What Is All This? (17 page)

“Count on me. I'll take care of you more than you can deal with. Now please come here?”

“You come over here. I'm the one who's pregnant. And I want you to read my poem inside your head. Do that and then we might go to bed. Bed and head. I like that, don't you? But I won't put it into my poem. My poem's done. I won't change a word of it. I'll even keep ‘toothsome' in, even if it doesn't mean pleasing.”

“It does, though. I'm almost positive about that.”

“Fine. What a natural instinct I have for words. I'm being facetious, of course. I stink as a poet.”

“No, you don't. You don't do it enough, that's all. But when you do, they mostly work. That one was a gem.”

“Now you're being sweet. Look at you—you're acting like a sweetheart. I'm almost beginning to believe what you say about the baby. I'm almost tempted to go over to you in bed without you first coming here, but I won't till you read my poem in my head. Not memorize it. Just read it once quietly to yourself. Come over.”

I get up and go to her. She holds out the sheet of paper. I take it and look at it. It's blank. I turn it over. Other side's blank too.

“Can you remember it?” I say. Because if you can or any part of it, you ought to quickly write it down.”

“I only want to be close to you now, is that enough?”

I put the paper on the desk, take her hands and stand her up. We hug.

“Oh, you big stiff, now it's all right with you, huh?” and I nod that yes right now it is with me.

Started. I'm going. Really moving. No stopping me now. Look at me fly. Fly is to run. Faster than the sound of speed. Speedier than the fast of sound. Sounder than the speed of fast. I don't know. I don't care. Makes no dif what holds up. Just to be on my way. Just to stay on my way. Right to the very end. The top. I'm there. Stop. The end.

I've reached the end. Very nice here. It is. It isn't. Plenty to do here. Nothing much. Nowhere to go but down. No fun. No sights. I sit. I stand. What to do? Let me see. I sit and stand and rest and sleep and stand and nap and eat and sit and stand and think what to do. What to do? I don't like it much at this end. I'll go back to where I began at the other end. Somewhere back there where I can do some other things and maybe go another way. But not just to stay right here. I go.

I'm heading back. Still in a rush. Places I've seen. Things I've done. All much the same. But all much different. Not bad going back. Seeing the same things from another way is what I meant. A long tunnel down, like. A long passageway down, like. Those are about the same. That's all right. Everything's all right. And maybe things have changed at the other end since I was last there.

I'm here. Back. At the other end. Hurray. Where I first began. It's changed somewhat. Or I've changed somewhat. Or I've or it's or both have changed a lot to somewhat. Could be. Don't know for sure. But it has changed. Or I have. Don't know for sure. Said that. Say something new. I can say I like it better here than at the other end. I can't say I like it better here than at the other end. They're both pretty much the same. So many things beginning to seem the same. Both places no place to go but the other way. Up or down. Back or back. Depending which end I'm at. I go.

Toward the other end. Places seen, things done. No longer the novelty of seeing it again coming from the other way. And still no better point to it all, it seems, than to reach the other end. I stand still. Maybe that's the point. To see the same thing till it means something to me. But standing still I find is seeing the same thing till I get tired of it. And going slower than before is seeing the same thing only more of it. And going faster than before is passing the same thing only less of it. I'm bad at definitions. But haven't time to clear them up. In a rush not so much to get to that other place but to pass through here.

I'm there. At the other end again. Seems the same. I'll stay to see if it stays the same or if I'll see things I've never seen before or in a way I've never seen. I stay. I sit. I stand. Still too much the same. It's almost exactly the same. Maybe even more than almost exactly the same. It is the same. Other than for my staying longer than my last time here. I can go back. I can stay at any of the places in between ends. I can stay here. I choose none. But that's choosing one. And I want to move. I choose movement, not a place. I jump up and down in place. That's moving without moving. That's being in the same place but not being in it. That's seeing at different levels. It means a lot of things but ultimately nothing. I choose going back. I don't choose, I just go back. Maybe there'll be some place to pass through in between ends this time. You never know. I go.

On my way back. Still no place to pass through in between ends. Maybe that point's past the last place where I can see it hasn't changed. I pass that place and that, and that place hasn't changed. Nothing's changed. Maybe none of what's to come has changed. Maybe only places I've just passed but can't see from here have changed. I turn around.

I start to the top end from the middle. The place I called the top end that first time I reached it only because I started out that first time from what I thought was the bottom. But it wasn't. And the top's not the top. And the top's not the bottom and the bottom's not the top. The middle's the middle, though, or as close to it as far as I can tell. And all the places I couldn't see from that so-called middle point I just left haven't changed too. And going a ways farther, all's the same too. Maybe things will start changing or have been changed by the time I get a quarter way from the top end. I reach that three-quarters' point, or as close to it as I can tell, and still nothing's changed. Maybe some of what's ahead will change or has been changed when I get halfway into the top quarter or a quarter way into the top eighth. But nothing's changed. Neither the halves of thirty-seconds or sixteenths of sixty-fourths. That's the same and that's the same too and that and this and everything I pass. They're all the same. I reach the top. It's the same too. What to do?

I'll stay here for the rest of my life. To go back would be foolish. Maybe things take more time to be changed than I thought, so why not this place over any other? But I find after a long time that if I only have a day left in my life I won't be able to stay here for the rest of my life. That foolishness is easier to live with than boredom. So I start back. It's all the same, of course. No new breakthroughs in between. I dig. I claw. I tap for hollow spots. No new breakthroughs in between. It's the same. But I mind less now. I begin to like what I come to expect. No, that's not so. I just accept. I reach that so-called middle point. I could turn around now and head back. I could go back and forth between middle point and top end or between any two points including the two ends, but what would be the point of all that? I haven't been for the longest time to what I first called the bottom, so I continue to that end. Things might have changed. Or better: For the longest time I haven't been to the bottom of all the places I've been to, so there's probably a better point for going there than anyplace else.

I reach the bottom end. I decide to stay where I first began. I stay. I want to go. I try jumping in place so as not to go. I try walking inches away and coming back. I try walking in circles, crawling in figure eights. I try jumping in circles, crawling backward in figure eighty-eights. I try everything I know and can do. All the numbers. All the positions. All the movements and combinations of numbers, positions and movements. I say stick it out as long as you can. I say why stick it out as long as you can? I try, though. I stick it out. I can't stick it out any longer. I go. I stay. I return. I rest. I reach. I stay. I stick. I go. I jump. I walk. I rest. I try. I crawl. I reach. I stay, go, return, walk, run, reach, rest, combine, stay, jump, crawl, try, rest, reach, stay, stick, go, combine, return. I try the thirty-seconds. The sixty-fourths. The one hundred twenty-eighths. The two hundred fifty-somethings. The five hundred something-somethings. It's the same. No change. It was never so good as it was when I first was at those two ends and for that entire first run. It was next never so good as it was when I first returned to that bottom end and during the second run. It was after those never so good as it was when I first returned to that top end and during that third run. I think about all those for a change. I think about it all till I've thought about it all, and that too becomes unchanged.

Dirk drove to Helen's house to pick up their son. It was his weekend with Roy—once every other, which he and Helen, without lawyer advice or court decree, had congenially agreed to a year ago, when they separated and she filed for divorce—but she had different plans for today.

“Donald invited us to the city for the weekend. Roy can't wait, as Donald's been telling him what great wooden planes they'll make and how much fun Roy'll have sleeping in the balcony-bedroom setup Donald's built in his studio. But what happened to your phone? I called before, around the time I figured I wasn't going to hear from you. Called collect, but the operator, checking with her records office, because at first I refused to believe what she said, told me that as of yesterday, your phone's been removed. Why? What puzzles me most is that you paid good money having a phone installed, and one week after it's in and when you really could've used it, you have it removed. Weird. I've definitely made up my mind, Dirk: Sometimes you're absolutely weird. Were all sorts of incoming wrong numbers getting you down, as they did in L.A. last year? Maybe I'm being unfair, but you at least had that phone for two months, which suggests you're getting better, which means progressively worse. My point is that Roy could've reached you if you had a phone, and now he has to wait for you to call. Next time, I suppose you'll have your phone taken out the day after it's installed. And the time after that, if any phone company is insane enough to let you have a phone, you'll ask the telephone serviceman to remove the phone right after he's packed up his installation tools to go. But, admittedly, all that's your business now,” and she yelled down the hall “Roy? Is your knapsack packed? And your daddy's here.”

Roy came out of his room, his unhitched overloaded knapsack hanging from a shoulder by one strap. He rushed up to Dirk, kissed him, said “You coming to San Francisco with Mommy and me?”

Helen said no, “Your father has once more made the mistake of driving down without first calling.”

Roy talked excitedly about his trip, how sleeping in a bedroll at Donald's was going to be like camping out in the woods. “And he says I can look out the windows there and see mountains and ocean and even look through a telescope to the stars. Do you want to sleep with me?”

“Dirk has his own flat in San Francisco, which you can probably stay at next weekend, if he doesn't mind.” She looked at Dirk for confirmation as she sipped from her mug. “Want some tea? You've that old desiring expression again. I didn't make enough for two, but if you think you need it for the drive up I'll put more water on.” She went to the kitchen—Roy to his room to find his cowboy boots—and returned with two smoking mugs of tea. His was very sweet, just as she liked it, with two to three tablespoonfuls of honey in it, the liquid well stirred. “Is something wrong with the tea?” she said. She sipped her own tea as a test, seemed about to spit it back, swallowed, said it was too tart, too lemony, “Uch, it's just awful,” and they exchanged mugs.

“You like it tart, I like it sweet—our respective predilections, if you like; natures, so to speak. You like the shade, New York snow, barely endurable Eastern winters, depressing poetry, music and films, and decomposing flowers to paint. While I like the sun, warmth, California spring, summer and everything happy and silly that goes with it, including getting a tan. You always put down that silliness in me. No, not always. We got married and everything was nice for a couple of days and then you suddenly became stern and critical, you very definitely changed then—and started doing your unlevelheaded best to kill off my own silliness. What do you say about all that now? Donald's very much like me, in a way: Opposites now detract. Sometimes he's terribly silly, does cart wheels in the street; more than that: just dumb, foolish, indescribable things—he gets along with just about everyone. He's able to cut off his equally serious work almost immediately and simply have a gassy time. And so far, he and Roy get along great. He's teaching him about camping and carpentry and all kinds of ocean-creature things and even how to write out their names on your old electric typewriter. All three of their names apiece, including the Mister and Master—Roy wouldn't settle for less. Roy,” she yelled, “will you move it along? It's past noon.”

Roy hobbled into the room in one boot, said he was still looking for the other.

“You don't wear cowboy boots on Saturdays. Just Tuesdays and Fridays—you know that. “

There it is,” Roy said, and he crawled under the couch, came out with the boot and sat on the floor to put it on.

“I said you don't wear those boots on Saturdays. Find your moccasins, jackboots, even your mukluks, but I want no more diddling around.”

“Please?” Roy said, and he stood up, walked a few steps and fell over; the boots were on the wrong feet. Most of his clothes, books, toys, tools and crayons fell out of the knapsack and Roy screamed “Damn it.” He threw the knapsack at his dog, who had just come into the room, and was snapping his crayons in two when Helen picked him up by his ankles and began tapping his head on the rug.

“Idiot,” she said.

“I give up,” he said.

“Idiot, idiot, idiot.”

“Mom, I said I give up, so let me down.”

She stood him up on his feet. They looked crossly at each other, Roy serious, Helen mocking, then started laughing, and hugged. The dog, Sabine, got between their legs. “Ummm,” Helen said, still hugging Roy with her eyes closed, “just ummm.”

They all left the house. Dirk got on one knee to pick weeds out of the gravel driveway as Helen, Roy and Sabine got into her car. “Call next time,” she said. “And if you're going to Ken's thing Sunday night, maybe Don and I will see you there,” and she started the car, he stepped aside, and they drove away.

He weeded the driveway clean, got in his car and was in the freeway's speed lane doing 75, miles from their house, when he saw them in the rearview mirror, Roy and Sabine standing on the back seat, looking out the rear window, Helen wanting to pass. He flicked on the directional signal and switched lanes. Helen flashed a begrudging thanks as she drove alongside him. Roy spotted him and beamed and waved. Dirk waved back. Roy now waved with both hands and shook Sabine's paw at him and nudged Helen's shoulder to point out Dirk driving behind them in the adjoining lane. Dirk floored the gas pedal, but her more powerful Saab was still increasing its speed and distance over him. Roy displayed his tool kit, took a hammer out of it and made hammering motions in the air. Dirk smiled, nodded. Soon there were several cars separating hers from his laboring Volks, and Roy blew him a kiss.

Dirk turned on the portable radio strapped to the front passenger seat by the seat belt. The
Warsaw Concerto
by Richard Addinsell, the announcer said, and the name of the orchestra, conductor, pianist, record label and the LP number and time of day. Dirk hadn't heard the piece for years. When he was thirteen or fourteen, it had been his favorite music—this same pianist on both sides of a 12-inch breakable record that, at fifteen, he jokingly broke over his brother's head. He tuned the radio in, listened to the loud dramatic opening, switched to AM and the telephone voice of a woman who said “Certainly, Dr. King's death is sad, as every assassination and sudden making of a widow and four fatherless children is sad. But who's to say he wasn't asking for it a little, you know what I mean?” and the broadcaster's enraged denouncement of her bigotry and proclamation of her stupidity and the loud click of his hanging up, and Dirk turned the radio off. A car honked behind him. He was straddling the broken white line between the two left lanes, and while he edged into the slow lane, an elderly woman cut into the speed lane, narrowly missing his rear fender. From across the middle lane, they looked at each other. She frowned, glared. Dirk let his tongue hang out and crossed his eyes, as if he were being strangled. She accelerated her huge Mercedes to 80, 90; in seconds, he was left far behind. He took the San Mateo exit to the restaurant he liked best in the Bay area, at the outskirts of town.

They'd had their wedding reception there, unusual Japanese and Okinawan dishes made special for the feast in the tatami room upstairs. Lots of the guests got drunk on shochu and high-grade sake illegally flown in that week from Tokyo through the owner's secret contacts at JAL; most of the other guests got stoned on Israeli hashish smoked in the spray-deodorized johns. Irises, cherry blossoms, rose incense, paper slippers, friends' children sitting on the foot-high tables and guzzling from sake carafes filled with soda, handfuls of cold cooked rice thrown at the couple as they left. Later, he picked rice out of her hair; together, they painted “peace” in fluorescent acrylics on their bedroom window overlooking the beach at Santa Cruz; in bed, she said how life was best when she had the sun, health, loving man and a backward and upside-down view of “peace” from a comfy new mattress all at the same time; but where, she wanted to know, will they go from here?

A card, hooked over his front doorknob, read that he hadn't been home to receive a telegram; and penciled on the other side was the deliverer's personal message: The gram's been slipped under your door.”

“If you have no objections,” Chrisie wired from San Luis Obispo, “I'll be driving up for weekend with two girls.”

Chrisie's younger daughter, Sophie, was genetically his. He'd met Chrisie at a New York party three summers ago, he in the city to be with his dying sister and grieving folks, she on a week's vacation from the man who was still her adoring hot-tempered husband; and minutes after their orgasm, when he was squirming out from under her to breathe, she said she was convinced she conceived. “Preposterous, granted, but I felt it, just as I felt it with Caroline three years ago, their infinitesimal gametic coupling before, as explosive as our own.”

He rolled up the canvas he'd been painting on the floor, put away his income-tax statements and forms—Federal, state, New York City, six jobs in one year and once three part-time jobs a day, and he was going to be penalized for filing late—shampooed his rug with laundry detergent, washed down the baseboards with diluted ammonia, dusted every object in the place a two-and five-year-old could touch or climb up on a chair and reach; on his knees, scoured the bathroom tub and tiles and soaped the linoleum floors with the now ammonia-maimed sponge.

He left the door unlocked and hauled two bags of linens and clothes to the laundromat down the hill. A girl was in front, her smock cut from the same inexpensive Indian bedspread he used to cover the mattress on his floor. “Spare change?” she said. He never gave, but today handed her a quarter. Thanks loads,” and “Spare change?” to a man approaching the laundromat with a box filled with laundry, detergent, starch and magazines. He said “I work for my money.” She said “I work for it too, by asking for spare change.” He said “Dumb begging kid,” and she said “Dear beautiful man.” And he: “You ought to be thrown into Santa Rita with the rest of your crazy friends,” and she: “And you ought to drop some acid.” He: “And you ought to poison yourself also.” She: “I wasn't referring to poison.” “Well, I was.” “Spare change? Spare a dime, a nickel, a penny, a smile?” “Out of my way, pig,” and he shoved her aside with the box and went into the laundromat.

Dirk read while his laundry was being washed. His were the most colorful clothes in the machines. A few minutes before the cycles finished, he got up to stick a dime in the one free drier, but a woman beat him to it by a couple of seconds. “You got to be fast, not slow,” she said, and stuck three dimes into the coin slot.

“Spare change?” the girl said outside.

A man set down four shopping bags of laundry and opened his change purse. “Oh, no,” and he snapped the purse shut, “I forgot. I'll need all the change for the machines. The coin changers have been vandalized so often this month the owner's had to seal them up, and now she's got to take them out, as they're still being forced open. People are violent and nuts.”

One of the driers stopped. A woman sitting under a hair drier and another unwrapping a candy bar signaled with their hands and eyes and candy bar that the machine wasn't theirs. Dirk touched the arm of a man on a bench with a hat over his face, who was the only other person in the room the drier might belong to, but the man still slept. Dirk removed the warm clothes from the drier, folded them neatly and stacked them in a basket cart. He was throwing his wet clothes into the drier when the man who'd been sleeping before squeezed Dirk's wrist and said “Don't any of you people have the decency to wait?”

The telegram read: The girls and I won't arrive till tomorrow. Husband, parents, complications, love.” Dirk drank a few vodka and tonics and fell asleep, awoke in the dark with the radio on and went outside. He had a Moroccan tea at a Haight Street coffeehouse, where many young people were drawing, writing, playing checkers and chess, talking about police harassment, pot planting, Hippie Hill freedom, the Bach cantata being played, democracy now but total revolution, if that's what it's going to have to come to, tonight's rock concerts at the Fillmore, Avalon, Winterland, Straight. A man sat beside him, pulled on the long hairs of his unbrushed beard and braided matted hair and said “Hey there, joint's getting real artsy. Very beautiful old North Beach days. Culture with a
Das Kapital
K. Loonies just doing their dovey ding, am I tight?” Dirk shrugged, the man laughed and patted Dirk's shoulder consolingly. A girl at the next table shrugged and the man said “Yeah, North Beach
si
and now the Haight. You're all gonna burn out famous,” he announced to the house. “Like Ginsberg, Kerouac, Ferlinghetti, me boys, me best, me fine old friendlies who bade it ballsy and big. So try and refudiate me in five years, fiends, that all of you who pluck to it haven't made buns of bread,” and he finished his coffee, chugalugged down all the milk in the table's cream pitcher and left.