Long Made Short

by Stephen Dixon

  “Okay.” He reaches for his wine glass; it’s empty. “Fancy dinner, right? With white for the ap and red for the main, and the waiters refilling your glass second you set it down. But when you truly need a drink, they’re not around. Maybe it’s the first sign of being the loser.” He grabs her glass, which is full. “Mind?” “No, drink away, though don’t get loaded. This thing’s not going to do that to you, is it? We have to drive back tomorrow.” “And if I’d won?” “Then you’d be entitled, I guess, to fall on your face or to at least get high. But I’d probably still ask you to be moderate, if only to get us a cab back to the hotel, and they’d probably want you to hang around tomorrow for interviews.”

  “Listen,” he says, drinking, “I’m not disappointed, no matter what I might sound like. Because how could I be, for I told you days ago, didn’t I?—weeks. Pond, first and fabmost, with his high-powered backing and their thousand and one contacts, not to mention his handsome renegotiated advance. If they’d given the award to me and my little publisher and unhotshot editor and no agent or to speak of advance, half this joint would be empty next year. For the biggies pay for the event and the foundation and want returns for their own and on what they put in and certainly no threatening precedents, so they wouldn’t take it nicely if the nobody from nowhere won. But the victor’s speechmaking, so we gotta show our proper respects,” and he turns, smiles at his still smiling-tearful editor, who’s maybe still tearful because she sees how disappointed he is. He waves to her. “Don’t worry, I’m in great shape,” raises his shoulders and gestures with his hands and face “So what else did we expect?” and she nods and they both face the stage.

  Pond is finished saying what eloquent writers all the finalists are and the stiff competition their books gave to the point where he never thought he had a chance to win, and is now saying he’s going to use the platform this award gives by “helping to combat illiteracy in Latin America, where, as some of you may know, most of my novel, other than for its brief flashbacks, takes place. I will also, in any way I’m able to, like lecturing in schools and libraries, use the same platform to promote serious reading in this country of not only fiction but poetry, philosophy, history, the sciences—” “Biography,” someone shouts out and people laugh, and Pond, laughing, says “Biography, autobiography, whichever this gentleman writes, edits or even publishes…belles-lettres,” he reads, “essays, well, the whole kit and caboodle, I’ll call it, of fine writing.” Then he thanks his editor, agent, publisher, the marketing people at Sklosby, “for it isn’t easy these days selling, though I’m sure this award will help—indeed, I know—what is fundamentally a nonmarketable literary novel. And they did a wow of a job and have my profound thanks and respect, as does anyone in any capacity in publishing who was involved with my book. And last,” to his wife, who several times forced him to forge on with the novel in progress when he’d only wanted to toss it into the garbage, and he asks that the spotlight be directed to their table, where she stands, waves, blows a kiss to him, he blows one back, audience applauds, he says “See ya in a second, honey,” thanks the judges and foundation again, waves the statuette he received and in the other hand the envelope with the ten thousand dollar check. Then he leaves the stage, side-jacket-pockets the envelope as he goes to his table, is swamped by people there, autographs books, has his back slapped, cheeks kissed, is whispered to by people seated on both sides of him and standing behind, poses for photos, is escorted by foundation officials to some Louis the Someteenth room for a press conference, and as he’s leaving the ballroom waiters rush in with the main course.

  “God, I forgot, got to make a phone call,” Rob says, and his wife says “To whom and about what?” and he says “My sweetheart. To tell her I don’t have the dough or ennoblement now to run away with her. Ned at the Globe, though at his home. He’s been so nice about it all. Publicizing my finalism and sudden leap to quick descent, and also getting the book a long review there, and he said to call, win or lose, but collect. The kids, your folks, my mom, I guess I can now forget,” and kisses her lips, goes out the side entrance near their table, sees Pond leaving the men’s room and hurrying with some people through the corridor outside. “Pond,” he yells, and waves, and Pond waves and says “I wish it had been you.” A reporter, badge and no tux, takes this down. “Thanks, same here. I mean, it was you, so congratulations, nice job,” but Pond, smiling and raising his hands helplessly as if he’d like to shout in the corridor some more, is ushered into a room with the group, and door’s closed. “I bet he hasn’t read a page of my book,” he says to himself low. “Or maybe a page or two and thought ‘Doesn’t look bad, but I probably opened it up on the best parts,’ and put it back on the rack. Lucky fuck. Hey reporter, take that down.”

  Calls Ned and says “Hi, it’s Rob, and look it, I didn’t want to call collect but you said to,” and Ned says “No hassle, buddy, glad you could make it. So, match is over, what’s the score?” and he says “Pond, probably five to nothing, so title it ‘Zero Wins.’ I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. Sounds sour.” “Pond, huh? I’m surprised. The money was on Buckley,” and he says “Really, Buckley? I thought it was between Pond and Kendler, with a distant long shot, me. Who said Buckley? I mean, though she’s another, like Kendler and Pond, from a major house and no doubt with a hot young agent and fancy editor and connections, her book barely got quotable reviews,” and Ned says “That was just the Times. But we loved it, as did all the prepubs, and other reviewers I spoke to and people in publishing and some writers who thought they knew. Almost a sure thing, seemed like, and maybe even a Pulitzer as well.” “You never told me that,” and Ned says “Come on, I didn’t want to ruin your New York party with speculation, and look what it produced. But you felt you had a chance?” and he says “Me? Small-time Schlermy with his tricky monster of a tome? Hey, you lift it in one hand and say ‘Uncarryable, therefore unreadable, at least not reviewable,’ except for you, and pick up lighter and cheaper bulk. Only, I thought, if the judges were high on something or feeling very rebellious and pugnacious or maybe just good-natured but willing to buck the power people and take the afterbrunt. You know, because mine was less traditional, we’ll say, and possibly even more adventurous in the way I wrote and some of my characters spoke, than the others—well, almost any new fiction book would be, excuse me. But that they’d maybe recognize that and do something entirely imprudent and unusual, like a shake-up with the award. But why Buckley’s? If Pond’s was tinsel and stocking-stuffer stuff and the currently correct attitude on all things political and every now and then what comes off as serious head-thinking culled from other writers’ ideas—as if fiction should be intelligent and intellectual and anything but emotional and obsessed with people suffering and work and death. Hey, I think I made me there a statement, and even one reasonably close to what I believe. But her book, on the other hand—Buckley’s—was just pure old story and bad prose and puff, written in lipstick passing as blood.” “You read it?” and he says “That one I only gave a good look to, and by now I’m a pro at quickly flipping through, and after a ho-hum half-hour I found it to be utter junk and maybe the clunkiest of the bunch,” and Ned says “Give it another half an hour and see if it doesn’t bite, for a lot of people, I’m afraid me included, would beg to differ with you. But how do you feel, not that I can’t tell and haven’t heard, but for the paper tomorrow when we run our annual article on the awards ceremony and in particular that our hometown boy lost?” and he says “Sure, if you want. How do I feel? Disappointed, I suppose, how else? Though surprised and extremely grateful my book got this far in the—” and Ned says “We can’t use the surprised-extreme gratitude line, as we already quoted you on that right after you heard you were a finalist,” and he says “Then this then, and I’m not reading it off anything either, but it’s suddenly so perfectly formed in my head it may seem that way,” and he reads off the slip of paper he also has Ned’s phone number on and notes for a five-minute acceptance speech all
the finalists were asked to prepare. “‘Losing will keep me lean, mean and edgy, so in the right fighting weight and shape and mental and reflex condition for writing more. Winning would only have put me into tuxes and tight shoes and suits and on the speech and interview circuit for two years and judging a lot of lackluster writing awards and turned me into an overfulfilled sluggard and softie.’ That should do it, no?—because how much could you want from a loser? But please don’t put any of the other things I said in, as I don’t want to sound like a lousy sport,” and Ned says “Got you, and thanks for coming out and calling. Oh, which reminds me, how are the accommodations there? All you finalists get together for a snappy brunch or some good lobby or elevator-waiting conversation?” and he says “Ah, my publisher didn’t put us up at the Plaza like the others did for their writers, I understand. But he said he’d take care of our continental breakfast and the hotel sitter for the kids tonight so long as the four of us slept in two double beds in a single room. It’s okay by me, I don’t feel I’m missing out on much, except the better breakfast, and I never was one for schmoozing, and the guy’s barely got enough dough to cover our five-hundred-dollar table tickets here and get him and the editor back to Minneapolis. Though if you don’t mind, please don’t quote me on that either. Really, nothing except what I gave you, and that we’ve had a wonderful day taking in the museums and bookstores, one of which even had a copy of my novel, and are now having tons of fun despite losing—or maybe because of it. You see, my wife and I look on ourselves as renegades here or, better yet, barbarians let through the castle’s gates for the day, though of course where we have to sleep outside its walls tonight in the cold. Nah, melodramatic and literary allusive, so please don’t use any of the last stuff either,” and Ned says “It’s your day, pal, so if I’m able to sort out what’s usable and not I’ll cross out everything but what you want to say.”

  He goes back to his table. Main course is at his place. “Cold now,” his wife says; “maybe we can ask one of the irascible waiters for a whole new plate.” She’s eaten what she’s going to eat of hers. “What is it, lamb, veal, pork, even a beef chop?” and she says “What’d you tell Ned?” and he says “And the sauce—did it look like that when they first set it down?” and she says “Looks congealed but it isn’t—it’s good, if you feel like eating,” and he says “Usual humble fare. How the best man obviously won, since it’s obvious, because he won, that he was the best man. And, you know, that I feel fortunate to have got this far in the award process, though I think I said ‘lucky,’ and with such a long book and little publisher and few reviews and really no ads anywhere,” and she says “Didn’t he write that up in the article he did of you when you were nominated and in almost those words?” and he says “So he’ll remember and won’t use it, or he won’t remember and we’ll both look like fools to the few readers who do remember, or he’ll just replace it with something comical and acute I didn’t say, because it’ll look better for me or the article if I did. Did say it, I mean. But hey, we’re supposed to be having a good time here, kicking up a storm, alienating the aristocracy. And what’s the difference anyway? For now that I’ve lost, the book’s a dead egg. No, dead eggs you can still scramble or poach, so it’s just flat-out dead, period, literally an unrefrigerated hundred-year-old egg even Chinese gourmands won’t eat,” and he looks at the publisher, smiles and says “Having a good time? I know I am,” and the publisher nods and motions with his wine glass as if someone just made a toast, and drinks, and Rob beams at his editor, and she says “Too bad they have no music. If they did I’d ask us all to get up and dance, even in a circle, holding hands, in the folk dance manner,” and he says “So we’ll drink and horse around instead, laugh so hard the other stiff tables will look at us with indifference,” and holds up his filled wine glass and says to her and the publisher “Till next year with a new work, okay? You both still game?” and the publisher says “What? I didn’t catch that, Robert,” and he says “Next year with a new book of mine, what do you say?” and the publisher says “Why not. You nearly broke me this year with this affair, though with all the publicity we stand to make some returns, so I’ll be further broke next. Because I’m having great fun. All you nominees reading last night, the dinner tonight, meeting other publishers when I could never call myself one till this month, it’s all been marvelous. Yes, we’ll all come back next year, same writer, same award, same time, even the same table—number six—write that down, Sissie,” and the editor says “I recorded it up here,” pointing to her head, and the publisher says “With too much to drink, which I expect, we all might forget. But does Robert have a manuscript ready for us?” and Rob’s wife says “Don’t worry about this guy. Living is writing, writing is living, even the stomach flu along with a death in the family and cramps hardly stop him for a day, so expect one every year and only occasionally every other year, till you yell uncle.”

  The sitter’s sitting in the semidark when they let themselves into their hotel room. She whispers “I suppose, because you didn’t phone, that it wasn’t good news. I’m very sorry, sir. My fingers were crossed, and I even recited a brief good-night prayer for you with the children. I hope you don’t mind,” and he says “Right, no news is no good news at times, and, for all we know, prayers work against me, but thanks. How were they—the kids?” and she says “Disappointed you didn’t phone. They knew what it meant too and said things like they felt very bad for you, and I think for themselves a little also, since they said that if you won you promised to take them to FAO Schwarz tomorrow and give them each a twenty-dollar bill to spend. This week, one day after work, I’m going to look for your book in a bookstore, only I wish you’d be there to sign it for me,” and he whispers “Here, and this is in addition to your wages tonight, take the one I read from yesterday,” and asks her name and signs it “To Cecily Houston, who sat for us night this book lost the AFA, thanks and very best,” and says “I haven’t gone through it yet for typos, except for the pages I read from last night—580, nine down, ‘north’ instead of ‘nouth,’ 581, fourteen from foot, single quote mark before the double after the word ‘slug,’ but those I already wrote in when I was reading, plus a couple of commas for periods on those pages and the next and the word ‘entrenchment’ missing somewhere in the middle of 583. So I know there must be hundreds of corrections to be made, if not a thousand plus hundreds, which by all rights should foul up my sleep. The book, you see, first read in galleys by the judges of the award, was hurried into print early when the news of the nomination came out,” and she says “Galleys, like ship kitchens? I don’t understand,” and his wife says “Shh, you two—the kids,” and he whispers to the sitter “Really, it’s not important, an asterisk to this whole silly shebang.”

  In bed his wife kisses his back, plays with him, and he says “I’m sorry, I just don’t feel like it; imagine, me. But my mind’s off somewhere, thinking about how I’d feel right now if I’d won, what I’d be doing and so on, worried about the morning and all the fuss and scurrying around me and arrangements being made and what I’d have to wear, even. Other than for the tux and old sports jacket and corduroy pants and single shirt and tie, I didn’t come prepared for that,” and she says “So you’d buy, for you get a ten thousand dollar check with the prize,” and he says “It takes me days to decide, and I could buy clothes so early in the morning? Because they’d probably want me for some network or local ‘Today’-type show around eight or nine. But would’ve been nice, no? Winning, I mean—fooling around with you too, of course—but also rejecting all that comes with the win, or most. ‘Sorry, but each appearance I make takes away about two pages of my new manuscript.’ ‘Sorry, but you can’t keep my fountain pen, nor will I sign the photocopy you made of my story; it does something to the nib.’ ‘Sorry, but I truly feel I’ve been overinterviewed’—‘prodigally, immoderately’ (I’d switch it around a bit)—‘supererogatorally, in excess of and over and beyond and above the call of blathering and dry cleaning my clothes,�
��” and she says “I can understand it. I’m a little sloshed myself from the evening’s excess. Did you take aspirins?” and he says “Aspirins and Alka-Seltzer. I bought some packs, knowing I’d drink and think too much, before we left yesterday. It’s probably been on the eleven o’clock TV and radio news already and in the newspapers—at least the articles have been written—and certainly over the news service wires. It could even be in the Times edition just hitting the streets, if there’s one between the city and late editions. I want to read about it tomorrow. I don’t, really, but I don’t want to duck around it either. Good, I didn’t win; life will be easier and my work harder. Pond, what a yuk. I wonder what he’s doing now. Probably entwined in a phone-off-the-hook all-time celebratory screw with his wife, even if they haven’t done it in years, let’s say. Sure they have, in that period of time just about everyone their age does, but this is a special night—brain’s burning and blood’s burbling and nerve endings are especially trembling. Or they could still be at the champagne reception at the Plaza. We could probably still be there too, but after ten minutes of it you also had enough, didn’t you? I never really asked. But talking elatedly with three people at once. And taking in with characteristic modesty for such an occasion the last congrats of the judges and AFF officials and some high-born or just gold-crusted AFF benefactors who forked over thousands to be at this fete, and maybe even some publishing brass—almost certainly his own—who tomorrow can go into work late. All of them, though, slobbering and sucking all over him. It’s the new Pond dance, everyone’s doing it. Or maybe he’s being prepared this very minute by a Sklosby publicity exec as to how to appear on TV tomorrow on one of those early morning news-and-nothing programs or midmorning-crisis talk shows. How to smile, how to look serious—no, he’s dour enough, so could teach them. But how to hold back on your remarks till the interviewer has made his full range of compliments about your book without having read it. ‘Though don’t fidget with your wrists or toupee,’” and she says “His hair’s real—thick with not a bald spot or single gray,” and he says “Well, to me it looked that way, all of one piece, or maybe I’m thinking of his writer’s beard, which looked pasted on. ‘But stare straight at the camera, Lem, and try not to move your head erratically and, for certain, don’t curse, even if the blips will cover it—lots of people can read lips. In fact, curse, though not big curse words, for the audience might think you’re looking down your nose at it. Oh, just be yourself, Lem; call the moderators by their first names, let them call you what they like, though don’t blink too much or spit. In fact, be yourself completely. Blink, belch, patronize, boast, butt in and spit. That’s what the home folks want from a writer—the real thing. Even have a parrot on your shoulder and come in drag.’” “Really,” she says, “go to sleep if you’re in no mood for making love. I thought it would help relax you, I still think it would, but maybe you can use the rest more,” and he says “It would have helped and of course be enjoyable, but I’m just too sour to. Too full of drink too, too keyed up. Too everything. Too eager to get back to my writing after two days. Too many aspirins and antacids in me too. Too pissed too, with rotten anger and revenge, the too-too creeps. I never should have gone to that stupid gala, squeezed myself into that plastic tux and those steel shoes. But boy am I going to dish it out to them now. My own publisher won’t even want it,” and she says “Shh, shh, sweetheart,” and kisses the back of his head, turns over on her other side, and he turns over on his side to face the back of her, fixes the covers on them, moves up to her, and they start making love.