Complete Stories (18 page)
Authors: Dorothy Parker,Colleen Bresse,Regina Barreca
I must stop this. I mustn’t be this way. Look. Suppose a young man says he’ll call a girl up, and then something happens, and he doesn’t. That isn’t so terrible, is it? Why, it’s going on all over the world, right this minute. Oh, what do I care what’s going on all over the world? Why can’t that telephone ring? Why can’t it, why can’t it? Couldn’t you ring? Ah, please, couldn’t you? You damned, ugly, shiny thing. It would hurt you to ring, wouldn’t it? Oh, that would hurt you. Damn you, I’ll pull your filthy roots out of the wall, I’ll smash your smug black face in little bits. Damn you to hell.
No, no, no. I must stop. I must think about something else. This is what I’ll do. I’ll put the clock in the other room. Then I can’t look at it. If I do have to look at it, then I’ll have to walk into the bedroom, and that will be something to do. Maybe, before I look at it again, he will call me. I’ll be so sweet to him, if he calls me. If he says he can’t see me tonight, I’ll say, “Why, that’s all right, dear. Why, of course it’s all right.” I’ll be the way I was when I first met him. Then maybe he’ll like me again. I was always sweet, at first. Oh, it’s so easy to be sweet to people before you love them.
I think he must still like me a little. He couldn’t have called me “darling” twice today, if he didn’t still like me a little. It isn’t all gone, if he still likes me a little; even if it’s only a little, little bit. You see, God, if You would just let him telephone me, I wouldn’t have to ask You anything more. I would be sweet to him, I would be gay, I would be just the way I used to be, and then he would love me again. And then I would never have to ask You for anything more. Don’t You see, God? So won’t You please let him telephone me? Won’t You please, please, please?
Are You punishing me, God, because I’ve been bad? Are You angry with me because I did that? Oh, but, God, there are so many bad people—You could not be hard only to me. And it wasn’t very bad; it couldn’t have been bad. We didn’t hurt anybody, God. Things are only bad when they hurt people. We didn’t hurt one single soul; You know that. You know it wasn’t bad, don’t You, God? So won’t You let him telephone me now?
If he doesn’t telephone me, I’ll know God is angry with me. I’ll count five hundred by fives, and if he hasn’t called me then, I will know God isn’t going to help me, ever again. That will be the sign. Five, ten, fifteen, twenty, twenty-five, thirty, thirty-five, forty, forty-five, fifty, fifty-five . . . It was bad. I knew it was bad. All right, God, send me to hell. You think You’re frightening me with Your hell, don’t You? You think Your hell is worse than mine.
I mustn’t. I mustn’t do this. Suppose he’s a little late calling up—that’s nothing to get hysterical about. Maybe he isn’t going to call—maybe he’s coming straight up here without telephoning. He’ll be cross if he sees I have been crying. They don’t like you to cry. He doesn’t cry. I wish to God I could make him cry. I wish I could make him cry and tread the floor and feel his heart heavy and big and festering in him. I wish I could hurt him like hell.
He doesn’t wish that about me. I don’t think he even knows how he makes me feel. I wish he could know, without my telling him. They don’t like you to tell them they’ve made you cry. They don’t like you to tell them you’re unhappy because of them. If you do, they think you’re possessive and exacting. And then they hate you. They hate you whenever you say anything you really think. You always have to keep playing little games. Oh, I thought we didn’t have to; I thought this was so big I could say whatever I meant. I guess you can’t, ever. I guess there isn’t ever anything big enough for that. Oh, if he would just telephone, I wouldn’t tell him I had been sad about him. They hate sad people. I would be so sweet and so gay, he couldn’t help but like me. If he would only telephone. If he would only telephone.
Maybe that’s what he is doing. Maybe he is coming on here without calling me up. Maybe he’s on his way now. Something might have happened to him. No, nothing could ever happen to him. I can’t picture anything happening to him. I never picture him run over. I never see him lying still and long and dead. I wish he were dead. That’s a terrible wish. That’s a lovely wish. If he were dead, he would be mine. If he were dead, I would never think of now and the last few weeks. I would remember only the lovely times. It would be all beautiful. I wish he were dead. I wish he were dead, dead, dead.
This is silly. It’s silly to go wishing people were dead just because they don’t call you up the very minute they said they would. Maybe the clock’s fast; I don’t know whether it’s right. Maybe he’s hardly late at all. Anything could have made him a little late. Maybe he had to stay at his office. Maybe he went home, to call me up from there, and somebody came in. He doesn’t like to telephone me in front of people. Maybe he’s worried, just a little, little bit, about keeping me waiting. He might even hope that I would call him up. I could do that. I could telephone him.
I mustn’t. I mustn’t, I mustn’t. Oh, God, please don’t let me telephone him. Please keep me from doing that. I know, God, just as well as You do, that if he were worried about me, he’d telephone no matter where he was or how many people there were around him. Please make me know that, God. I don’t ask You to make it easy for me—You can’t do that, for all that You could make a world. Only let me know it, God. Don’t let me go on hoping. Don’t let me say comforting things to myself. Please don’t let me hope, dear God. Please don’t.
I won’t telephone him. I’ll never telephone him again as long as I live. He’ll rot in hell, before I’ll call him up. You don’t have to give me strength, God; I have it myself. If he wanted me, he could get me. He knows where I am. He knows I’m waiting here. He’s so sure of me, so sure. I wonder why they hate you, as soon as they are sure of you. I should think it would be so sweet to be sure.
It would be so easy to telephone him. Then I’d know. Maybe it wouldn’t be a foolish thing to do. Maybe he wouldn’t mind. Maybe he’d like it. Maybe he has been trying to get me. Sometimes people try and try to get you on the telephone, and they say the number doesn’t answer. I’m not just saying that to help myself; that really happens. You know that really happens, God. Oh, God, keep me away from that telephone. Keep me away. Let me still have just a little bit of pride. I think I’m going to need it, God. I think it will be all I’ll have.
Oh, what does pride matter, when I can’t stand it if I don’t talk to him? Pride like that is such a silly, shabby little thing. The real pride, the big pride, is in having no pride. I’m not saying that just because I want to call him. I am not. That’s true, I know that’s true. I will be big. I will be beyond little prides.
Please, God, keep me from telephoning him. Please, God.
I don’t see what pride has to do with it. This is such a little thing, for me to be bringing in pride, for me to be making such a fuss about. I may have misunderstood him. Maybe he said for me to call him up, at five. “Call me at five, darling.” He could have said that, perfectly well. It’s so possible that I didn’t hear him right. “Call me at five, darling.” I’m almost sure that’s what he said. God, don’t let me talk this way to myself. Make me know, please make me know.
I’ll think about something else. I’ll just sit quietly. If I could sit still. If I could sit still. Maybe I could read. Oh, all the books are about people who love each other, truly and sweetly. What do they want to write about that for? Don’t they know it isn’t true? Don’t they know it’s a lie, it’s a God damned lie? What do they have to tell about that for, when they know how it hurts? Damn them, damn them, damn them.
I won’t. I’ll be quiet. This is nothing to get excited about. Look. Suppose he were someone I didn’t know very well. Suppose he were another girl. Then I’d just telephone and say, “Well, for goodness’ sake, what happened to you?” That’s what I’d do, and I’d never even think about it. Why can’t I be casual and natural, just because I love him? I can be. Honestly, I can be. I’ll call him up, and be so easy and pleasant. You see if I won’t, God. Oh, don’t let me call him. Don’t, don’t, don’t.
God, aren’t You really going to let him call me? Are You sure, God? Couldn’t You please relent? Couldn’t You? I don’t even ask You to let him telephone me this minute, God; only let him do it in a little while. I’ll count five hundred by fives. I’ll do it so slowly and so fairly. If he hasn’t telephoned then, I’ll call him. I will. Oh, please, dear God, dear kind God, my blessed Father in Heaven, let him call before then. Please, God. Please.
Five, ten, fifteen, twenty, twenty-five, thirty, thirty-five . . .
The Bookman
, January 1928
, January 1928
A Terrible Day Tomorrow
The woman in the leopard-skin coat and the man with the gentian-blue muffler wormed along the dim, table-bordered lanes of the speakeasy.
“Sit down any place you see,” he said. “It’s only just for a minute. Here’s a table—this’ll do, won’t it?”
“Oh, yes,” she said. “This is perfectly all right.”
They sat down. A stocky lad in his shirt sleeves, and those rolled up, appeared beside the table, and made a friendly grin.
“Hello, there, Gus,” said the man with the gentian-blue muffler. “We’re only going to be here just a minute. You might bring us a couple of specials—that what you want, dear? All right, Gus, a couple of specials, and hurry them along, will you? I’ve got to get home early—I’ve got a terrible day tomorrow.”
Gus vanished.
“Want to take your coat off?” said the man with the gentian-blue muffler.
“Oh, I don’t think so,” said the woman in the leopard-skin coat. “It isn’t worth while.”
“No, it isn’t, really,” he said. “I’ve simply got to get to bed early. I’ve got to be in the office at crack o’ dawn. I mean it. What a day I’ve got ahead of me! Boy, what a day!”
“Ah,” she said. “You poor lamb.”
“That guy from Detroit is going to be there at nine,” he said, “and I’ve got a meeting at half-past ten, and we’ve got to fix up those contracts at twelve, and then I have to have lunch with J. G. and give him that report, and I’ve got God knows how many appointments all afternoon. Oh, I haven’t got much to do tomorrow. Not very much!”
“Ah,” she said.
“I’ve got to get downtown at crack o’ dawn,” he said. “I can’t rock into the office around eleven o’clock, the way I’ve been—All right, Gus, put them right here. Well, here we go. Yours all right?”
“Oh, it’s lovely,” she said. “Oo, it’s strong, though.”
“They are pretty powerful,” he said. “It’ll do you good. Can’t hurt anybody, if you just have one or two, and get to bed early. It’s this staying up till crack o’ dawn that knocks the hell out of you. I’m not going to do it any more. Starting tonight, I’m just going to have a couple of drinks, and go to bed before twelve. Then I’ll feel more like getting down to work at crack o’ dawn.”
“I think that’s terribly sensible,” she said.
“It’s the only thing to do,” he said. “I’m through with this stuff. I’ve been drinking too damn much. Everybody’s been telling me I look terrible. Don’t I look terrible?”
“Why, I don’t think you do at all,” she said. “You look a little bit tired sometimes, the way everybody does. But I think you look fine. You look lovely.”
“That’s what you say!” he said. “I look terrible. I know it. Go on and finish yours, and we’ll have one more. Oh, Gus! Couple of specials, will you? I should have told him to hurry. We’ve got to get out of here right away. What a day I’ve got tomorrow!”
“Oh, I know,” she said. “Poor boy.”
“Loosen your coat, why don’t you?” he said. “You’ll be cold when you go out.”
“All right, I will,” she said. “Hadn’t you better take your muffler off?”
“Well, I might as well,” he said. “It’s hot in here. Rotten air, in these places. Bad for you. I’m not going to sit around speakeasies any more. Worst thing you can do. Thanks, Gus. That’s what I call service. Well, here we go.”
“Oo, they taste strong,” she said. “Lord knows what they’ll do to us.”
“Can’t hurt you, if you do like this,” he said, “—just have a couple and then go home. It’s all right to stay up and drink if you can sleep all the next day, but it’s a different proposition when you’ve got to be downtown at crack o’ dawn. I’m not going to get plastered and stay out all night any more. Except maybe Saturday nights.”
“I think that’s a terribly good idea,” she said.
“You know what I may do?” he said. “I may go on the wagon altogether. It wouldn’t hurt me a bit to go on for a while. It wouldn’t hurt you, either.”
“I don’t drink so terribly much,” she said.
“Oh, you do pretty well, there, baby,” he said. “Everybody drinks too much. It’s enough to poison you. I don’t see how we’re alive, the stuff we drink. I’m going on the wagon. Come ahead and finish your drink. Want another?”
“No, thanks,” she said.
“Sure?” he said.
“No, really,” she said.
“Tell you what I thought we might do,” he said. “As long as I’m going on the wagon—and it would do you a lot of good to go on, too, dear, honestly it would—I thought we might have another little drink, tonight. What about it?”
“Why—if you want to,” she said. “As a matter of fact, these haven’t done anything at all to me.”
“Me, either,” he said. “They’re cheating us. Hey, Gus! Two more specials, and put something in them this time, will you? And don’t forget we’re in a hurry. God, I’ve got to get down to that office on time tomorrow! I’ve got the worst day I ever had in my life.”
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