Frog

by Stephen Dixon

  Now, and sticks paper into the typewriter. But a student paper. Should have it done with comments for a conference with the student day after next. If he gets all his school work out of the way he’d really feel free, if not for today then tomorrow, to do his own work. Gets the paper out of his briefcase, reads it quickly, types. “How can I begin to judge the content of your work when I can barely wade thru the poor punctuation, spelling, grammar, paragraphing, you name it? Plus, why the very skimpy margins, making it doubly difficult to read, 18–19 words to a line, 29–30 lines to a page? Save it for letters to friends or notes to yourself but not lit papers which the teacher, whose eyes are lousy to begin with and his glasses a year too old, has to read some 15 of at a time.” No, much too tough and self-something. Stupid, wrong, that’s what it is. Try a gentler approach, but can’t think how to do that with this paper now. Later, and puts the paper and what he’s written about it on the cards.

  Student recommendation. Tacked to the wall facing him. She said last week it should be sent out by this Friday if it’s to be of any use for her grad school application. He told her “Then you should’ve given it to me weeks ago, because I’m too busy with a zillion other things, not to mention my own stinking work, to be rushed. But OK.” Took it from her, didn’t smile, might have even snarled. She said thanks, looked angry or hurt, left without saying goodbye. He wanted to yell out after her “Oh by the way, you’re welcome.” He should have called out to her “Wait, I’m sorry. It’s the new baby, so not much sleep.” Or when she first came into his office: “Sure, no problem, we’re all running behind, but TU make it.” Even added: “You sure a reference from me won’t hurt your chances? Only kidding.” He should call her now to explain. Better when he next sees her. Takes the form off the wall, fills in the first side, turns it over and puts it into the typewriter. It starts: “One of the smartest, most articulate, pleasant and mature students to have come my way in years.” Used that several times before, but doesn’t think for the English Department of this grad school. “I also got to know Felicia a little better than I have most of my students, simply because she was extremely interesting and has a magnetic personality and for some reason we’d periodically bump into each other on campus. During these encounters she would tell me what she was doing, pursuing, books she’s read, and so on, and I was never anything but deeply impressed by the range of her interests, consistency of her goals and values, depth of her thinking…” Won’t do. They might think he was carrying on with her. Starts it again, on university stationery. “I’m afraid I’ve misplaced your reference form. I hope this letter will do, since I don’t want to jeopardize Ms. Sollenberg’s chances by requesting another official form and possibly returning it long past the deadline.” Repeats the first sentence he wrote on the form, changes the next part he thought might be misunderstood. “Let me add that from time to time Ms. Sollenberg would come to my office during office hours…” Seems he’s trying too hard to show he hasn’t had an affair with her. He does think she’s very attractive. Maybe that’s what’s screwing up the reference. Likes to look at her face, chest and legs when she isn’t looking, her behind when she leaves his office, but never thought of starting anything with her. Never has with any of his students. Though some of them over the years—not Felicia—have made what could be interpreted as verbal or visual passes at him. But suppose, suppose, one of the students he’s attracted to said “I want to screw you, Mr.” or “Dr.” or “Professor Tetch,” or just “Howard,” which he prefers them calling him but so many can’t do. “Would you like to screw me, but right here and now, I’m saying?” What would he do? He’d say no. If he had a condom on him maybe he’d say yes. For suppose she also reached for his fly—he knows he’d have an erection by then—what would he do? He’d slide his chair back and say Stop. He’d put his hand inside her skirt or open her fly or just pull down her pants and sit her on top of him. He’d make sure the door was closed and locked. Would not. Door always stays open. That’s his protection in case a student—it’s happened here and in other schools—wanted to accuse him of making a pass at her or even of fondling when he never did anything. She could still accuse him, with the door open, but less chance of it. He has an erection. He touches and then grabs it through the pants, shakes it, thinks “Can’t do it here, can in the bathroom, but why waste it? We haven’t made love in three days. We’ll probably do it tonight.” But if Felicia—probably the student he’s most attracted to—said something like that, what would he do? If she said what? “Let’s fuck right now on your chair or the floor.” It’s ridiculous. He’d say the floor’s filthy, the chair would never hold them. Suppose she said “Put a sign on your door next time you’re to have office hours, saying Office Hours Canceled Today. Then come to my apartment. I’ll see that my roommate’s out, but I won’t tell her who for. I never will. Just our secret for as long as you like.” Or “We’ll do it here or in my bed as quickly as you like. And if you like, just this once.” What would he do? He’d do it with a condom. Wouldn’t want to give Denise a disease. He’d do nothing. He’d say “I’m complimented, honestly. You’re great in every way and if I weren’t married I certainly would have started something with you, or tried to, long before now.” Or “You don’t understand. I’m not saying this to hurt or chastise you or anything like that, but my sex life with my wife is pretty near perfect and I don’t want or need, nor do I think I’d have the energy for it, anything extra. The urge to make love with her hasn’t abated since I met her. Sure, I’ve an erection now, but I also get one when my oldest daughter or one of our cats or even a heavy book sits in my lap. Or maybe it’s more. Say it’s because I’m aroused by you. Very much so, let’s say, but what of it? Also say I’ve thought of making love with you. Many times, or at least a pass. But what of that too? It’s all in the head. To entertain myself, maybe. Or to arouse myself for my wife when things are a little slack when I don’t want them to be or she doesn’t. When I’m having trouble getting it up—let’s say it right out. But I’ll do nothing to screw up my relationship with my wife. In other words, I’ve taken a long time to say that much as I might have thought of starting up something with you, now or in the future, I can’t and won’t carry it through and never will. Thank you.” No, he’d do it. He wouldn’t. But if she closed the door, made sure it was locked, said she won’t make any noise, will be very quick, will never say a thing to anyone about it, touched his penis through his pants, unzipped him, went down on him, while she was doing this put his hand inside her panties and held it there and even stuck his finger inside her and even began rubbing herself with it, what would he do? It’d never happen. He’d have to tell her to stop somewhere along the line. Maybe he couldn’t. The blinds would have to be dropped and shut. Would she do it, he? It’d have to be she, since if he did it there’d be complicity. It’s ridiculous. He puts in another sheet of paper, starts. “This is a letter of…” Maybe he’d only kiss. Kiss hard, open mouths and tongues, then pull back and say “I think that’s far enough.” Tears out the sheet, sticks in another. But if they kissed like that and she began touching him, maybe even pulling at it through the pants, how could he stop? Repeats the opening sentence about her being one of his best students in years, then “Listen, why beat around the bush about Ms. Sollenberg? Felicia. I’ll put it right to you—straight forward, rather than straitlaced, as I can be. OK, enough of that too. Just showing off and no doubt making a damn ass of myself. But this is it. I’ve work up to my ears now, from teaching, homebodying (one three-year-old, another brand-new) and my own writing, so I’ll be as brief as I can. She’s the most intelligent, personable, mature, perceptive, attractive, diligent, reliable and hardworking student I’ve ever had. Check check check on all the top-2 percent-of-my-students boxes (that’s to take care of side one of your reference form, which I spilled coffee on so am not sending). If there were a I percent category I’d check all those instead. Take her, she’s great, tops, first-rate, so grave mistake if you lose her.” Would neve
r do. Rips the paper out and dumps it. Write it tonight when the kids are asleep, blaming yourself for being late. “I’m incorrigible but predictable that way. For their own sakes I wish students wouldn’t ask me for references, not only because of my tardiness but because I’ve never turned one down even when I thought very poorly of the student and his work.” Just write for another form and only say sorry you’re late. Now your own work. Still time. Try for a quick first draft of a very short piece. Who knows what’ll come? Sometimes when he’s very short of time a two-to-three-pager pops out, which in later drafts becomes six-to-seven pages. And maybe Denise, hearing him pounding away in here, will wait till he stops typing or typing hard before she knocks and says his hour’s long over. She knows when he’s hot into a first draft, and he never types that hard and fast for anything else except maybe a personal letter, and if suddenly stopped, he can lose it. He’s described it. In a few interviews and in his classes and classes and groups he’s visited in other schools. Maybe repeated it so much with only slight variations that word’s got around he only has one way of describing it. Champagne cork in his forehead which when he unplugs or uncorks, it flows out or spills or gushes out till the bottle’s empty. “But you know, champagne will turn” or “spoil if you don’t finish it in one sitting, since you can’t recork it as you can other wines.” Recently a student of his said his father bought a gadget that puts the champagne cork back into the bottle, keeping it fresh for a week or more. So he won’t use that analogy again, if he can remember not to or can come up with one almost as good. “Ejaculation, once it’s started, for example,” but maybe only in his graduate class.

  He sticks paper in, little raps on the door. Must be Olivia. “Yes, what is it!” he says. “It’s me. Can I have a Gummy Bear?” “Oh come on, don’t bother me with that now, and you know I don’t like you having candy.” “Mommy says I can have one if you also say I can.” “OK, have one, but see if Mommy can get it. I’m busy; working. Let me alone for a few more minutes.” “Mommy says to ask you to help me. She’s with baby.” “Oh Jesus, damnit, all right.” He opens the door. “But only one.” “Two.” “One or none. Which is it? I don’t want you taking all day.” “One. I want to pick the color.”

  He gets the container of Gummy Bears out of the kitchen cupboard, holds it open for her. She looks inside, holds her hand over it. “Come on, pick it quickly. Red, green, orange, yellow or white.” “Not white. It’s light, like light. But not like that light,” pointing to the ceiling fixture. “All right, light. And oh, poetry. But quick, which?” She looks in the container, hand over it again. “Orange is your favorite color. Why not choose orange?” “Orange,” and she picks one out and puts it into her mouth. “OK now. This is my one big hour to do some important work at home. So please be my little sweetheart and let me use it? Go back to your program.” “It’s over.” ‘Then into your room. Look at your books. Put on a record.” “I don’t want to.” “I’ll put one on for you. Maybe it’s still too hard. Sleeping Beauty. The beluga whale song by whoever sings it.” “I want you to play doctor and nurse with me.” “Not now. I haven’t time. That’s final. I’ll take care of all your bears later.” “Not all of them.” “Then just some. But go in your room and line them up and dress them in paper towels if you want. That’ll look like hospital gowns,” and he gives her the roll of paper towels from the shelf over the sink. “And tell them I’m—” She drops the roll on the floor. “I want someone to play with now.” “You shouldn’t drop things like that. Especially paper towels. We use them to clean things.” He picks it up and puts it back on the shelf. “I want you to play with me, or someone.” “Olivia, haven’t I been patient with you and clear? This is my break, my free time. So give me ten minutes longer. That isn’t much. Ten is little. So go into—” “No!” “I said go into your room,” and grabs her shirt at the shoulder and starts pulling her to her room. She screams, starts crying. “Shit ole-bitching-mighty,” he yells. “Why you doing that? You’ve nothing to cry about. I’m the one. Oh the hell. And I didn’t mean to pull at you so hard, or yell. I didn’t hurt you—you know that.” She backs away and cries harder. “What’s wrong?” Denise says from the baby’s room. “What? Speak louder.” “I said why’s she crying?” “I was just telling her—that’s all—telling her—” “It sounded like shouting.” “Well, shouting to myself mostly that an hour-a-day break is just too little.” “First try to comfort Olivia. I’m trying to get the baby to sleep.” He moves toward Olivia with his arms out. She’s sobbing now, backs off to a corner. “Sweetheart, please come to me. I’m sorry. Don’t make Daddy feel bad.” Gets on one knee. “Honestly, I’m sorry. I apologize. Your Daddy’s frustrated. You know what frustrated means?” She shakes her head, still sobbing. “It means I want to work more than I have the time to. And when I can’t, then for some dumb reason I get mad. But it’s OK. It wasn’t your fault. Here, you want another Gummy Bear? I don’t like bribing you to make you feel better, but maybe you deserve it.” “I don’t want anything,” and she runs out of the kitchen. “Ah, fuck it,” he says low to himself. “When does it ever go right? Plenty, plenty. But me and my goddamn fucking breaks. Stop it, stop it.” Oh for once, he thinks, just go back to your room and do what you were doing and maybe neither of them, because of the mood they know you were in, will bother you for another half-hour. It’s cheating but it’ll be worth it to them in the long run.

  He goes into his room, shuts the door and says “So let’s have a first line. Give me a first. Give me a second. But first a first. Any first line that leads straight through to a quick first draft of something I really like.”

  “Da-da,” Olivia says through the door.

  “Da-da,” he types. “Da-da, I want—”

  “Mommy says you should—”

  “Today Mommy says I should, definitely should, do what?” he types. “I should go—”

  She raps on the door. He rips out the paper, a piece of it gets caught in the roller. If he doesn’t get it out now he might forget about it and later it could jam the machine. He starts pulling it out with the tweezers he keeps in a utility box on the desk. He has a magnet in the box for retrieving paperclips that fall through the keys, a brush and sewing needles for cleaning the typefaces. “Da-da, I have to go pee-pee.” “You can’t do it yourself?” “No, and Mommy’s busy. She says—” “Damn,” he shouts, and slams his fist down on the table. An eraser pencil and his fountain pen jump up and fall to the floor. Probably busted the pen’s point. Should always keep it capped. When did he uncap it? Probably been there like that since last night. He jotted down a note and in his compulsion for neatness he must have put the paper the note was on back in the pile of scrap paper or dumped it into the basket. He forgets what he wrote. Can’t be important then. But it could be a good starting line, one he intended for that. Did he? Was it? Heck with it. She’s probably peed in her pants by now. Denise will love that. Heck also with trying to squeeze in minutes, thanking God for a free half-hour. She jiggles the doorknob, had been trying to turn it to get in but this door gets stuck. He gets up. Tweezers are still in his hand. She might think he’s going to do something to her with them. He puts them in the box. Opens the door. She looks sad, a little frightened. “Did you pee in your pants, sweetheart?” “No. Can I sit at your typewriter?” “Let’s just concentrate on your pee-pee. I also don’t want to be washing the floor and your pants.” He picks up the eraser pencil and pen, point’s OK, caps it, sets them side by side on the desk. Picks her up, kisses her forehead a few times as he carries her to the bathroom. Stands her up, unhitches her overalls, pulls them down and her panties and sits her on the toilet. She pees and shits. “Good,” he says. “A double success.”

  7

  _______

  Frog Blahs

  Can’t sleep, can’t eat. Goes to the bathroom. Can’t pee. Sits on the seat. The same. Something’s wrong. Feeling queasy inside, bit of a headache. Goes back to bed to rest and think. So what did you do today to feel this w
ay? For instance? Food. Ate very little, no alcohol. Yesterday? A repeat. How come? Didn’t feel like doing anything but that. Why not? Don’t know. Up till now it hadn’t affected my stomach or head, so just did or didn’t do those things without thinking I guess. Think about it now? Just one of those periods when I didn’t feel like drinking alcohol, eating very much or anything but bland. Also not cooking up a storm, cleaning a slew of dishes, going out for the extra ingredient—things like that. No need for alcohol, not even a beer. Wasn’t warm enough for one, if that could be a reason. One reason it could be. Another is a need for a beer sometimes, or for its taste, if that’s not saying the same thing. Something cool or quenching or that tastes like beer, but no. Booze? I don’t do much. Sometimes a hefty straight one to calm myself or mixed with a mixer to help get me to sleep, but no feeling for any of that yesterday or today. Why? Thought I said. Or don’t have to because it’s all so no-relate. I’m just not a big drinker, what can I say? Then what do you think’s causing your physical queasiness, lethargy, inability to sleep, pee, shit, or eat or drink much? Can’t say. Maybe the start of a flu. Something’s in there though, my bladder and bowels. Have the feeling to go but nothing comes out. The day before last? What about it? What you drank, ate, did that might have contributed to how you feel today. Too much exercising perhaps? Some older men don’t know how or when to stop. No, it was just another normal day I think. Or who can remember the details that far back? I might have had a beer. I bought a six-pack that day, along with some other things, that I can remember, so if one’s gone from the refrigerator you know that that day I drank a beer. Also might have had something more to eat than I did yesterday or today. Sure I did. Far as I can remember, I just about felt fine that day. But that was two days ago—a full two. I peed that day I’m sure. And yesterday—remember now lifting the toilet seat to do it—and shit both days too. So I got rid of whatever waste was in me for two days, and probably a lot from yesterday. Well, that leaves me stumped; what do you make of it then? Nothing. I make nothing. I wish I could make more, but that’s all there is in my head now. I’ll try for sleep again. Who knows? Maybe it’ll work this time and when I wake up everything will be fine.