required. Have you seen any women since you separated?” and he said, “Dated?” and she said, “I guess you could use that term,” and he said, “No, what about you? When was the last time you were involved, or maybe you are even now with someone special,” and she said, “That’s a funny question, and if you don’t mind I’d rather not answer it, and not to get even with you, you understand.” “Why, did I say something inappropriate again? If so, I’m sorry, but I’ve been out of circulation for many years, and in ways I’m like a rustic,” and she said, “You were married, though,” and he said, “Yeah, but my wife acted as my social intermediary. I, for the most part, reclused myself except in school, though I’d flee from there the minute my work was finished, and could barely endure answering the phone at home. I’ve come out of that somewhat since I’ve been living alone; I mean, you gotta if you have a phone but no answering machine,” and she said, “Good, I’m glad, it’s better for you not to be that way. As for me, let me explain that I don’t like talking about someone I was involved with, at least not to someone I only recently met,” and he said, “You mean me?” and she said, “Who else? I don’t even have a pet here,” and he said, “I see, and that was dumb of me to say, ‘You mean me?’ Of course me. As you said, who else?” Then they were silent. Something about her face: he was saying the wrong things and she was looking away. It wasn’t going well. It had become strained. She wanted him out of here, he was sure of it, and well she should. It’s not that it’s late. What time is it? He’d look at his watch but that might annoy her even more: He’s that bored with me? she could think. Well, who the hell does he think he is? Or give her the impetus to say, “It’s getting a little late, isn’t it? and I’m also feeling tired, so perhaps we should call it a night.” He looked at his empty glass, wanted to pour another, but thought she might think he drank too much or had to drink to be with her and have things to say. “Would you mind if I have just one more of this?” tapping the brandy bottle. “It’s very good stuff. I always thought Spain, brandy, it’d be harsh, but it’s not. I was once there but I don’t remember having brandy. I only drank beer then—lots of it; I had a terrible pot—and some wine: white, which wasn’t produced much in Spain, while I now mainly drink red and hardly touch beer. So, I missed my big chance, with the brandy and red wine. Port I remember in Portugal—I was even in Oporto, where they made it; you took a tour of the porteries—what would they be called?” and she said, “I wouldn’t know.” “Maybe just distilleries. And these glasses are pretty small, as you said, and I’m not used to drinking this much, so I’m curious—you’re curious, I’m curious—the effect it’ll have on me. What an awful thought, you taking care of me—awful for you—if I got really pissed. Only kidding about all that except the beer, red, and pot,” and she said, “Please, I’ll join you in one more.” She seemed back in the mood from before and asked when was he in Spain. He said, “Several years before I met my wife. I went with a woman and her kid—I’d been living with them—and we mostly hitchhiked. The boy had blond hair, so it was easy,” and she said, “You know, the truth is—as you’ll see, all this time you’ve been talking, I’ve been listening some but mostly thinking—why not talk about that subject from before?” and he said, “What do you mean?” and she said, “Why am I reluctant to talk about it: my last two involvements? And I couple them up like that because they were practically back to back—a mistake; I don’t think I had a week’s break between them—and equally intense and both men seemed so young for their age and they even looked alike. Very tall, gaunt, lots of shocks of dark head hair; even the bony noses and enormous feet and hands and same-shaped eyes. I know it wasn’t unintentional on my part, choosing the second with the looks of the first. I mean, with the second one—but you know what I mean. And the hair matter—that’s no reflection on you, you understand. Younger men just have more hair. You must have had it too,” and he said, “I actually began going bald when I was thirteen, I think, or started worrying about it. That I still have some hair on top and so high on the sides surprises me; I thought I’d be a billiard ball. But these two young men: you liked them both, equally, what?” and she said, “I loved them, one no more than the other and both a lot, but knew it wouldn’t last with either for more than a few months, if that. Still, I fell for them because they were so attractive and congenial, and it quickly worked out well. The conversation wasn’t that good, though did it have to be, right at the beginning? But the sex was, and that’s something. So there,” and he said, “How long ago, the last?” and she said, “Not long, but maybe I’ve spoken enough about it, not so much confessed but gone on almost nonstop,” and he said, “And sex, now there’s a subject,” and she said, “Why, do you have something to say regarding what I told you? It could be you found my quick activities with successive men repugnant, or something less severe, or my cavalier attitude to the whole thing,” and he said, “Not in the least, we’re just talking. I only meant sex, the universal subject for adults, the Esperanto in body language of a different kind, we could say, or not only for adults. Kids are good
at picking up languages easily, right? So whenever it starts. So much to talk about there, in so many aspects,” and she said, “I’m not sure I understand what you’re saying,” and he said, “I wasn’t being clear?” and she said, “Not really. What is it you’re sort of circulating around, something again about those two men I mentioned?” and he said, “Well, if you’ve no objection to talking about it, yes, you and these two guys, back to back, front to front, but instead we can start at the start, since I assume the first wasn’t the first and so the second not the second, were they?” and she said, “Oh, you’re funny; of course not. I’m twenty-three,” and he said, “So how old were you when you had your first involvement?” and she said, “Do you mean sex or just liking a guy?” and he said, “I guess so: sex, involvement, one and the same, I suppose, today or for about the last twenty years—I’m not sure, out let me know if this is the wrong question—out of line—it I’m being that, and I’ll immediately change the subject or shut up,” and she said, “Real sex? Being penetrated? Losing the locket? Fifteen. You?” and he said, “Closer to fifteen or to sixteen?” and she said, “I forget; what’s the difference?” and he said, “For me, things were a lot different when I was a kid,” and she said, “So you were much older when you first did it?” and he said, “No, fourteen. I remember it was December, right after Christmas—I was on school vacation—but with a whore. Most girls I went out with didn’t do anything but kiss and, if you were lucky, on the fourth or fifth date would let you touch a breast through the blouse and, after a dozen dates, through the brassiere. For more, you had to go steady with them for half a year to a year—and I’m not saying too much more—or go out with a particularly wild usually homely girl you didn’t want to be seen on the street with, and with her on the first date you could sometimes get bare tit, as we called it—it really sounds stupid now, and the way we regarded these girls, repulsive,” and she said, “But a professional whore. What a depressing introduction, though I suppose how most adolescent boys lost their virginity then,” and he said, “That’s right. Most of my friends first went to prostitutes. I don’t like the idea of it now but didn’t think it depressing then. In fact, I have to admit I found it very exciting—the prospect of going to one and seeing a woman for the first time totally naked. I was practically heady at the thought of it, though it wasn’t a great experience when I actually did it: she was crude and smelly and smoked a cigarette during a little of it, and her apartment was ugly. And it isn’t, as I said, that I didn’t want it to be with one of the girls I liked and dated,” and she said, “And you continued going to prostitutes after that?” and he said, “With my friends, when I was a teenager, yes, sometimes five or six of us to the same one in the afternoon. She’d take us one at a time and the others would wait on the street telling infantile dirty jokes to one another or in a small waiting room she had, all of us crammed onto one couch. But not for almost forty years, I want you to know, which means as a man—twenty, twenty-one—a very young man, my first two times in Europe? … Yes, there more than anywhere else. The women in the Amsterdam windows, a London prostitute or two right out on a quiet side street, against a car fender—that’s where and how you did it, standing up. I’ve never seen anything like it in New York, and it was much cheaper there too. And Paris, rue du or de something or other—it was famous as a hooker street, but all gone now, I hear—near Les Halles, which has been torn down too. But I didn’t do much whoring here, and usually when a friend set something up and maybe—this is, I’m still in my early twenties, you realize—because he had the dough and didn’t want to go alone, was afraid he’d get beaten up and robbed. I was a big guy; most of my friends then were rich little guys … anyway, where he paid for me.” “As far as my first, it wasn’t that great either. I didn’t want to but wasn’t forced. I did it mostly because all the other girls my age did, or said they were doing it—wouldn’t that be something if they were all lying? But why are we talking of this, or focusing on it rather, after all the other subjects we started to discuss?” and he said, “We just got into it; who knows why?” and she said, “No, I bet there’s a more deliberate reason,” and he said, “What?”—thinking he knew what she was going to say, and she said, “Simply to get ourselves worked up. What do you think?” and he didn’t want to say, I knew you’d say something like that, but said, “What do I think? Truth is, I am a little excited, genitally—so you think I started the conversation for that reason, both for you and me, or intentionally turned it around to it at a time when we really didn’t know each other or much about the other?” and she said, “I’m not accusing you. I feel I’m just as much responsible for the conversation’s sudden turn and focus and am a little excited by it myself and enjoying the feeling. Because what’s wrong in it? Is there any danger, do you think?” and he said, “Why should there be? Or maybe I’m missing your meaning,” and she said, “I’ll put it this way: what do we do next? What about that? What do you think we should pursue next?” and he said, “You mean, do something?” and she said, “Only if you want to; it has to be consensual; I’m not about to spring on you,” and he said, “Of course, I know, and I’m delighted, but where?” and she said, “Let’s go to the bedroom. We don’t have to do, unless you insist on it, the preliminaries out here, do we? We’ve done most of it with chatter, so we can skip the couch stuff and save the rest for inside after we’ve taken off our clothes,” and he said, “You don’t like being undressed?” and she said, “Not especially; I can undress myself,” and he said, “My wife did, even long into our marriage, and rebuked me for not doing it more often with her, undressing,” and she said, “If you’re asking me to undress you, I’ll do it if you want, but in the bedroom. I think this room we should keep as is,” and he said, “Nah, it’d be silly; I can undress myself too,” and she said, “Fine,” and stood up, put her glass down, and said, “One more thing before we go in. I’d prefer you not mentioning your wife again tonight or till much later, and only if it’s necessary or involuntary, like if you’re talking in your sleep about her. It can be disconcerting,” and he said, “Sure, though you can talk about your gaunt hairy men all you want,” and she said, “Why would I want to? That’s so stupid,” and he said, “Hey, maybe it was—no, I’ll concede it was and that I don’t know where it came from—but I wish you wouldn’t tell me that something I say is stupid, at least not till much later,” and she said, “Okay, I can see that’s important to you, and I was wrong. So we won’t talk about anything like that: your age, your wife, my youth, or any of my former boyfriends or lovers and nothing about either of our intellectual and social deficiencies,” and he stood up, finished his drink, and said, “Can we at least, while we’re here, and without messing up the room and because I think the moment can use it and that it’s also important we do, kiss?” and she said, “I want us to,” and they moved to each other. He said, “My mouth has brandy on it but so will yours, but if mine’s stinkier with it it’s probably because I drank more, so excuse me,” and she said, “Really, it’s not an offensive smell. I even kind of like it: that and cognac and a French pear brandy, have you ever had it? I forget what it’s called in French,” and he said, “I don’t think so, what’s it look like?” and she said, “Clear, like vodka,” and he said no, and they kissed.

  They went into the bedroom. They’d kissed a few times standing up in the living room and he felt woozy from it, light-headed; at one moment he thought his legs might give way, but that’s all he needed. Screwy old guy, she could think, next thing I know I’ll have to hold him up, sit him in a chair. Such soft lips, he thought. His, in comparison, he was sure were a bit cracked and stiff. She knew how to kiss, hand on his neck and squeezing it a little and then fingers climbing up the back of his head almost in a spiderlike way, but only in the way the spider moves, nothing about being trapped or any of the other bad spider associations. Doing it almost as if she was thinking this is how she’s supposed to hold a man and move her hand when she kissed, but he liked it. Her hand was warm
and soft, and it made him shiver a few times. The brandy was a good idea; it had relaxed him, maybe made him say a couple of things he shouldn’t have, but because both of them drank it it sort of neutralized any smell he might have on his breath. He didn’t sense brandy on hers; it just smelled fresh. Kept his tongue in place because she didn’t use hers, but he was thinking as he kissed her that if she started to use it he would too. She undressed, unbuttoning her blouse and taking it off, sitting on the bed and removing her jeans, unhooking her bra, but her breasts didn’t plop out as he expected when the bra came off; they just stayed there, sticking straight out and almost pointing up. Maybe only the breasts of girls fourteen or eighteen or so did that. He’s only seen them in photos, never even saw his daughters’ once they started to develop, and when he was young and felt girls up and once got a shirt and bra off one—or maybe just the bra; the shirt she kept on but open in front—it was always in the dark. She slipped off her panties and then her socks—he tried not to watch, or just made quick looks, and she sometimes caught him but didn’t say anything with her expression—and threw them under the bed. Light hair down there, he thought he saw, while her head and underarm hair were almost black. She color it to make it lighter? Wouldn’t think so—doesn’t see the purpose; shaving, yes, or whatever depilatory process if you’re self-conscious of having what you think’s a lot of hair—but he won’t bring it up. “Aren’t you going to disrobe?” she said, and took off her watch and shoved aside two little heart-shaped wooden boxes at the edge of the night table to put it down. That’s probably the side she’ll sleep on, he thought, since there’s a night table on the other side. What could be in the boxes? Maybe one day, if they’re still there and the relationship goes on that long and when she’s not in the room, he’ll look inside. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but I’ve been dillying. I have to admit I became a bit fascinated, almost like a voyeur, or voyeur minus one, watching you undress. Excuse me,” and she said, “Why? It’s got to be natural. Which might seem as if I’m admitting to the unnatural in that the peeper instinct has never been in me,” and he said, “That’s hardly unnatural; neither is, wouldn’t you say?” and she said, “I suppose,” and he took off his shirt and watch, put the watch in his pants pocket, and undid his belt. His penis was erect and a little curved to the left and sticking through the fly of his boxer shorts as he pulled the pants down. She looked at it, made no expression, and looked away; but it had to look comical sticking out and curved that way, maybe even obscene, and he pushed it back in, folded his clothes up, and put them on a chair. She shut her eyes, twisted her arm around her back to scratch the middle of it, gritted her teeth as if the scratching or something else back there hurt, yawned, and said without opening her eyes, “Sorry if you heard that,” and he had but said, “Heard what?” and she said, “I yawned, but nothing to do with you. Just I’m tired … long day,” and got up to get something from the top dresser drawer. We’re like an old couple already, he thought; ah, maybe that’s good: we’ll be relaxed, no poses. And a diaphragm, probably, from the drawer, but he can hardly believe the whole thing. Stepped out of his shorts; he was still erect but so what? Just that he was going to make love with her, this beautiful body and face, that’s what he found so unbelievable. Because she was so young, maybe she was more beautiful to him than she actually was, but again, so what? Firm, lean, strong, no fat or bumps, impressions, or pocks in her thighs and buttocks, ass so high, nice-sized breasts and the shape they’re in—she’s in perfect shape all around. Slim legs, body like one in a bathing suit or Caribbean beach ad. No tan, divisions of dark and light on her skin, whatever they’re called. She’s evenly white as if she’s intentionally stayed out of the sun and in fact had rarely been in it or never without covering or chair or beach umbrella or wide-brimmed hat. But the light pubic hair, dark head and underarm hair; something there he didn’t understand. Important? No, but why was she letting him go through with it? Look at the differences, lady, compare; for one thing, his neck. He saw it as john-whore, but only because she had a body and face a guy his age usually had to pay for. And smart, too, going for a degree he’d never have the brains to get. Any advanced degree: never wanted one, but that’s another thing. Not that he would pay to lay her. What’s he saying? Sure he would, once: a hundred, maybe even two hundred, once, but if it was in a normal apartment, not a whorehouse, and she said something like, “I don’t ever do this but I suddenly need the money,” and she was absolutely clean. Clean? Hadn’t thought of it but sure she’s clean, and she must know he is after no woman but his wife for almost thirty years. But he’s not going to tell her what he thought. Unless, let’s say, they were lying around on the bed after lovemaking one night or any other time, tonight, for instance, tomorrow morning, but lying around casually, maybe her head on his chest, his arm around her shoulder, and that hand resting on or holding her breast, and he said, “For curiosity purposes only, and you don’t have to say if you don’t want, but what did you think when you first saw my body with no clothes on, and I’m not talking about my penis, but you want, even that—the testicles, the works. And don’t worry about offending me about this. I know what I look like—the neck, for instance. I don’t want to call any more attention to it than would seem necessary or normal, because then it’ll seem like self-pity’s motivating me, but there it is, the neck, getting a little scrawny just like everyone’s eventually does. So believe me, say what you thought about my body at that time, even what you think of it now, even the neck, what it does to you, if it in any way repels you—that’s not a good way of putting it—but I’d really like to hear.”