14 Stories

by Stephen Dixon

  “Then you make a living writing now?”

  “Just about, but I keep my living small. Still working?”

  “Right to the end. I help edit a magazine.”

  “Oh yeah, which one?”

  “You wouldn’t know it—we don’t accept short stories. A trade one for beauticians and their shops. It’s good work, different, only twenty hours a week, so for me perfect Anything longer—”

  “Wait, you were doing…”

  “Hospital research.”

  “I thought physical-therapy work.”

  “Research, on hospital medical records, then writing reports on it. So the two professions aren’t too dissimilar, editing and before, if that’s what you meant.”

  “No, I was just remembering you in your white hospital suit—”

  “They made us wear it for some reason. Cleanliness. Show. Something, not that I minded. It made me feel like a doctor.”

  “Every morning, while I was on my way to sub in junior high schools, you biking down the block on your way to work.”

  “Now I just walk across the park three days a week. See? Perfect.” Her face. Darkened by the sun. Looks recent. They had a long vacation someplace, maybe overseas, Greece, but some beach, probably L.A. Black hair cut prettily over her face, well done. Everything well done. Nice voice. Real poise. Beautiful smile. Five years younger than I or thereabouts. I wish I’d met someone like her ten-fifteen years ago. It’d be the same I think. I’d still love her, she me. And to have a baby in November would be perfect after ten­fifteen years of those kind of years. I don’t make anywhere near what Ryan must with his films, nor could afford the brownstone duplex they bought in the area a few years ago, according to Perry, but it would’ve worked out. Our surroundings would’ve been cosier. In three rooms instead of my two. More my style. She would’ve stayed close. Helped and comforted me, given me warmth, body to hold almost every night when I was drifting into sleep, something I need and love. Things I’d have given her as much of if not more. Baby husband love warmth comfort body, same person all those years and happy with it. Memories shared and made the most of. All that. Would’ve been great. What I want but it’s almost too late for that now isn’t it? I want it to have happened and still to be living through it. Now it’d take years. It won’t work. I’ve just about proven myself a loser with personal relationships. My last was disastrous. One before that almost worse. Before that only a little better. On and on back. Most women I’m now interested in say I can barely talk to them anymore. That my lovemaking’s become too rushed. That I’ve really lost the touch. That I’m too settled in my ways. That I ought to just have affair after affair and be satisfied with that for the next twenty years or till I tire of them and then have nothing but my work. So why do I think now I could’ve had something like that with someone like Ann ten-fifteen years ago or even twenty? Luck at an early stage in my relationships, that’s why. Plain luck.

  “Well, it’s been fun chatting,” she says. “I’ll tell Ryan I saw you.”

  “Do, and give him my best.”

  We shake hands, mine out first. I look into her eyes to catch the color of them. Can’t because of the glasses except that they’re dark. I’ve recently found I can be with a woman for months before I realize I don’t know the color of her eyes except if they’re startlingly blue. I drop her hand and she turns to go. “The bike,” I yell.

  Bike almost clips her as she crosses the street. Bike passes without slowing down. “Watch where you’re going next time,” I yell after it.

  “She should’ve been watching out for me,” cyclist yells back.

  Ann’s turned around to me, shoulders humped as if to say how dumb she was not to see the bike, waves, goes. I watch her from behind. She’s got an Ace bandage around her right calf. Maybe it goes all the way up to her thigh. As a support I suppose because of the weight of the baby or leg veins or reasons I know nothing about. Continues to walk. Her hair flops. Her shoes are flat. Her dress is black, shirt blue. It isn’t a dress but something like a pinafore or whatever it’s called with two straps over the shoulder that button right on top of the shoulder knobs and very loose over her body, also because of the baby perhaps, black probably because of the baby too. So she won’t look that pregnant, so the bulge won’t show that much. It worked. She walks. Is so pretty. Voice face smile niceness kindness lovingness warmth. I picture her coming home to me. Standing there on the sidewalk my eyes still following her, I do. I’m writing. She puts a key in the lock, then the next. I hear her and run to the door. My room would have to be somewhere near the front on the first floor. I open the door same time she does, key still in the lock. She laughs. She might say “You almost pulled my arm off.” “I wouldn’t do that,” I’d say, “I love that hand and arm too much.” All of this is too much perhaps but I’d say it, I’ve said it, and kiss that hand and maybe go right up her arm with my lips and take the key out of the lock for her and give it to her and then kiss her neck and mouth. I’d hold and hug her. Maybe not too hard because of the bulge. It’d be our apartment alone and I might say to her then “Let’s go to bed.” She might even agree. Seemed like nothing pressing for her now, probably not a workday. She didn’t have any packages when I met her so she wouldn’t, if she doesn’t pick up any on the way home, have anything to put down. I could even lift her up and carry her but that might scare her so I don’t think I would. Later she might say or before we get to bed that she met someone I know on the street. I’d say “Who?” and she’d say “You. I said I’d give you your regards. No, you said to give your best and I said I’d tell you I saw you on the street.”

  NAMES

  Finally I become depressed by her. I walk around the room. I lie in bed. I try and read. I try to sleep. I look in the refrigerator. I open the bread box. I drink. I go outside. I walk the streets. I look in the apartment windows. I look at the store windows. I go to a movie. I leave the movie halfway through. Maybe quarter way through. I go to a bar. I sit and order a drink. I stand and set my beer down and go to the washroom though I don’t have to. I go because I want to walk through the crowded bar. I want someone to say hello. “Hey, how are you, what’s doing?” I want someone to say. Or someone who doesn’t know me but wants to speak. But no one says anything to me or looks at me as if they want me to speak. I take a pee anyway. I return to my stool at the bar. It’s taken. “That’s all right,” I say when the person who’s sitting there stands and says “I’m sorry, this yours?” The person insists. I say “Really, I don’t mind standing. I like to stand.” “Great then, for I want to sit,” the person says. The person gets her wine. She lifts the glass. I watch her drink. Watch her set down the glass and poke through her pocketbook for what? Cigarettes? A tissue? Or both? She pulls out a book. “No, that’s silly,” her expression seems to say, “reading in a bar.” The book’s a paperback. She slips it back into her pocketbook. Not her pocketbook. Her handbag. And the book’s a pocketbook. Not a paperback. There’s a difference. Or there once was. Or at least to me there once was and still is while to many people those two kinds of books might be and always have been the same. She looks at herself in the mirror facing the bar. The whole place is a bar but I’m speaking of the bar the people on the stools are sitting at. She has dark hair. Black. Dark eyes. Maybe black. Long body. Not long legs. Long body on top. Sort of short legs. Heavy legs. Big feet. Big for such short legs I mean. She looks at herself in the mirror again and sees me looking at her. She smiles. I smile. All in the mirror. She turns to me. “You caught me,” she says. “And you caught me catching you,” I say. “And you caught me catching you catching me,” she says. “And you caught—” “No, where I said it is where it ends,” she says. I think about that “No need to think about it,” she says. “Anyway, hey, how are you, what’s doing?” I say. “Hi.” “Hello. My name’s Rip and this is my hand.” We shake. “Is your name really Rip?” she says. “No, it’s Kip.” “With a K or a C?” “K as in Kip.” “Kip’s kind of a strange name for a ma
n, though less strange than it would be with a C.” “Actually my name’s Tip.” “Tip’s an even stranger name than Kip with a K and much stranger than Rip, though Rip’s the most potentially menacing name of the three.” “My name’s really Lip,” I say. “Now Lip I like. A bit more sensual than Tip and much stranger and more sensual than Rip or Kip. But that the end of your names?” “No—Nip.” “Nip’s not as strange as Lip, though it is the most appropriate name of them all for this bar.” “My name’s really Zip.” “Quickest of the ips, Zip, even if its number of letters is the same.” “Whip’s my name,” I say. “Spelled with an H or without?” “With.” “Then Whip’s your most potentially menacing name so far and also the longest of them all ending with ip.” “No, my name’s Pip.” “Pip of a name Pip, but what really is your name as long as we’re speaking of it? Let’s skip Skip and I don’t flip over Flip and I doubt if it’s Drip.” “Sip.” “As appropriate for this place as Nip or Clip, though I don’t think it’s your real name.” “My real name is.” “Yes?” “Is.” “Yes, what is your name, sir, please tell me your name?” “What’s yours?” “Darlene.” “Hello, Darlene.” “Hi, Name.” We shake. “Can I buy you a drink, Darlene?” “No, but may I buy you a drink, Name?” “Yes.” “Do you come in here often, Name?” “Yes. But more often most recently, as lately I don’t have much to do late at night. Or rather, I’m a little too much by myself these days late at night. Or rather, something else.” “Spill it, Name.” “I’d like to and also to leave this place, Darlene. Would you?” “With you?” “Yes.” “No need to think about it. Lead.” “Where would you like to go?” “Let’s decide outside.”

  We go outside. “It’s raining,” she says. It isn’t. “Why’d you say it’s raining when it isn’t?” I say. “Because somewhere it’s raining,” she says. “How do you know?” “I don’t.” “Then why’d you say it?” “I didn’t.” “You’re a liar, Darlene.” “I am. And you’re right. There is a possibility it isn’t raining somewhere now, and wasn’t raining when I said it was before. A very small possibility, but one nonetheless, which I guess makes me a liar. You want to stay here or walk?” “I’ve walked a lot tonight, Darlene. I’m tired.” “What do you do?” “Did I do to get tired?” “Did and do?” “I thought up and think up names for myself.” “What name did you start off with before you started thinking up names for yourself, Name?” “Is your name really Darlene, Darlene?” “My name is a mystery to me.” “And that, Darlene, is a mystery to me.” “I meant by that, Name, that it’s a mystery to me why I keep telling people my name’s a mystery to me while I’m still able to tell people my name’s Darlene.” “I like the name Darlene, though you ought to change it.” “Since you’re the name expert, Name, why don’t you change it for me?” “Change it to Darlene.” “You like Darlene?” “A little more than I like the name Darlene.” “All right, I will. From now on you call me Darlene. Now where do you want to go, Name?” “You tell me first, Darlene.” “You know, I’m beginning to like the name, Darlene. Yes. It fits.” “We can always go back to the bar,” I say. “Let’s. And it’s also a good idea because I didn’t pay for my drink or the one I never ordered for you.” “The one you were going to buy me and still plan to?” “No.”

  We go into the bar. The bartender comes over and says “You forgot to pay for your drink, Darlene.” “He called you Darlene,” I say. “Oh, it isn’t?” he says. “What’s your name then, because I always thought it was Darlene.” “My name’s Darlene,” she says. “Oh, Darlene,” he says. “And his name is Name,” she says. “Oh, Name.” “And her name was Darlene,” I say. “Darlene. Was. Now I got it. Well, what will Darlene and Name have to drink?” “What’s your name, Ted?” she says to him. “Bartender.” “I thought your name was Ted.” “No, Bartender. I’ve always answered to Bartender.” “That’s true. You know, it’s raining out, Bartender,” she says. “Raining? Odd, but it doesn’t sound or smell like rain. Look like it either. No drops or rain sounds and smells and it also looks like it’s not raining.” “Somewhere it’s raining,” she says. “Somewhere it probably is.” Why do you both think that?” I say. “I was just agreeing with Darlene.” “Why do you automatically agree with me?” Darlene says to him. “That’s what I usually do at the bar.” “You ought to change that habit,” she says. “I’ll think about it” “No need to think about it. I was wrong about the rain, which makes you doubly wrong in automatically agreeing with me and two, saying it’s probably raining somewhere.” “Well somewhere it probably is,” he says. “You’re probably right,” she says, “which makes you doubly right in not automatically agreeing with me.” “No, I think you’re wrong there,” he says, “but what’ll you two have?” “Same,” she says. “Same as hers,” I say. “Two sames,” he says. “Makes mine a double,” I say. “You want a double too?” he says to Darlene. “Single,” she says. “One single and one double same coming up,” he says. He goes. “I don’t really want a double,” I say to Darlene.” I only ordered one because I never ordered one before.” “Cancel it then.” “I will.” “You have to do it quickly, as I might be paying for your drink.” “Cancel my double same,” I say to Bartender, “and make it a triple.” “We don’t have glasses large enough for triple sames,” he says. “You want a double and single glass to make up a triple?” “No, I don’t much like drinking the hard stuff,” I say. “Cancel my triple same.” “And cancel my single same.” “One triple and one single same canceled. Want a wine or beer?” he says. “Let’s go outside,” Darlene says to me. “See you, Bartender,” I say. “See you, Name. See you again, Darlene.” “Hope so,” she says.

  We go outside. It’s raining. “It’s raining,” I say. “Probably somewhere it is,” she says.” No now. Right here. It just started. Why do you always assume it’s probably always raining somewhere?” “I’ll tell you why, Name. Sit down. I want to tell you the story of why I assume it’s always probably raining somewhere or at least that during every moment of the day there’s more of a possibility it’s raining somewhere than it isn’t. Go on, sit.” “The ground’s too wet from the rain,” I say. “Then can I at least assume it was raining somewhere before?” “You can and also can assume more than just that it was raining somewhere before.” “Then I needn’t go on with my story,” she says. “I don’t see why not.” “Then I wish you’d sit down so I can tell it.” “Honestly, Darlene, I would sit down if the ground wasn’t wet from this rain.” “This rain?” “The rain now and all the rain from before on the ground where you want me to sit” “If it was wet from someone spilling pan after pan of water on the ground, would you sit down?” “No.” “Then wet from some nice little kid watering the ground with a hose?” “On the same spot you’re asking me to sit down?” “Yes.” “No, I wouldn’t sit down, Darlene.” “You don’t want to hear my story then?” “Not true. I do.” “Then sit down.” “I will. Though somewhere else where it isn’t wet where I sit down, or here once the rain stops and the ground dries. What you can do, if you don’t want to go someplace where it’s dry or wait here till this ground dries, is tell me the story inside the bar.” “Good idea. Because I still haven’t paid for my first drink from two times ago in there and because I definitely want to tell the story more than I don’t. Where I tell it makes no difference to me, though it does seem to make a big difference where you hear it.” “Would you tell it sitting down on the wet ground while I stand out of the rain?” “No.” “Then let’s go inside.” “Yes.”

  We go inside. “You know, there were two people in here a short while ago who looked just like you two,” Bartender says. “Were their names Darlene and Name?” Darlene says. “That’s right. In fact, they were in here twice before.” “Why do you assume that?” she says. “Because I saw them and they looked exactly alike both times.” “Those could have been their twins you saw the time before last,” she says. “Or their triplets, if you’re all triplets. Triplets having drinks with triplets and all three women triplets named Darlene and the men Name.�
� “You’d think their parents not only had a problem in raising and recognizing them,” I say, “but in naming them though not in remembering their names.” “You’d think so,” he says, “and I’d in fact think you’d know so.” “Bartender,” someone else says, “a rum on the rocks please?” “That’s Someone Else,” I say. “Well I have to get him a drink,” Bartender says. “What’ll you two have?” “Same thing Someone Else is having,” I say. “I’ll have what the previous Darlene had,” Darlene says. “The previous Darlene canceled her order,” he says. “Then I’ll cancel my order,” she says. “Say, Bartender,” Someone Else says, “my rum on the rocks?” “You still want the same?” Bartender says to me. “Same.” “Same for me too,” Darlene says, “as I never canceled a rum on the rocks before.” “Three rum on the rocks coming up,” he says. He starts making our drinks. “Do we really want rum on the rocks?” Darlene says to Bartender. “I don’t,” he says. “Neither do I,” she says. “Cancel two of those rum on the rocks,” I say. “Don’t cancel mine,” Someone Else says. “Only cancel one then,” I say. “I’ll have a white wine,” Darlene says. “Just like the first Darlene ordered and had and never paid for,” Bartender says. “What’s all this about other Darlenes?” Someone Else says. “A name game they and now I have going,” Bartender says. “That’s Darlene.” “And that’s part of the name game?” Someone Else says. “You see, her name wasn’t originally Darlene, but Darlene.” “Now I don’t get it.” “Pay close attention. She’s Darlene, but she hasn’t always been. And he’s just Name and for as long as I know him, always has been.” “Then he’s the game or Game’s his last name. Though Game can’t be his last name, as you said his name’s just Name.” “As far as I know, just isn’t his first name and Game isn’t his last. His name’s Name and he’s only part of the game, just as you and I are. I’m Bartender.” “You mean, you are a bartender.” “I’m also a bartender.” “What else you do?” “I do lots else, but the only thing I do professionally is tend bar.” “I still don’t see what your being a bartender has to do with their name game or Name Game here or just Name or just Name and Darlene over there other than talking about it with them and in the process trying to explain it to me, maybe even making the game even more complex than it started out to be.” “That’s almost the truth.” “Well when you get the truth altogether, could you let me have it?” “You hear that?” Bartender says. “Someone Else just extended the game in a way we haven’t thought of.” “Now I get it,” Someone Else says. “I’m Someone Else and what I asked from you before and still haven’t got is the truth. And he’s Name and she’s Darlene, though her name was probably recently changed to Darlene from Darlene, and you’re Bartender and a bartender and the guy next to me could be called Guy Next to Me.” “The Guy Next to Me,” The Guy Next to Me says, raising his glass to Someone Else and Bartender and Darlene and me. “I don’t have any truth to raise,” Darlene says. “Three truths still coming up,” Bartender says. He gives Darlene her truth, gives Someone Else and me the truths he was making before, and pours some soda water for himself and raises his glass. “That’s not truth,” The Guy Next to Me says to Bartender. “They hold me to one truth an hour, since they don’t think I can mix and serve them up straight if I have more.” “Even when a customer’s buying you one and for everybody else here?” “You saying you’re paying for my next one?” a woman two stools away from him says. “You’re Everybody Else Here?” The Guy Next to Me says. “I thought she was A Young Lady Further on Down the Bar,” Someone Else says. “To me she was a Drinker with a Big Tab,” Bartender says. “No, I’m Everybody Else Here,” she says. “Then I’m buying yours and one for the rest of them here,” The Guy Next to Me says. We look around. There’s no one else left in the bar. “Okay,” Bartender says, “one more than I’m allowed for the hour,” and pours himself the same truth Darlene has and mixes another one for Everybody Else Here. We all raise our truths and Someone Else says “What should we drink to?” “To truth,” The Guy Next to Me says. “We drink truth, not to it,” Bartender says. “Then let’s drink to it,” Darlene says. “To it,” we all say. We drink. I finish my truth, say goodnight and leave the bar. It’s stopped raining. I head for home. “Name?” I hear behind me. I keep walking. “Name. Your name’s Name, isn’t it?” Darlene says, catching up. “We drink and drank to it,” I say. “Yes?” “I’m saying—” “Yes?” “Yes,” I say. “Good,” she says.