The Soho Press Book of '80s Short Fiction

by Dale Peck

  I went to Eastern Europe with my sister, happy to be away, unhappy about Roger, again returning to Amsterdam. Roger called, after those months had passed, to give some apologies. Still later we held a conversation that clarified matters further. He thought because I had posed in the nude for a drawing course and had worked on a sex paper, he thought I would introduce him to the mysteries.

  CHAPTER 12: Going to Parties

  Living in New York City and going to parties. The last ritual, attending parties. Kathy introduces me to Scott who is kneeling and I kneel too. My knees begin to hurt and I stand over him. I’m sure he’s queer with his Lou Reed hair, overalls and big glasses. I watch him dance. Not bad. I lose everyone I know and Scott and I begin to dance. He’s very tall and I can’t see his face which is hidden anyway by his glasses. The masked man. A bad song comes on and we lean against the wall. “Let’s go to my place,” he says, “and we’ll come back in a little while. It’s real close.” That’s friendly, I think, and say ok and off we walk in an area unfamiliar to me. His loft is farther than a few blocks and it’s raining. Maybe he’s not homosexual.

  The loft is six flights up and I begin by bounding the stairs two at a time. “Take it easy,” he says, “there’s a lot more.” I enter the loft panting. My eyes are attuned to small Dutch quarters and the amount of space he has makes us both look small, insignificant.

  Scott turns on The Wailers and we continue dancing. It’s that movie when the dance becomes The Dance. He says, “You were making eyes at me.” I tell him I wear glasses. We’re lying on the bed. By now I realize he’s heterosexual and this is the fashion. “Are you Kathy’s boyfriend?” I ask, suddenly. “Not anymore,” he says, “we’re both hot to trot.” I’m not sure what anything means and insist, drunkenly, that we go back to the party. He thinks I’m upfront. “Since we’re not going to fuck,” he says, “wanna see my sculpture?” And next find myself seated inside a vibrating box.

  Everything seems funny. I feel both innocent and wild. “Hey, little girl, you don’t have to hide nothing no more. You haven’t done nothing that hasn’t been done before.” Kathy walks up to me, “you’ve been with Scott?” “Yes,” I say, “what about it?” She clears the decks and not only clears them but also indicates she has aimed me at him. “He’s a good fuck,” she says, and walks off. Is he or am I being passed on? There’s something bloodless in the modern age.

  Scott watches the discussion and says, “I coulda hit you for talking to Kathy.” “Look, it’s funny, Scott, don’t you see?” We’re dancing again, nearer to the wine and a Puerto Rican woman who really dances and I dance with her and smoke some grass and get given hash and Scott walks up and says (again), “Let’s go.”

  We do the same walk, in the same night, up all those stairs, but there’s a difference. “Harder this time,” he says. Of course, I think. His roommate is at the far end of loft. I know he’s here but can hardly see him. More California wine and the television on by our heads. My head is turned toward it but I am not watching. Pulling off our clothes, on the bed, he thinks I’m watching the movie. I am and I’m not. It’s just on, a forties movie, and it fits right in, somehow, with everything else. The guy at the far end of the loft is snoring. Scott and I are fucking. “Did you come?” he asks. “Not this time,” I answer. “Next time,” he says. “I trust you,” I say. But I can’t sleep. The wine, grass and sex. Parched throat. Water. Need water. “Get me some too,” he says. It’s dark and I take the long walk down the naked loft. That naked walk to get a glass of water. For a piss, or for water, so familiar in unfamiliar territory. Don Juan should see me now, gait of the warrior in a New York City loft. I find everything and return carrying two full glasses of water. I hand one to Scott. Cold water hits him in the face and he thinks I did it purposely. “You bitch,” he says, just like in a forties movie. Then I know. He wants that. He keeps calling me Bitch. There’s something refreshing about this reversal: a masochistic man. “No,” I say, “I wouldn’t do that, pour cold water on you in bed.”

  He’s fast asleep. I can’t sleep. Why can they always sleep? Are men better sleepers? The windows bang heavy during the night. The rain bangs against the windows. I look at Scott, closely now. No hair, no glasses. He looks like a little baby and has a small mouth. By the light of the storm, he looks like an alien. A young alien. I have to stop this and sleep. I know more about his cock than his face. Big cock, small mouth. The sun is coming in through the windows and I’m watching it. The light is dark as the rain continues.

  In the morning Scott tells me he’s into being macho. “How do you mean?” I ask. “Well,” he says, “it’s sort of feminism for men.” I tell Scott I have an appointment, which seems like a lie but isn’t. With whom he asks. Sally, I say. Sally Blank? he is incredulous. Yes I say. “She’s a good fuck,” he reports. “This is just like high school,” I say. “Oh,” he goes on, “and you don’t know all of it. Anyway, Kathy is using this material for her novel. She uses the gossip.” At least that isn’t new. He calls me bitch again as I dress and then he undresses me and my belt buckle makes a clumsy sound in the big, empty room. “Why didn’t you start this before I got dressed?” I ask. “You moved too fast,” he says. His big hand touches, hardly touches my cunt, and we fuck again, not drunk or stoned. Lots of light now. “You feel so good,” he says, “and I have to piss.” He gets out, gets up and goes to piss. Stay for pancakes? Can’t I stay.

  He walks me to the door wearing a terry cloth robe that just barely covers his tight ass. Lifts me high, kisses me and unlocks the door. It’s pouring outside.

  Some months later, we’ve remained friends. Scott asks how he can meet a woman. “I’m confused,” he says. “That’s it,” I say. “What?” he asks. “That. Just let her see you’ve vulnerable. It works every time. Women are suckers for sensitive men.” The advice works. I’m invited to his loft dancing-wedding party a year later. The bride and groom wear dark colors and both have closely cropped hair.

  CHAPTER 13: The Fourth of July

  I should have known better. Upper middle class guys from Westchester are trouble and can’t fuck. But look at that I say to myself, he’s in therapy, talks about his mother with affection, wants to know something about me. The modern man aware of female independence. I’m not attracted to him though he’s handsome in a way I find reprehensible—slick, well-dressed, clean but sweats a lot. Still he’s so normal. The bait taken, Josh beat at my conditioned barriers and I let him in.

  It’s my first Fourth of July in the USA in seven years. And it’s the Bicentennial at that. I’m not sure what people are celebrating but Americans like parties. We watch fireworks from a roof on Canal Street. The approach to the roof is the most dangerous aspect on this pacific evening. For while Amy had predicted bombs and dutifully warned Sidonie, a French friend, to stay off the streets, five million people walk around Lower Manhattan, watch the tall ships, and eat. I eat Polish sausage and drink German beer.

  The party begins tentatively as most do. But it is the Fourth of July and people want to have a good time. The dancing starts slowly and builds up, people secreting into the group one by one, then two by two. Martha knocks herself out on this hot night doing an energetic lindy then disappears. A man with a moist face approaches me from behind and asks me to dance. There’s something about being asked to dance that takes me back to sixth grade parties. Being asked to dance in this way and by a stranger is so American and perfectly right for the Fourth of July. He’s sweating which keeps me at arm’s length until he asks serious questions which soften me to him. I dance with him for a while but dismiss myself graciously, saying I’m going to the bathroom. I want to find Sidonie and see if she’d be interested in this earnest man, in Josh.

  Red, white and blue chalk marks are drawn on my forehead. It’s not the mark of Cain but still one can’t help making an association like that. Judy has lines over her mouth, more like a clown. Things seem to be heating up with old lovers walk
ing in and out, the party filling democratically with people one wants and one does not want to see. I introduce Sidonie to Josh but she’s not interested and neither is he. It’s not that easy. We dance again and he leaves, giving me a kiss on the cheek and the ritualized “I’ll phone you.”

  Patsy and I do a vicious dance, a tango of sorts; the time is right for dancing in the streets and movements such as these. I tell Scott that this week he is not one of my favorite people and he takes this seriously, so we don’t speak for months.

  Firecrackers keep popping off and everything feels slightly evil. For the urban dweller whose adventures are limited to sexual ones, the Fourth of July has nothing to do with America’s independence. One’s own independence is severely circumscribed anyway. We play out the hunt we can.

  Josh phones two nights later when I had all but forgotten him. His voice is reassuring and certain. We meet the next night at a Chinese restaurant, joined by Martha and her friend Don. Martha and Don are blond and fairskinned, Josh and I are dark-haired and tan.

  Alone in a bar we talk familiarly about recent problems and the women he used to live with. This is the usual fare. I am still not attracted to him but consider this my failing. I tend toward men who aren’t as nice. He says, “But we haven’t talked about your writing.”

  And he walks me home and since I have not changed my feelings toward him, I don’t want him to go out of his way for me. He insists that he is doing what he wants to do. This kind of statement comes right out of therapy and I recognize it—he’s taking responsibility for his actions. Still, he strikes me as sensible. We walk to my street near Wall Street, talking all the way, and he invites me to a party the next night. By now he knows I’m leaving for San Francisco in a few days. This has created for him an urgency to see me more. I don’t distrust this. I ask if I can bring Sidonie to the party and he says, “Yes, of course.”

  The party is on the Bowery. We pass alcoholics fighting over shoes. Across the street from his friend’s party, there is a fire in a flophouse. It’s like leaving a war zone when we enter the party. The men and women are spotless and fashionable and they are artists. Lots of good food and drink. The discrepancy can be watched, like a movie, out the window. A few drinks and I begin to appreciate Josh because he is so very attentive. This is a form of flattery that is most convincing, particularly at a party. When I was fourteen I discovered that boys would fall in love with me if I listened to everything they said. A strong sense of integrity prohibited me from continuing this form of seduction. And, in addition to integrity, there was the problem of having to continue to listen to them.

  We dance and I still don’t want to make love with him. I get drunker in order to overcome my disinclination, even disgust at the prospect. I am sure I don’t want him because he’s so nice, is like the boys I grew up with, and so openly likes me. I feel trapped. And it’s kind of comfortable.

  We return to his loft and I see his paintings, which are done on the back of the canvas. This interests me because it is in sharp contrast to his regular guy demeanor. “You’re less open than you appear,” I say to him, surprising him with this insight. I immediately forget it, as if it were only academic, and sit on the couch beside him. Noticing my reluctance he thinks I’m nervous about making love with him for the first time. This amuses me inwardly but I cannot share my amusement with him. He begins to talk about “the situation” and I know I’ll either do it or I won’t so I say, “Let’s go to bed.” A lot of performers get on the stage like that, just jumping on. Besides, I think to myself, this is an act I know with and without feeling. I am trying to get over a reluctance, the reason for which I do not know. The mechanics of sex make it easier for a woman to betray herself, which leads perhaps to her having different feelings about sex from a man whose sex organ is always a sign. We make love and once it’s over I feel relieved, like having gone to the dentist and just having one cavity.

  When we awaken in the morning, I feel like talking, not rushing from his bed. By this time I’m involved—in something. Uninspired sex can win a masochist. It certainly makes sex not at all central to the relationship; it’s so easy to forget. And so I felt that I really liked him and was not just attracted to him. Here is Puritanism, liking someone because the sex is bad.

  I’m excited about leaving New York and having met a nice guy I can introduce to my friends. So I introduce Josh to lots of my friends, feeling certain and calm. He says I can phone him collect whenever I want. He phones me every week I’m away and I send romantic cards. I’m away for five weeks and don’t make love with anyone else, partly out of this strange loyalty I develop like a rash when rubbed by certain kinds of men, partly because San Francisco didn’t abound with men I could make love with. This combination appeared to be fate. Fatal.

  When I get back to New York City, it is still hot. I phone him, leaving a message on his machine. He calls later and we meet that night. Everything seems to be going as it should. But he can’t get it up. Says he is anxious about a show coming along faster than he expected. There’s nothing to do about impotence except be understanding. But it was awful and not at all like the dream I had of my return to New York—he had made a painting that, when shot with a water pistol, moved in mysterious ways often called orgasmic.

  We both bury the lack of lovemaking as if it’s just one of those things. Josh asks me to go to the Hamptons with him for the weekend but when I phone the next day to find out when we’re leaving, he begs off, and says he wants to be alone. That he’ll call me when he returns. Says there’s nothing wrong between us.

  Sunday night passes, and Monday, it could’ve been a long summer weekend. Josh never calls and I am the one, finally, to call him. He speaks to me as if I were a foreigner, a greenhorn who has the wrong expectations about America.

  One year later he comes up to me in a bar and, smiling, asks, “How are you and what are you up to now?” I look at him blankly and answer “The same.” “You’re distant,” he says to me, surprised, even hurt by my disdain. He hadn’t been a one-night stand, a temporary shelter like a glassed-in bus stop on a busy, rainy city street. Anonymous and more or less alienating, or sexy, depending upon one’s mood. He had attenuated the one-night stand into something more difficult to get over. For a while I was meaner in the clinches, not so easy to fool. There are some things I just won’t forgive.

  Girl

  by Jamaica Kincaid

  Wash the white clothes on Monday and put them on the stone heap; wash the color clothes on Tuesday and put them on the clothesline to dry; don’t walk barehead in the hot sun; cook pumpkin fritters in very hot sweet oil; soak your little cloths right after you take them off; when buying cotton to make yourself a nice blouse, be sure that it doesn’t have gum on it, because that way it won’t hold up well after a wash; soak salt fish overnight before you cook it; is it true that you sing benna in Sunday school?; always eat your food in such a way that it won’t turn someone else’s stomach; on Sundays try to walk like a lady and not like the slut you are so bent on becoming; don’t sing benna in Sunday school; you mustn’t speak to wharf-rat boys, not even to give directions; don’t eat fruits on the street—flies will follow you; but I don’t sing benna on Sunday at all and never in Sunday school; this is how to sew on a button; this is how to make a buttonhole for the button you have just sewed on; this is how to hem a dress when you see the hem coming down and so to prevent yourself from looking like the slut I know you are so bent on becoming; this is how you iron your father’s khaki shirt so that it doesn’t have a crease; this is how you iron your father’s khaki pants so that they don’t have a crease; this is how you grow okra—far from the house; because okra tree harbors red ants; when you are growing dasheen, make sure it gets plenty of water or else it makes your throat itch when you are eating it; this is how you sweep a corner; this is how you sweep a whole house; this is how you sweep a yard; this is how you smile to someone you don’t like too much; this is how yo
u smile to someone you don’t like at all; this is how you smile to someone you like completely; this is how you set a table for tea; this is how you set a table for dinner; this is how you set a table for lunch; this is how you set a table for breakfast; this is how to behave in the presence of men who don’t know you very well, and this way they won’t recognize immediately the slut I have warned you against becoming; be sure to wash every day, even if it is with your own spit; don’t squat down to play marbles—you are not a boy, you know; don’t pick people’s flowers—you might catch something; don’t throw stones at blackbirds, because it might not be a blackbird at all; this is how you make a bread pudding; this is how you make doukona; this is how to make pepper pot; this is how to make a good medicine for a cold; this is how to make a good medicine to throw away a child before it even becomes a child; this is how to catch a fish; this is how to throw back a fish you don’t like; and that way something bad won’t fall on you; this is how to bully a man; this is how a man bullies you; this is how to love a man, and if this doesn’t work there are other ways, and if they don’t work don’t feel too bad about giving up; this is how to spit up in the air if you feel like it, and this is how to move quick so that it doesn’t fall on you; this is how to make ends meet; always squeeze bread to make sure it’s fresh; but what if the baker won’t let me feel the bread?; you mean to say that after all you are really going to be the kind of woman who the baker won’t let near the bread?

  So Much Water So

  Close to Home

  by Raymond Carver

  My husband eats with good appetite but he seems tired, edgy. He chews slowly, arms on the table, and stares at something across the room. He looks at me and looks away again. He wipes his mouth on the napkin. He shrugs and goes on eating. Something has come between us though he would like me to believe otherwise.