Complete Stories (21 page)
Authors: Dorothy Parker,Colleen Bresse,Regina Barreca
Little do they know, the blind fools, that I’m all full of tenderness and affection, and just aching to give and give and give. All they can see is this unfortunate exterior. There’s a man looking at it now. All right, baby, go on and look your head off. Funny, isn’t it? Look pretty silly, don’t I, sitting here holding my knee? Yes, and I’m the only one that’s going to hold it, too. What do you think of that, sweetheart?
Heaven send that no one comes over here and tries to make friends with me. That’s the first time I ever wished that, in all my life. What shall I do if anyone comes over? Suppose they try to shake hands with me. Suppose somebody asks me to dance. I’ll just have to rock my head and say, “No spik Inglese,” that’s all. Can this be me, praying that nobody will come near me? And when I was getting dressed, I thought, “Maybe this will be the night that romance will come into my life.” Oh, if I only had the use of both my hands, I’d just cover my face and cry my heart out.
That man, that man who was looking! He’s coming over! Oh, now what? I can’t say, “Sir, I have not the dubious pleasure of your acquaintance.” I’m rotten at that sort of thing. I can’t answer him in perfect French. Lord knows I can’t get up and walk haughtily away. I wonder how he’d take it if I told him all. He looks a little too Brooks Brothers to be really understanding. The better they look, the more they think you are trying to get new with them, if you talk of Real Things, Things That Matter. Maybe he’d think I was just eccentric. Maybe he’s got a humane streak, somewhere underneath. Maybe he’s got a sister or a mother or something. Maybe he’ll turn out to be one of Nature’s noblemen.
How do you do? Listen, what would you do if you were I, and . . . ?
The New Yorker
, September 8, 1928
, September 8, 1928
New York to Detroit
“All ready with Detroit,” said the telephone operator.
“Hello,” said the girl in New York.
“Hello?” said the young man in Detroit.
“Oh, Jack!” she said. “Oh, darling, it’s so wonderful to hear you. You don’t know how much I—”
“Hello?” he said.
“Ah, can’t you hear me?” she said. “Why, I can hear you just as if you were right beside me. Is this any better, dear? Can you hear me now?”
“Who did you want to speak to?” he said.
“You, Jack!” she said. “You, you. This is Jean, darling. Oh, please try to hear me. This is Jean.”
“Who?” he said.
“Jean,” she said. “Ah, don’t you know my voice? It’s Jean, dear. Jean.”
“Oh, hello there,” he said. “Well. Well, for heaven’s sake. How are you?”
“I’m all right,” she said. “Oh, I’m not, either, darling. I—oh, it’s just terrible. I can’t stand it any more. Aren’t you coming back? Please, when are you coming back? You don’t know how awful it is, without you. It’s been such a long time, dear—you said it would be just four or five days, and it’s nearly three weeks. It’s like years and years. Oh, it’s been so awful, sweetheart—it’s just——”
“Hey, I’m terribly sorry,” he said, “but I can’t hear one damn thing you’re saying. Can’t you talk louder, or something?”
“I’ll try, I’ll try,” she said. “Is this better? Now can you hear?”
“Yeah, now I can, a little,” he said. “Don’t talk so fast, will you? What did you say, before?”
“I said it’s just awful without you,” she said. “It’s such a long time, dear. And I haven’t had a word from you. I—oh, I’ve just been nearly crazy, Jack. Never even a post-card, dearest, or a——”
“Honestly, I haven’t had a second,” he said. “I’ve been working like a fool. God, I’ve been rushed.”
“Ah, have you?” she said. “I’m sorry, dear. I’ve been silly. But it was just—oh, it was just hell, never hearing a word. I thought maybe you’d telephone to say good-night, sometimes,—you know, the way you used to, when you were away.”
“Why, I was going to, a lot of times,” he said, “but I thought you’d probably be out, or something.”
“I haven’t been out,” she said. “I’ve been staying here, all by myself. It’s—it’s sort of better, that way. I don’t want to see people. Everybody says, ‘When’s Jack coming back?’ and ‘What do you hear from Jack?’ and I’m afraid I’ll cry in front of them. Darling, it hurts so terribly when they ask me about you, and I have to say I don’t——”
“This is the damndest, lousiest connection I ever saw in my life,” he said. “What hurts? What’s the matter?”
“I said, it hurts so terribly when people ask me about you,” she said, “and I have to say—Oh, never mind. Never mind. How are you, dear? Tell me how you are.”
“Oh, pretty good,” he said. “Tired as the devil. You all right?”
“Jack, I—that’s what I wanted to tell you,” she said. “I’m terribly worried. I’m nearly out of my mind. Oh, what will I do, dear, what are we going to do? Oh, Jack, Jack, darling!”
“Hey, how can I hear you when you mumble like that?” he said. “Can’t you talk louder? Talk right into the what-you-call-it.”
“I can’t scream it over the telephone!” she said. “Haven’t you any sense? Don’t you know what I’m telling you? Don’t you know? Don’t you know?”
“I give up,” he said. “First you mumble, and then you yell. Look, this doesn’t make sense. I can’t hear anything, with this rotten connection. Why don’t you write me a letter, in the morning? Do that, why don’t you? And I’ll write you one. See?”
“Jack, listen, listen!” she said. “You listen to me! I’ve got to talk to you. I tell you I’m nearly crazy. Please, dearest, hear what I’m saying. Jack, I——”
“Just a minute,” he said. “Someone’s knocking at the door.
Come in. Well, for cryin’ out loud! Come on in, bums. Hang your coats up on the floor, and sit down. The Scotch is in the closet, and there’s ice in that pitcher. Make yourselves at home—act like you were in a regular bar. Be with you right away.
Hey, listen, there’s a lot of crazy Indians just come in here, and I can’t hear myself think. You go ahead and write me a letter tomorrow. Will you?”
Come in. Well, for cryin’ out loud! Come on in, bums. Hang your coats up on the floor, and sit down. The Scotch is in the closet, and there’s ice in that pitcher. Make yourselves at home—act like you were in a regular bar. Be with you right away.
Hey, listen, there’s a lot of crazy Indians just come in here, and I can’t hear myself think. You go ahead and write me a letter tomorrow. Will you?”
“Write you a letter!” she said. “Oh, God, don’t you think I’d have written you before, if I’d known where to reach you? I didn’t even know that, till they told me at your office today. I got so——”
“Oh, yeah, did they?” he said. “I thought I
—Ah, pipe down, will you? Give a guy a chance. This is an expensive talk going on here.
Say, look, this must be costing you a million dollars. You oughtn’t to do this.”
—Ah, pipe down, will you? Give a guy a chance. This is an expensive talk going on here.
Say, look, this must be costing you a million dollars. You oughtn’t to do this.”
“What do you think I care about that?” she said. “I’ll die if I don’t talk to you. I tell you I’ll die, Jack. Sweetheart, what is it? Don’t you want to talk to me? Tell me what makes you this way. Is it—don’t you really like me any more? Is that it? Don’t you, Jack?”
“Hell, I can’t hear,” he said. “Don’t what?”
“Please,” she said. “Please, please. Please, Jack, listen. When are you coming back, darling? I need you so. I need you so terribly. When are you coming back?”
“Why, that’s the thing,” he said. “That’s what I was going to write you about tomorrow.
Come on, now, how about shutting up just for a minute? A joke’s a joke.
Hello. Hear me all right? Why, you see, the way things came out today, it looks a little bit like I’d have to go on to Chicago for a while. Looks like a pretty big thing, and it won’t mean a very long time, I don’t believe. Looks as if I’d be going out there next week, I guess.”
Come on, now, how about shutting up just for a minute? A joke’s a joke.
Hello. Hear me all right? Why, you see, the way things came out today, it looks a little bit like I’d have to go on to Chicago for a while. Looks like a pretty big thing, and it won’t mean a very long time, I don’t believe. Looks as if I’d be going out there next week, I guess.”
“Jack, no!” she said. “Oh, don’t do that! You can’t do that. You can’t leave me alone like this. I’ve got to see you, dearest. I’ve got to. You’ve got to come back, or I’ve got to come there to you. I can’t go through this. Jack, I can’t, I——”
“Look, we better say good-night now,” he said. “No use trying to make out what you say, when you talk all over yourself like that. And there’s so much racket here
—Hey, can the harmony, will you? God, it’s terrible. Want me to be thrown out of here?
You go get a good night’s sleep, and I’ll write you all about it tomorrow.”
—Hey, can the harmony, will you? God, it’s terrible. Want me to be thrown out of here?
You go get a good night’s sleep, and I’ll write you all about it tomorrow.”
“Listen!” she said. “Jack, don’t go ’way! Help me, darling. Say something to help me through tonight. Say you love me, for God’s sake say you still love me. Say it. Say it.”
“Ah, I can’t talk,” he said. “This is fierce. I’ll write you first thing in the morning. ’By. Thanks for calling up.”
“Jack!” she said. “Jack, don’t go. Jack, wait a minute. I’ve got to talk to you. I’ll talk quietly. I won’t cry. I’ll talk so you can hear me. Please, dear, please——”
“All through with Detroit?” said the operator.
“No!” she said. “No, no, no! Get him, get him back again right away! Get him back. No, never mind. Never mind it now. Never——”
Vanity Fair
, October 1928
, October 1928
Big Blonde
Hazel Morse was a large, fair woman of the type that incites some men when they use the word “blonde” to click their tongues and wag their heads roguishly. She prided herself upon her small feet and suffered for her vanity, boxing them in snub-toed, high-heeled slippers of the shortest bearable size. The curious things about her were her hands, strange terminations to the flabby white arms splattered with pale tan spots—long, quivering hands with deep and convex nails. She should not have disfigured them with little jewels.
She was not a woman given to recollections. At her middle thirties, her old days were a blurred and flickering sequence, an imperfect film, dealing with the actions of strangers.
In her twenties, after the deferred death of a hazy widowed mother, she had been employed as a model in a wholesale dress establishment—it was still the day of the big woman, and she was then prettily colored and erect and high-breasted. Her job was not onerous, and she met numbers of men and spent numbers of evenings with them, laughing at their jokes and telling them she loved their neckties. Men liked her, and she took it for granted that the liking of many men was a desirable thing. Popularity seemed to her to be worth all the work that had to be put into its achievement. Men liked you because you were fun, and when they liked you they took you out, and there you were. So, and successfully, she was fun. She was a good sport. Men like a good sport.
No other form of diversion, simpler or more complicated, drew her attention. She never pondered if she might not be better occupied doing something else. Her ideas, or, better, her acceptances, ran right along with those of the other substantially built blondes in whom she found her friends.
When she had been working in the dress establishment some years she met Herbie Morse. He was thin, quick, attractive, with shifting lines about his shiny, brown eyes and a habit of fiercely biting at the skin around his finger nails. He drank largely; she found that entertaining. Her habitual greeting to him was an allusion to his state of the previous night.
“Oh, what a peach you had,” she used to say, through her easy laugh. “I thought I’d die, the way you kept asking the waiter to dance with you.”
She liked him immediately upon their meeting. She was enormously amused at his fast, slurred sentences, his interpolations of apt phrases from vaudeville acts and comic strips; she thrilled at the feel of his lean arm tucked firm beneath the sleeve of her coat; she wanted to touch the wet, flat surface of his hair. He was as promptly drawn to her. They were married six weeks after they had met.
She was delighted at the idea of being a bride; coquetted with it, played upon it. Other offers of marriage she had had, and not a few of them, but it happened that they were all from stout, serious men who had visited the dress establishment as buyers; men from Des Moines and Houston and Chicago and, in her phrase, even funnier places. There was always something immensely comic to her in the thought of living elsewhere than New York. She could not regard as serious proposals that she share a western residence.
She wanted to be married. She was nearing thirty now, and she did not take the years well. She spread and softened, and her darkening hair turned her to inexpert dabblings with peroxide. There were times when she had little flashes of fear about her job. And she had had a couple of thousand evenings of being a good sport among her male acquaintances. She had come to be more conscientious than spontaneous about it.
Herbie earned enough, and they took a little apartment far uptown. There was a Mission-furnished dining-room with a hanging central light globed in liver-colored glass; in the living-room were an “over-stuffed suite,” a Boston fern, and a reproduction of the Henner “Magdalene” with the red hair and the blue draperies; the bedroom was in gray enamel and old rose, with Herbie’s photograph on Hazel’s dressing-table and Hazel’s likeness on Herbie’s chest of drawers.
She cooked—and she was a good cook—and marketed and chatted with the delivery boys and the colored laundress. She loved the flat, she loved her life, she loved Herbie. In the first months of their marriage, she gave him all the passion she was ever to know.
She had not realized how tired she was. It was a delight, a new game, a holiday, to give up being a good sport. If her head ached or her arches throbbed, she complained piteously, babyishly. If her mood was quiet, she did not talk. If tears came to her eyes, she let them fall.
She fell readily into the habit of tears during the first year of her marriage. Even in her good sport days, she had been known to weep lavishly and disinterestedly on occasion. Her behavior at the theater was a standing joke. She could weep at anything in a play—tiny garments, love both unrequited and mutual, seduction, purity, faithful servitors, wedlock, the triangle.
Other books
Demon's Delight by MaryJanice Davidson
The Prettiest Feathers by John Philpin
The Marvellous Boy by Peter Corris
Between Two Promises by Shelter Somerset
Smarty Bones by Carolyn Haines
Secondary Characters by Rachel Schieffelbein
The Two Mrs. Abbotts by D. E. Stevenson
The Idiot by Fyodor Dostoyevsky
Married to the Sheikh by Katheryn Lane
Divine Intervention by Cheryl Kaye Tardif