A Strange Commonplace Page 6

  An Apartment

  THE OLD MAN HAD BEEN SAVING PILLS FOR THREE YEARS, Percodans mostly, although there were some others. He thought of them as his medical Mickey Finn. He had a good handful of them and would use them as soon as he’d dealt himself the winning hand, or, perhaps more precisely, the hand that would finally beat life. He had determined, a couple of years before, when it became apparent to him that to die would be a more reasonable choice than to live, that each day he would shuffle a deck of cards, a poker deck from which the Jokers had been removed, and allow himself eight cuts, playing for a flush. He had also determined that eight cuts would be fair, this based on the draw poker he’d played all his life, the classic game, one he thought of as old-fashioned, that permitted players to discard and draw up to three cards after the hand was opened. He also made it a rule that he would play but three hands a day, one in the morning with his second cup of coffee; one around noon; and one in the evening after he’d made himself a bourbon and water. He had often drawn four of the same suit, and, even more often, three, but he was certain that four hearts, for instance, were no closer to a flush the next time than one; or, as he thought of it, close but no cigar did not mean cigar next time. So he did not torment himself with the anguish suffered by those who believe that luck and chance are incremental and progressive and fair, that is, that luck must, of necessity, change. But it was, indeed, interesting, nonetheless, when he had drawn, perhaps, four clubs on his first four cuts with four cuts to go. The odds would seem to be with him in such instances, but he’d never yet, of course, drawn that fifth club. He invariably thought, at such times, how pleasant it would be to believe in a God to whom he could pray, a God who would either change the cards’ positions in the deck or direct his hand. Dear God, give me a flush so that I can die. But there was nothing but the deck, life, and, just a blink away, death. He could have, surely, simply swallowed the pills, plus an insurance bottle of over-the-counter sleeping pills, with a tumbler of bourbon; but he thought that his simple game was a duty that he owed to life, even though life had nothing for him anymore. One evening, after he’d begun his final routine, it came to him that this game, this civilized courtship of death, was the act that permitted him to go on living, it had become his life. There was a neat irony to this, it pleased him greatly: to look forward to living so that he could play for the right to die. Very neat. He, incidentally, was sure that he had an edge on the game, perhaps even an unfair advantage, one that had been hard for him to acknowledge, perhaps because he had never employed it. For he knew, quite simply knew that a deck of cards that he’d taken, some twenty years earlier, from a hotel room in the Ritz-Carlton in Marina del Rey, a deck which he’d never removed from its cellophane wrapper, was the charmed and magical deck that would, on its first use, lead him into the pleasures of nothingness. He even saw the flush, red and beautiful, in diamonds: three, seven, ten, nine, King.

  Success

  CARSON TOLD HER THAT HE’D ONCE READ AN ACCOUNT IN some magazine of a dream in which a woman, the wife of the man who was dreaming, turned into Meryl Streep. In the dream. She looked at him and ate the last piece of dill pickle on her plate. And? she said. What’s your point? I don’t really remember the article too well, he said. Lunch was almost over, which was too bad, although he knew that he had no chance with her, well, maybe he did, maybe, but he didn’t have the courage to risk his marriage, it was ridiculous, unthinkable. But when she looked the way she looked today, in a dark business suit and white blouse, well, when she looked the way she looked today. Oh, wait, he said, right, I think the point was that the guy hated Meryl Streep but in the dream he wanted to—he wanted to make love to her. But he really didn’t like her at all, the actual her. You must have been asleep in your psych lectures, she said. Get yourself a selected Freud, one with the dream stuff in it, The Interpretation of Dreams. What do you think of Meryl Streep? she said. She stood up and smoothed her skirt over her hips and thighs. Oh sweet Jesus. She’s O.K.? he said, why? I think she’s a pretentious ham, she said, all those irritating accents are supposed to show us that she’s a great actress? She puts on some broad accent, her nose gets red, and she cries a few times, that’s the routine in every movie. Sure, he said, that’s right. He was looking at the lace edging on the collar of her blouse. Don’t you think so? she said, that that’s about the extent of her talent? I’m on the side of the guy who had the dream—but when he’s awake! He stood up and she asked him to leave the tip, she’d get the check. You bought last time, she said. O.K. he said, I’ll pick it up next time, then. She paid at the register and he stood back a few feet, admiring her, her nose and ears, her hair, her little gold-ball earrings, her jacket and skirt, her shoes and stockings, her legs. They walked out onto the street and started back to the office. You were looking at me back there, weren’t you? she said. Her voice was even, neutral, placid. Yes, he said, blushing. You were looking at my legs. Yes, he said, do you want to have a drink after work some time? I’m married, she said, you know that, and so are you. Do you want to have a drink some time? he said. He looked at the slender gold chain around her neck. Is the married, ah, thing, problem, she said, O.K. with you, is it all right with you? How about tomorrow? he said, sure it is. I’ll let you know in the morning, she said. A drink, right? Yes, just a drink. They stopped at the curb for traffic and he looked at her profile. His wife was just as attractive, maybe moreso. So, she said, buy that Freud, and see what he has to say. Meryl Streep! she said. They stepped off the curb and his forearm brushed her hip. It felt like fire.

  A Small Adventure

  AL WAS ALMOST ALWAYS LATE WITH THE CHILD-SUPPORT check lately, and when it did come, it was often for less than the court had ordered him to pay. But what was she supposed to do about it? She had no money for a lawyer, and the very thought of getting mixed up with family court or whatever it was and all the riffraff there made her want to cry. She was alone with her son and broke and in a new neighborhood that she hardly knew. And dependent on Al, the least dependable man in the world even when they were still married! On occasion, she tried to call him at his home number, but every time she did, Estelle would answer and pretend that she had no idea of who was on the line. Dottie? she’d say. Dottie who? She wanted to reach through the phone and scratch the bitch’s eyes out, Dottie who! And she was a whore as well. Mrs. Mertis had told her, not without sour pleasure, that she’d seen the woman Al ran off with in Coney Island, in Scoville’s, sitting drunk at the bar with two greaseballs who had their hands all over her, Estelle, wasn’t that her name? A disgrace, and I had my daughter with me. Dottie thought about writing Al a letter, telling him about his slut of a wife, but ended up turning on the radio and sitting in the dark, smoking. After a month or so, she began talking to a neighbor, a man who lived a couple of doors away, in a frame house that badly needed painting. He seemed friendly enough, a nice man, really, who worked for Con Ed, and who, he confided to her, not in so many words, was unhappy in his marriage. He looked helpless and sad and resigned as he told her this. Just between you and me, he said. Dottie had met his wife a couple of times; she was much older than her husband, drab and worn out. The man never told Dottie why he was unhappy, save to say that he’d married two women, his wife and her mother, it was a curse. Once a week his wife would go out to Elmhurst to visit her mother, who was—maybe, the man said—half-crippled with arthritis. Her daughter would shop, do the laundry, clean the apartment, cook for the week sometimes, and stay overnight. When she returned, she’d be tired, tense, mad as hell, and she’d take it out on him! Nag, nag, nag him about his drinking, which wasn’t drinking, a couple of beers, maybe a ball or two of whiskey, I work hard for a living, for Christ’s sake. One evening, after she’d put the boy to bed, she was surprised to get a call from him. He was alone, maybe she’d like to come over for a drink—iced tea or ginger ale, if she liked, maybe play some gin. It would be nice to talk to an adult for an hour or two. But she knew very well that he liked her by the way he looked at her when the
y met. But she was only two doors away, the boy would be fine, she’d be there and back in no time. So she left, walking quickly to the side porch door of his house. And so their affair began, Dottie visiting for an hour or two, never more, on those nights that the man’s wife—Mrs. Sweetness and Light, he called her—was in Queens. After their first sexual encounter, on the linoleum floor of the closed-in porch, which occurred abruptly as she was leaving after her initial visit, he asked her, matter of factly, if she’d bring a bath towel the next time. They could, well, love each other, he said, on the rug in the living room, it would be more comfortable, especially for her. She was shocked and embarrassed, but the next time she brought the towel. He told her that he couldn’t soil the sheets and he couldn’t use one of his—his wife’s—towels, she’d look in the hamper immediately and start in with a million questions. So Dottie brought the towel each time, and watched him spread it on the living room carpet next to the sofa. He’d kiss her, grope her, help her down to the floor, take off her panties, and mount her. She would feel dirty and disgusted, but she went over every week. She felt that it was a duty that she had somehow assumed. Eventually, she’d take her underwear off before she went to the house, and there she’d stand, after dark, it was always after dark, waiting for him to open the porch door, her towel under her arm, naked beneath her skirt. Just another slut, like Estelle, just another whore, she thought. On many, perhaps most occasions, the man was too drunk to do anything but writhe on top of her, pushing his groin against hers, cursing his wife. She’d get up off the floor and go home, once laughing to herself in the street at the thought that she didn’t, at least, have to get dressed. One night, when she got back home, the boy was sitting in the kitchen in the dark, weeping convulsively in terror. It took her an hour to make him believe that she was really his mother and not the lady who had stolen Daddy. She told the man the story, told him that she just couldn’t do it any more, she liked him, but, well, if he had children he’d know. It’s O.K. with me, he said, drunk, you’re just like the old lady, anyway, a goddamn iceberg, no wonder your old man walked out on you. After that, when they met on the street, they barely nodded, although his wife would sometimes give her a small, frightened smile. Soon after the affair ended, the checks stopped altogether, and when she called, the operator said that the number was no longer in service, and that there was no new listing for that name. She called Al’s office and asked for his department head—the man she’d always talked to whenever she’d tried, unsuccessfully, to get Al at work: he had always stepped away from his desk. He told her that Al had been, well, he’d been, ah, let go. For some small indiscretions. Concerning the petty cash account, he said, in a whisper. It was handled quietly, stayed in the company. She hung up and looked at the wall, then lit a cigarette. Petty cash, she said. Petty cash. Petty cash, you stupid stupid stupid.

  Pearl Gray Homburg

  WHEN HE WALKED INTO HIS APARTMENT THE AIR FELT different, something was off. Then he saw, on the scarred drop-leaf table in what he jokingly called the dining room, a pearl gray homburg, its brim and crown soiled, its black grosgrain band sweat-stained and discolored. Draped over the back of one of the creaking library chairs he’d bought from the Salvation Army was Elaine’s long flowered skirt. He sat at the table and lit a cigarette, what the hell are these doing here? The hat? He got up and went into the living room to get an ashtray and saw, on the studio couch, a neat pile of change. The bowl, hand-thrown, as Elaine had noted, that she’d bought on Eighth Street for him to keep his change and keys in, was gone. She’d been in the apartment, but what was going on? Or maybe it was Jenny who’d been in the apartment, but he’d never given her keys. At that moment, he realized that Jenny had told Elaine that he’d been seeing both of them. He could imagine her face, screwed up in false anguish, as she’d asked Elaine to please understand, she was sorry, really sorry. It must have been an acute pleasure for her. He knew, then, that Elaine had taken everything that she considered hers, not just the bowl. Her clothes, of course, would all be gone, save for the skirt, but what else had she taken? Two hours later, after he’d checked, he had made a mental list of the missing items, which he then carefully transferred to a notebook: A 1960 Bodley Head edition of Ulysses, without a dust jacket; a Lamy combination pen-and-pencil in gray matte finish, with extra ink refills and leads; a heavy black woolen sweater with a shawl collar that a junkie friend of hers had stolen; a ten-inch Revere Ware skillet; a black-and-white-striped apron from Pottery Barn; a pair of porcelain egg coddlers; an oven mitt; a set of four wooden cooking spoons; a plastic lazy Susan; a Kent hairbrush; a loofah; an unopened package of Hanes briefs; a tobacco-colored suede jacket from B. Altman; a nickel-plated Zippo lighter; a paperweight of highly polished petrified wood; a Richard Avedon photograph, framed in chrome, of Ezra Pound and William Carlos Williams; three LP’S: Sonny Rollins’s Newk’s Time, John Coltrane’s My Favorite Things, and Dexter Gordon’s Our Man in Paris; and paperback copies of The Sacred Fount, Pierre, The Confidence Man, The Plumed Serpent, and García Lorca’s Selected Poems. And, along with her flowered skirt, she’d left, at the back of a drawer in the little room he hopefully called his study, a black French garter belt and a pair of tangled off-black nylons. Was this by design, and how could he tell? The gray homburg, though, gave him an eerie feeling, as if the hat had a malign, extravagant power to do him harm. He wouldn’t touch it, not yet, not even to throw it out. He made himself a drink—she hadn’t taken the J.W. Dant anyway—and sat on the couch. It had to have been Jenny, the horny bitch, who’d told her. Her best friend, of course. How pleased she must have been to stab Elaine’s ego. They’d known each other since high school in Midwood, they even looked alike, had got stoned together, found the Village together. They were built the same and often shared each other’s clothes, even shoes and underwear, so Elaine said. He recalled the night they’d come into the bar together, both in black gabardine suits and black sunglasses, their black hair pulled back into chignons; for a brief moment, he couldn’t tell one from the other. He lit another cigarette, and said, aloud: So, I got bored with Elaine and started fucking her double, what a champ, they even look alike naked. About a week later, he went into the bar and saw Elaine, sitting over a pink gin and talking with Louie, the day bartender. He sat down next to her and ordered a draft beer. What the hell was that all about? he said, you even took a fucking oven mitt? And what’s with that weird filthy homburg? You left your print skirt, too. I threw it out! She turned on her bar stool so that her knees touched his thigh. What are you talking about? What are you talking about? Oh, for Christ’s sake, Elaine, even the goddamn bowl you bought me for my change, Jesus, that’s really small. And the hat! What is with the hat? Are you crazy? she said, are you going crazy? I’m Jenny, look. Look, I’m Jenny. I don’t know anything about hats or skirts, you ought to get back to work on whatever it is you were working on, get back to work. He was looking at her full in the face, she was Jenny, sure, probably, she was Jenny, of course. She was Jenny, she looked just like her. You can have your skirt back if you want, he said. I only said I threw it out. He wanted to ask her about the meaning of the hat on the table but he knew that she’d lie to him.