Collected Fictions (39 page)

Was this a topcoat that was, in consort with the pair of suitcases, the genie of his ruin, or was it an overcoat?

He could not come to a decision.

No longer was it the lack of compliance with ordinance that was at the alpha of the turbulence that had been erupting against the limit within him and had been establishing the alibi for all his experience, now, now was it not the very belligerence—no, the very viciousness!—of utterance itself?

It was the day after this episode that our man took at his morning's repast a glass of the strange libation always so unforgivably on offer.

It was, still was, as it had at first been at that first testing reported to you at the onset of this narrative, bitter—oh, bitter to the last drop.

Tether abandoned, bondage overturned, our wanderer drank down, all the way down, his next glass, the whole glass, the next day, which day was the last day—at last!—of his holiday here, and then, as had been planned for, as he himself had planned for himself, the source of our concentrations did quit this bewildering place and did make vindictively, unrenewably—with plenty of malice aforethought—for another littler still.

JOUISSANCE

JUST HEARD THE EDITOR
of this book complaining of her not having enough in the way of fictions to fill up the pages of this book to what she must imagine to be an adequate number of pages of same. So by way of fancying myself prepared to be responsible for an act of adequation, I turned in my seat and said to her, "Would something concerning us as us perhaps be acceptable to you in this embarrassing regard?"

"Which?" she said. "Which?"

"To fill up the book," I said, "I mean, I am wondering if you might want to see your way clear for me to see if I can make a little filler for you."

"For the book?" she said.

"Yes," I said. "Because I think I just heard you sort of complaining about there being a certain insufficiency of stuff for the book," I said.

"Insufficiency?" she said.

"Of pages," I said.

"Am I to treat this as a criticism of myself?" she said "Are you telling me you wish to heap scorn upon me as myself?" she said.

"No," I said. "It's not that," I said. I said, "All it is is I like to write fictions sort of to order, I think—and so I just naturally when I heard the complaint—because didn't I just hear you say something which just seemed to me a sort of complaint?—and I agree, I agree!—please believe me, I agree I perhaps failed to quite catch quite the essence of what it was I think I just heard you saying, or had heard you—wait!" I said. "Look," I said. "I think this is getting sort of, you know, kind of sort of pretty all mixed up as to communication, don't you think?"

"Don't you think?" she said. "What do you mean—don't I think, don't you think?" she said. "Have I, is it that I have somehow said, have I, or given any indication, have I, of my having any interest in something with respect to anything you have in the recent course of things said?"

"No," I said. "Please," I said. "Will you listen?" I said. "Because today," I said, "this morning," I said, "as I was on my way downtown," I said, "I couldn't help but hear behind me—on the bus, that is, on the bus before this bus, that is—two women talking, two women having a conversation, or two women anyhow having a talk with each other, or with one another, and I hear one of them say, I hear this one of them say, ‘Well, she was offended,' and then the other one says, ‘They take offense. That's the thing with them nowadays, they take such offense—you say one word to them and they're instantly determined to take offense,' and then the first one says, ‘She was offended. That's what I'm telling you, that she was very offended,' and then the other one says, ‘But this is the way it is with them these days. Did I not tell you that this is the way it is nowadays? There is no way you can talk to these people without the minute you say anything, one of them is going to jump right down your throat screaming they're offended. That's all they know how to say to you anymore—I'm offended, I'm offended, I'm offended,' and then the first one says, ‘Well, she said she was offended,' and then the other one says, ‘Didn't I tell you? I told you. Didn't I just tell you? You can't talk to these people, you can't say anything to these people, there is no possible way for anyone to say anything to these people, you are taking your life into your hands when you make the slightest attempt to try to say anything to any of these people—so I ask you, I ask you, is it any wonder when one of them says to you that she is offended? Of course she is offended. Of course she said she was offended. That's all these people know to say to you, they don't know anything else to say to you, is there anything else they know how to say to you? Offense, offense—they go to bed at night, they get up in the morning, this is all they know to say to people, they do not know one other thing for them to say to people, they have not the least knowledge of anything else for them to say to people, they do not have the simplest conception of anything else which could possibly be said from one day to the next to people, this is all these people are concerned with, this is the one thing which these people are concerned with, taking offense, taking offense, taking umbrage,' and then the first one says, ‘To think—will you just think?' And that's all she said," I said. ‘"To think—will you just think?'"

"But why are you suddenly so quiet?" I said. I said to the editor of this book, "Didn't you just hear me say to you why are you so quiet?"

"I'm thinking," she said.

"What?" I said. "You're thinking what?" I said.

"Why downtown?" she said. She said, "How come downtown? Why not uptown?"

"What?" I said, "Downtown, uptown, what?" I said.

She said, "The little stupid thing you just recited. The two women on the bus."

I said, "Behind me on the bus?"

"That's right," she said. "Why downtown on the bus? Why not uptown on the bus?"

"Suit yourself," I said. "You're the editor," I said.

"Then make it a trolley," she said.

I said, "Street car."

She said, "Too suggestive. Too pointed. Besides, it's been done to tatters—street car,
strassebahn
.
"

"Roller coaster," I said.

"Please," she said. "Where's your tact?"

I said, "Wait a minute, wait a minute!" I said, "Do you think you could go for like in a theater or something? How about like in a theater? Let's say I'm sitting trying to watch this movie and there's these two women behind me and one of them, I hear one of them say, ‘Well, she was offended,' and so on."

"Make it two men."

"Fine. Okay. Two men."

"They're sitting in back of you in an airplane."

"Right. Swell. You got it. In an airplane."

"The first one says, ‘Well, he was offended' and the second one, the next one, the other one says, ‘Of course, of course, aren't they always offended, was there ever a time when they weren't always offended, name me once when you ever came across a one of them who was not prepared to claim he was offended.'"

"Right, right!" I said. "I really honestly like it," I said. "These two fellows on an airplane and I'm sitting there in front of them and I'm listening, I'm listening, and I hear one of them say . . ."

"Hang on," she said. "That's plenty," she said. "That's enough," she said. "One ellipsis is more than enough."

"You mean I'm adequate?" I said. "There's been adequation?" I said. "You said yes, you said no?"

"Filled the bill," she said.

"Pages," I said. "Taken up enough pages?"

"From three-seventy-one to three-seventy-four," she said.

"Oh, baby," I said, "edit me, baby—please!"

THE OLD EXCHANGES

ASK YOU SOMETHING?

Thing you have, list you have, running account you keep in order that you be kept in the company of items for you to attend to, you good about keeping it cleaned out of the never-attended-to? Entries that don't in due course get drawn off into experience, they get erased, or do they, in your case, get themselves collected down there as the deposit from an earthward drift of them getting all silty and then stony at the bottom of it?—of this list, call it, you have; of this what-have-you, call it, you have—like this sediment of clotted deferrals you better come take, from time to time, a chisel to, or a jackhammer to, or—better, better!—
TNT
.

Because that's me.

To a T.

I'm not kidding.

Stuff gets to be like a stratum of indifferences down there, an impaction of inutility—errands once in mind, ideas once in mind, reminders you once had what you thought was a very pressing need for you to remind yourself of—notions you notionally stacked the deal for and then let drop to the unexploitable region of the underside of the deck.

Which is why I am doing this.

Mix some metaphors and get the line bled out.

Off-load it all.

The whole sludgy gob of it.

Apropos of which, here's the first bit of it.

"Consider yourself kissed."

So how do you like it?—"Consider yourself kissed."

It's what my mother used to say to my sister.

Which is maybe why my sister once woke up once and then went ahead and swallowed more sleeping pills than I guess she guessed she was ever going to be able ever again to ever wake up from.

Anyway, this is the first bit of it—pick-axed at it for you for a little bit—"Consider yourself kissed."

Actually, now that I look, isn't it a lot of what the whole geology of it is—speech I'd hear and think, "There—that's the thing!—stick it in some scribbling, they'll never know what hit 'em!"

Like "First it not ripe, then it ripe, then it rotten."

Or like prelude, interlude, postlude, right?

Okay, here's "Las Brisas! Las Brisas!"—that of, for a switch, of the nonutterable category. Anyway, name of eating establishment once went to with woman once was once going with once.

So there's this swell-looking waitress waiting on us. Have my eye on her and have the thought she has hers on me, but you tell me by what caddish-free art I might get it across to her for her to please not go waitressing anywhere else until I can hurry up and get back to Las Brisas uncompanionated?

So make myself a mental note of it—"Las Brisas! Las Brisas!"—and then make myself a written note of it—of "Las Brisas! Las Brisas!"—just like, just as I just sat here and showed you.

But never did.

Go back to it—not make note of it—no, never did.

Well, on other side of town. Long walk or complicated ride—from here to there—to get back, that is. But guess you could say my heart was never enough in it. Yet neither was it enough of it in it in getting this it-ness of it nixed off of my list-ness of it either.

Las Brisas! Las Brisas!

Jesus.

Then there's "metaleptic."

So what does it mean, metaleptic? Because I scribbled it down for me to see it scribbled down for me to know the reason it's been scribbled down is for me to get up and go look it up, metaleptic.

Well, I didn't, did I?

Speaking of this, look at this—"Janet: 431-4909."

Never followed up on this one, either.

Neither did I ever do anything about "Dad."

Impulse, was it, to sit here and type up something about some kids who are all of the time going around in the ordinary course of things all of the time bearing around with them this like little teeny tiny father of theirs up under their arms with them, like all of the time up under their arms in a grip with them, or shifting him from grip to grip with them, the old boy sometimes getting himself hiked up over onto a shoulder with them, hefted over from child to child with them, him not dead yet but just all of the time logy and dozy and woozy and indefinite, but not at all unthrilled for him in the meanwhile to be borne forth on the bodies of his own.

Then there's—or here's there—this one.

"Brown barn."

What it has to do with—or what it had to do with—didn't it have to do with me and with her?—with wanting to memorialize the way it once was with us once—the two of us passing past a barn while driving along?

Her saying, "Oh, how brown I am."

Her saying, "Oh, so brown," in this, you know, in this barn-style of a voice she said it in.

I thought, "It's her to a T."

I thought, "That's her to a T."

What's next?

Uh-oh.

Here's one I don't know what to say about it.

It's, yikes, it's the look they give you, the wasting-away ones—the ones who are sitting there where they're sitting and wasting away from it ones.

Ever notice it?

This is how it looks as an entry written not to you but to myself.

"How they look—or don't."

But, okay, put it off for later—and, besides, who isn't, who doesn't, is there anybody who doesn't look like this to somebody else? But please, please—too distressing for me to sit here and just this minute let myself get into it.

Oh gosh, talk about a change of pace—this one, oh boy, this one'll slay you.

Get this.

Amsterdam.

Judson.

Stuyvesant.

Trafalgar.

Longacre.

Lackawanna.

Circle.

Oregon.

Sacramento.

Pennsylvania.

Chelsea.

Butterfield.

Atwater.

Gramercy.

Algonquin.

Rhinelander.

Murray Hill.

Chickering.

Bryant.

Rector.

Ingersoll.

Plaza.

Lexington.

Canal.

Terrific, yes?

Terrific or terrific?

But some clog down there, I mean it.

Anyway, it's like her—it's like it's in like in a class by itself.

Also: Regent—or was it Regency?

Not to mention, I think, a Merrian or maybe it was, you know, Meridian.

I don't know.

Do you know?—Regent or Regency, etc. etc.?

Here's another one—notation of most blemishless-looking ladies guess who once had himself something to do with once.

Ann Marvel.

Norma Sinclaire.

Grace Pantano.

Christine Hasborough.

Valerie Morse.

Barbara Lish.

Plus two whose names it's too dangerous for them for me to list for you.

Plus too dangerous for me.

But, swell, one we'll call her the "the knee one," or "knees," and one "heels."

So they'll know.

Because then they'll know.

"Call the Chemique Company."

Which was for me to call to order some more
KRC-
7, which I am here to testify to is the most powerful brass cleaner, or cleaner of brass, you will ever get your hands on.

But better wear gloves.

Copper cleaner—cleaner of copper, too.

But the heck with it.

Never called.

Maybe the heck with ever having brass anymore—and copper, copper—ever as clean as that anymore.

Does Digby sound like one of them to anybody?

Digby 5 or Digby 7?

Except didn't they used to put them in the book like this?—D-I, not D-i.

God, am I ever going to ever anymore run into anybody anymore who could confirm for me Regent versus Regency, Merrian versus Meridian?

Or put for me into perspective for me the whole pointless glut of it for me?

Because bet you she could have.

Called her Boody.

Or she me.

Beats me from whence the practice cameth.

Or the note about Roxie Raye—as in "Roxie Raye."

Hey, what's this—"Zig-Sauer?"

So what's this Zig-Sauer doing down there?

This is the name of somebody or what?

2026 Bay State Road, Boston, which is the address of
The Partisan Review
, isn't it?

Ethan—"money for Ethan"—my son.

Check
AARP
for medical, dental rates—Metropolitan for senior-citizen ditto.

Metaleptic.

Sorry, already took care of "metaleptic," didn't I?

"Artaud's
Power of Sickness
.
"

"Huizinga, Merleau-Ponty, Husserl, Saussure."

"Redetzky's March
,
"
except I think it should have been Redetzkys' probably.

Ochlocratic.

Soteriological.

Lacustral.

Conatus.

Nimiety.

Mantic.

Limpet.

Sedge.

"Math afterward," say math afterward instead of saying aftermath.

Or at least math after.

Prelude, interlude, postlude.

It's really nice.

Don't you think it's really nice?

Prelude, interlude, postlude.

But what can compete with Amsterdam, Judson, Stuyvesant, Trafalgar, Oregon, Circle, Lackawanna, Longacre, Sacramento, Pennsylvania, Chelsea, Butterfield, Atwater, Gramercy, Algonquin, Rhinelander, Murray Hill, Chickering, Bryant, Lexington, Plaza, Rector, Ingersoll, Canal? Hey, you can't compete with that.

Oh, and "renew copyrights."

Anyway, it's a look.

They can't look—but they are trying to look—but the head, the head, they cannot get the head lifted up enough for them to look up enough for them to see you in your eyes—but they try, they are trying, and this is what it is which gives the look to have that look of it—the trying but they can't.

Too weary, too weak, too broken.

But if you never noticed it, fuck it.

Okay, am calling 431-4909.

Instant I quit this, am, okay, calling 431-4909.

Telling her just thought of Lehigh, of Hamilton, of Melrose, of Cypress, of Eldorado, of Yukon, of Oxford.

Am telling her am adding them and then am adding on top of them Schuyler and Susquehanna and Wisconsin and Talmadge.

Then Templeton and Twining.

Then Twining and Esplanade.

Telling her this is the thing of it for you to do—for you to add, to add, to always add!—not for you ever to ever, not for you anybody ever, for you ever to take anything, even one thing, away.

Like Benveniste, like Bleuler, like Watkins.

And how about Humboldt, Hamann, Herder, and—wait a minute, wait a minute!—Spring?

But maybe some of these, maybe I said—I don't know—maybe I said some of them already.

Did I already say some of them already?

Or say any of them twice?

Because I'd look back up to see if I did, but then you'd have to have to see me try.

Too weary, too weak, too broken.

Even for all of the quotation marks owed.