Listen: twenty-nine short conversations

by KUBOA

  Younger woman.

  No, not really. I mean, you’re still—

  It’s all relative, isn’t it? This was really a younger woman. 17. Can you believe it?

  17. Shit. That’s harsh.

  It is. It’s a tough old world. Still in high school. Goes to St. Agnes, or St. Apothecary, St. Pinguid. One of those. Wears those little checkered skirts and white socks. Drives men crazy. Certain men. Men like you.

  I thought you were going to steer it my way.

  Sorry. George—that was his name—probably still is his name—he just went bonkers for this little teenybopper. Met her at the mall—believe it or not. Had that school-issue uniform on—if they knew what a turn-on those were the Catholics would stop them now—her skin glistening, well, I don’t know if her skin—anyway. She puppydog-paddled right up to him, young perky breasts pointing at his nose. He fell, baby, just that quickly. Started writing her emails, letters, stopping by her school, stalking her really. If her parents weren’t so permissive, so liberal, George’d be in jail now. Instead he’s practically living with this little specimen.

  I’m sorry, Kat. You know a lot about them—her—

  Sure. He told me the whole story. It’s very dramatic, rising action, falling action, etc. I was falling action. You would have loved it. You love a good story.

  Her name is—

  Is that important? Fuck, who cares? Her name is Teeny. Teeny Major. Is that a name for you? Is that a novelist’s name?

  No respectable writer would name a character that. It’s so—precious.

  She’s precious. Beautiful tanned thighs and an ass like a gorilla. Isn’t that what you men crave? A teenager with a gorilla ass?

  Yes, I think so. I think you’ve hit on it. What Men Crave. More than stability, love, hearth and home. More than a perfect cup of coffee, a perfect martini. More than a sweet bowl of tobacco.

  You’re writing again. Stop.

  Was I? Sorry. I seem to be apologizing a lot.

  Good, you’ve got a lot to be sorry for.

  Oh, Katya.

  Oh, Jim.

  Cut me some slack, how about it? Just for the next half hour or so, so we can talk, what say?

  Sure. I’ll cut you some slack. Go ahead. Be Jim. Be the protagonist.

  Fuck you.

  Now we’re talking. Now we’re getting to it. Was this what you had in mind?

  Forget it, Katya. Forget it, ok?

  Yes.

  So.

  So, ironically, I have another friend with cancer. Real cancer. Who thought she was pregnant.

  No.

  Yes. Cervical cancer. Nasty.

  That’s bad. Real bad.

  Cancer’s never good, right?

  Right.

  I’m sure at your age—

  I should have cancer.

  No, dimwit. You have friends—

  Oh, sure, sure.

  Who?

  Um, actually, I can’t think of anyone.

  Huh.

  Yeah, yeah. I have a cancer story though.

  Ok.

  Not anyone close—well, it’s a cancer story.

  Ok.

  A month before John Cheever died.

  The writer.

  John Cheever the Proctologist. Yes, the writer. One of my guiding lights, if you will. I came to him when young and he was just so—solid. So writerly. Anyway, I found out he was sick so I decided to send him a card. Just, you know, I heard you weren’t well—hang in there—may you write forever—that kind of thing. And I spent a little bit of time composing the simple, three line note. Always thinking I guess that he was gonna grade it like a term paper. Anyway, I got it just the way I wanted it, licked the little envelope and sent it to him care of his editor at Knopf. And felt real good about such a nice gesture. Until in bed that night a suffocating realization came to me. I had written the note on a little card stationery my sister had given me. Astrological sign stationery. Get it. My sign—I was born July 20th.

  Which makes you—

  Right. Cancer.

  Shit.

  Exactly.

  And you never heard back.

  Of course I never heard back. I mean, he must have thought what kind of a sick fuck would send such a bad joke. Jesus.

  And he died a month later?

  Yes.

  Oh my God.

  I know.

  I’m sure your card didn’t kill him.

  You joke, but—

  You don’t really—

  No, no. It’s just—well, good intentions are never enough, right? I mean I thought I was making this sweet gesture—

  Right.

  Right.

  So.

  Yeah.

  What’s the best William Powell movie?

  Ha. Right.

  Really. You know you want to answer. What’s the best William Powell movie?

  My Man Godfrey.

  Not one of the Thin Man movies.

  Interesting thing about the Thin Man movies. The Thin Man himself was the bad guy in the first film. See. And then in all the sequels, well, the audience assumed the thin man was Powell, because he was, you know, thin.

  That is interesting.

  It wasn’t as fascinating as I thought, once I’d launched into it.

  That’s ok, Jimbo. I do love your love of movies.

  Love the love.

  I do.

  Seen any good movies lately?

  My, the talk is getting small.

  Yes, wee.

  Tiny.

  Miniscule.

  Microscopic.

  Exiguous.

  You win. As always.

  Believe me, I don’t.

  Ok.

  You got some music.

  Music. I have some. Of music I have some. What did you have in mind?

  Van Morrison?

  Slyboots.

  What?

  Never mind. It’s—

  What?

  You wanna dance.

  Oh. Ok. Sure.

  No, I mean, that you want to dance. And, no, we’re not going to—it was—it’s become—

  I get it.

  Dancing, I mean. Slow dancing was one of the—

  I remember.

  Of course you do.

  Slow dancing, cheek to cheek, hands exploring, pulling up close, your exquisite derriere in my—

  Nope. Again nope.

  Just talking, Katya.

  Uh huh.

  Still, dancing—

  Never gonna happen.

  Never is cruel. Never is extravagant. Never is—

  Shut up.

  Never is as never does.

  Jim.

  Put some music on anyway, what say?

  Sure. Here—here is, uh, the new Lyle Lovett.

  Ugh.

  You don’t like Lyle Lovett?

  I do not. For the record I do not. He’s a poser.

  Meaning.

  He doesn’t mean it. He’s acting. The hipster swinger. He’s watered down Tom Waits.

  Wow.

  What?

  It’s just such—such a strong sentiment. About a pop star.

  Ok.

  I’ll try again. Uh, Moody Blues.

  You’re mocking me. You’re saying, Jim the guy who lives in the past, in the 60s which he doesn’t really know much about, not really. He’s a poser himself, a hippie-wannabe. Jim who was 14 in 1969, Jim who only thinks his music is genuine.

  Jeez, I was saying all that with the phrase Moody Blues?

  Weren’t you?

  Ho ho. Jim, what I was saying was, do you want to hear some Moody Blues? It used to be—sort of—our music. I was making a concession.

  Oh.

  Ok.

  It was our music? My memory is so futzed—

  Well, maybe only in my mind. We were playing—I was playing—A Question of Balance the first time—well—never mind—

  I’m sorry. Katya, yes, I remember. Please put some Moody Blues on.

&nbs
p; Ok.

  Yes.

  There. That’s—

  Wonderful. Like a madeleine—

  I know. It’s really still so good—

  Yes. Katya.

  ***

  Kiss me.

  No, Jim. No.

  Ok.

  Does that bother you? That you won’t ever kiss me again? Is that it—I know you—is it just the finalness of it—one more thing that will never happen again.

  Finality. I don’t think there is a word, finalness.

  Ok. But, that’s it right? I mean, it’s not me—it could be anyone. Hey, maybe that’s what you’re doing—visiting all the gals who were lucky enough to fall into the sack with you. Is that it, Jim? Is this part of a sequence? Where am I in this chain-chain-chain?

  Enough. Stop. No, this isn’t like a 12 step program, ok? You’re not part of some healing strategy. You’re—Katya—sweet Katya—

  Jim, don’t.

  Katya.

  Don’t get tender, ok? Let’s talk about something else.

  Ok.

  Basketball! Hey, you said, the Grizzlies. You wanna talk about Shane Battier?

  Not really.

  Not really?

  Well, if only to say—Shane Battier—I wouldn’t trade him for—who?—for Kobe. Well, naturally I wouldn’t for Kobe—I hate Kobe. For Vince Carter.

  Ok.

  Shane Battier is the Great Intangible. Look at his stat line on any given morning. He might have 8 points, 3 assists, 3 rebounds. Doesn’t sound that impressive. Then look at minutes played. 40, 41. See. Because Coach knows the team is better with Battier on the floor.

  You’re hilarious.

  What?

  You’ve got such apparent buttons. Your buttons are right out there, I’ll give you that. You are easy to push. Basketball. Turner Classic Movies. Blowjob.

  Whoa.

  See?

  Well, blowjobs…

  I know.

  You just—

  Ok, stop. Sorry. Turner Classic Movies.

  Don’t.

  Turner Classic Movies.

  ***

  Is showing a Claudette Colbert festival tonight.

  Ha ha.

  Hey, I can talk about other things.

  Of course you can.

  Well.

  How is the store doing? Weathering this wretched economy?

  Not entirely, no. It’s been rough. It’s difficult, I think, in this atmosphere—you know, with an a-literate president, whose wife disinvites poets to the White House. You know, and a nation of sheep who follow him blindly, unquestioningly. He has set this dangerous, anti-intellectual tenor…

  We were talking bookstore.

  We were talking this horrible, oppressive national atmosphere.

  Ok.

  But, the store, it’s ok. We pay our employees. Not well, but—

  And you still get to sell books.

  Yes. Just not as many.

  Ha.

  No, it’s still the best part. I get to sell smart books to smart people. Sometimes I have to sell dumb books to smart people and sometimes I have to sell smart books to dumb people. But, for the most part—

  Is this a shtick? See, you’re doing a shtick.

  An old man’s shtick. A bent shtick.

  Prepared?

  Look, Sweet, I do occasionally say something halfway witty, off the cuff. The old grey matter still sparks occasionally.

  I know, I’m sorry.

  You let me call you Sweet.

  I did not. Don’t.

  Sweet.

  You’re an aggravating man.

  At least still a man.

  Meaning?

  Nothing. I exist. I am.

  Right. Just not in this apartment.

  Ok.

  You were.

  Funny. You’re funny.

  Ok, Jimbo. Look. More coffee?

  No, thanks.

  ‘A beam of light will fill your head

  And you'll remember what's been said…’

  I’ve always loved that song. I was, I don’t know, 16 when I first heard it. 15? Great song. That would make you—

  A tadpole. An intention of a tadpole.

  Yes, but you grew into such an agreeable toad.

  Frog.

  Whatever. I thought, that song, yeah, that’s me. The romantic teenage rebel. The Melancholy Man.

  You never outgrew that.

  That’s true. In a way I never did. Am I posing? Am I acting?

  I won’t lob you a lifeline.

  Thanks, pal.

  Ok, Jim.

  You’re so—affronted—so sore

  I told you. I got hurt. Your damn book hurt me.

  I just had no—I mean—it’s words, it’s make-believe—

  Based on me. Based on me and you.

  Ok. Colored? Transmogrified?

  Maybe, but—

  I know.

  It was just too—too close to the marrow—you used words I actually said. You said things I actually said, in heat, between us, like, like that I wanted to suck you.

  The characters—Sweet—they’re gossamer. They’re spindrift.

  It was just too much, Jim. Too much.

  Like many before you, you choked on the sex in the book.

  Not very well put, but, well, did you have to put it all on the page? Did you have to be so—pictorial—so graphic? I hate the memory now—that’s the worst part. You left nothing to the imagination

  It was—it was left—look, it’s in dialogue. It was hard depicting such an intimate act with only voice.

  It is an intimate act—it’s private. It was ours, Jim. Or, forget us couldn’t such things be left private?

  Why?

  Why? Because people—because it’s prurient—because there are privacies—

  To which the writer is not welcome.

  Well, yes—

  No. No, I deny that. It’s human—and what’s human—

  Is fair game. Ok, Ok.

  Look, the book isn’t for everyone. Right? It’s not for Aunt Tessa who has a heart condition. It’s not for—who?—preacher’s wives. Ach. Defending it is so dispiriting. It’s not for Little Billy. It’s for adults—you know, adults. It’s—There are others—help me—

  I’m sure I don’t know. Preachers wives.

  Well, not for you know. Anyone outside my purlieu perhaps. Not for American Idol watchers. Not for the black-haired tattooed slackers.

  Jim, I have a tattoo.

  You do not. I—

  Right. Since you. Sorry, I did do some things after you.

  Of course.

  And one of those things was the tattoo. For my 35th birthday.

  Oh, you’re 35. Jeez. Happy birthday.

  It was last year.

  Right. I’m probably supposed to know that. It’s probably one more example of how solipsistic I am.

  Probably.

  Katya, can you not spare me one tenderness? Is there nothing left of the feelings we engendered.

  Nothing.

  Really? Katya—

  Jim, I have no feelings, ok? I have cauterized them.

  You couldn’t. I know you—

  You don’t. You assuredly don’t.

  Where’s your tattoo?

  Ha.

  Really. Where is it?

  Where do you want it to be? Where would you put it if you were writing me? Again.

  I have no idea.

  Right. You have no idea.

  Shoulder.

  Nope.

  Thigh.

  Nope.

  Oh, Christ.

  That’s right, Jimbo.

  On your perfect ass.

  Not so perfect anymore, but, well—

  It still is. I’m sure of it.

  Fuck you.

  Still.

  Always.

  Ok.

  ***

  And it’s not the cliché butterfly. You’re thinking butterfly. I mean, you’re sitting there trying to visual
ize my hindquarters with a piece of art attached. Right? And you’re coming up with butterfly. That’s what you’re doing.

  You’re so shrewd.

  I know you.

  Yet I don’t know you. I am oblivious.

  Ok. Shut up.

  It’s a—um—a labyrinth complete with Minotaur. It’s a Romanesque church portal festooned with human heads. It’s a grail full of my blood. It’s—

  Jim.

  Stop me.

  A Chinese dragon.

  Really?

  Symbolizing?

  My desire to have a dragon on my ass.

  No, really.

  Jim, see. You want it all to mean something. You want it all to knit up. Things don’t.

  You’re not telling me anything—

  That you don’t tell yourself. I know. You think that absolves you.

  I don’t.

  Ok.

  Is it, like, all over your ass? I mean, a dragon, I can see it wending its way through hill and dale.

  Ha—

  I made you laugh. You laughed.

  I did. You’re funny. You’ve always been funny.

  May I see it?

  Fuck. Jim. What? Because I laughed? This opens the door—this makes me more pliable?

  God, you’re hard on me.

  Someone has to be.

  Because I’m not hard on myself? Shit, woman, you have no idea.

  Jim, you’re smug. You wrote that fucking book and you think that makes it all ok. You think that smoothes it all over. Because you were able to sew it all together.

  I wasn’t. The book—nothing is resolved—

  Right. Like in life. I read your blurbs.

  Ok.

  How dare you though. You know? Did you think I was waiting back here, back in the past—still the same old reliable sex toy.

  It was never like that. It wasn’t. You enjoyed yourself.

  I did. You know, I did. I’m sorry, Jim. It was a good time. Then—I don’t know—the book came out and it all seemed so—calculated—so trivial. So marginalized. Like I was in the margins.

  The book did that to you. Jesus. For that I am so sorry. Believe me.

  Ok.

  Katya.

  Jim, the book hurt me. It still hurts.

  Oh, fuck. Don’t cry. Please. Katya.

  It’s jus—

  Katya.

  Forget it—sorry—

  Katya.

  Ok, Jim. Ok. I’m through.

  I’m so sorry.

  Forget it.

  Katya, I—

  It’s small.

  Excuse me.

  The dragon. It’s a small dragon. A small dragon that stands for—I’m told—all things animal. As in, you know, the life force.

  That’s lovely.

  I didn’t really mean that it doesn’t mean anything.

  Ok.

  It’s beautiful. I found it in this book—it’s Chinese.

  I’m sure it’s lovely.

  Jim.

  ***

  Jim. Look. I’ll show it to you, ok? But—you know—it’s not like it was. This isn’t a game, a gambling game—

  Of course.

  Here. Let me—

  Katya.

  There.

  Jesus. It’s beautiful.

  See, it sort of sits at the top—well, I can’t see it so much. I’d actually appreciate your comments. I think it was a sort of wrong-headed idea to put it where I can’t see it.