Fall and Rise (21 page)

“I don't remember him.”

“Flipping a coin? Dressed sharply? Always led off with ‘Hello, suckers—life still thrilling?' No? If you do go back to Howdy Doody days, tell me—the early Howdy or the late?”

“You mean the one before he had plastic surgery on his face?”

“So, if you go back that far—”

“Hey, you too—his operation right on TV—right? right?” and I slap his palm though he didn't offer it and say “And the doctors in masks working over him and his convalescence for weeks after with bandages covering his face. And he was so
ugly
before, but interesting, remember?—but much worse after because they made his face so cute and telegenic with too many freckles. And the Peanut Gallery and Bob Smith too?”

“I sat in it on TV one day.”

“So did I. Sent away for the seat. I wonder if we were in it the same day.”

“I'm sure not. And I only went as a chaperon for my younger sister, so I have to be a lot older than you.”

“I don't know—I was a late bloomer. My family was afraid I'd never come around.”

“That's surprising to hear. Still, getting back—but I've lost track of what I was going to say, and I have to apologize about Mr. Lucky. He was in the movies, even if somehow,” tapping his head, “it still registers TV. But I'm also starting to freeze out here, so no further questions.”

“I've only one,” shorter man says. “Maybe you won't like it, but we've proven we're civilized here without the other person immediately thinking we're full of disapproval, yes?”

“Fine by me,” I say.

“Good. Then what made you change? Conniving to the army, lying to the judge, that injured man, because you say you're much different today.”

“Life—the maturing process—the over and over again—ideas. Gradually realizing what I was doing and did. You know—the repercussions—on me and others. I mean, I still lie—little ones to get by, to others and myself. But the big ones—well you know, they're more obvious and harmful, to me and to others, so if you continue to do them—if
I
do—cheat, bullshit—well you know, it's increasingly obvious you can't. But if you do after you know how obvious it is and that you shouldn't, then it's also increasingly obvious to others or should be—yourself included—that they get bigger and bigger these lies and just acting like a prick, and some more obvious and harmful than others—no, that's not it. I know what I want to say but can't articulate it, though it should be obvious what I mean by now, or fairly.”

“I think I see. Okay, I can figure out the rest myself, so my case is closed too.”

“You'll clue me in later if we're still here together?” ponytailed man says and shorter man says “If you don't freeze as you said, yes.”

We've inched up—at least I didn't know we had—to the car and I'm about to say goodnight to them when the ponytailed man says “Look—on the floor by the soda can—a quarter.”

“You saw it first, you take it,” I say.

“If you believe in good luck finding coins, that one's bad.”

“Oh, I'm not superstitious and you never know when you might need some extra change. You guys first? Sure? Sir?” to the shorter man.

“Not me. This time I agree with my new friend completely.”

“Besides, talking about being unsuperstitious, I've a lucky coin jar at home—even have a five-dollar bill in it—but I didn't tell you this?”

“Not tonight.”

“It's a stupid reference—really, unrelated. Not unrelated, just stupid. Anyway, money I've found over the past ten years, not that it's brought me good luck, but who knows? According to you two I could be dead right now without it, and for ten or fewer years. And then—well I wonder what you two would be doing now if I were. Everything else would be the same, though of course my shadow wouldn't be here and footprints if there are any, and other small to smaller things: cigarette butts I might've squashed with my shoes and so on—carbon dioxide in the air or a little less oxygen because of me, but I know next to nothing about those. But the car would be here, bus, weather, etcetera—that policeman, with maybe just the slightest of faintest chances my absence of from an hour to ten years would've changed any of that. Probably, even without me, you'd be looking at this car and possibly from this or a nearby spot. Or more probably, since you'd”—to the ponytailed man—“have ended up just as cold and I wouldn't be keeping you here with my yakking, you'd both be inside somewhere talking about the car, or on your respective ways home, if they're not in the same direction. Or maybe they're even in the same building or on the same floor for all you know, though that's much less likely, unless it's one of those twenty to thirty apartments to a floor buildings, if they run that large. No? All wrong?”

“I'll go along about the shadow and dioxide,” ponytailed man says. “As for this guy living in my building, except if he moved in today or had been hiding all this time—”

“Okay. But after living so long with this jar, I don't have the heart to stop putting found money in it or empty it out to use the money or even just to use the jar.” They stare at me. “I mean, it's an old pickle jar with a wide neck—quart-size, so really good for storing things—so the money I'd store somewhere else, if I didn't use both at the same time: money and jar. I knew I shouldn't have brought up the subject of good luck.” Policeman has his back to us, talking on the phone. “But I can be compulsive about not passing up found money, though not to the point where I think it'll bring bad luck if I don't. That someone first had to point the coin out to me—well, that variation of finding lucky money hasn't come up till now, so I'll deal with it when I get home or along the way, but how can I deal with it realistically if I don't have the coin? Anyway, coast seems clear enough,” and I reach in to get the quarter, blow off the glass bits. Try to put it into my change pocket, but this pair of pants doesn't have one, so I feel for an empty pocket, back right one first, is none, take the comb and keys out of that pocket, which is where if I have no change pocket I put found coins, stick the keys into the less crowded left back pocket, comb into the left side pocket, quarter into the right back pocket where I'll know where it came from if I want to drop it into the jar. My notebook and Hasenai's book of poems in Japanese—and I tap the two side pockets to make sure they're there. Wallet's in the right side pocket of the pants, pen in the other. Smaller notebook—which I'm not afraid to lose since there's nothing much in it, and its metal tip has ripped, even when I've wedged it under the spirals or taped it, a couple of my pants pockets or other parts of the backs of my pants—in the left back pocket, handkerchief also in the side coat pocket, so everything's there. Subway tokens? Have none. Other coins—can't feel or find any, unless they're at the bottom of one of these pants or coat pockets. Nail clipper, I find, when I thought I lost it weeks ago, also in the right side pocket of the pants. “So, that was my Colorado car crash yawn and selected confessions. Call it a night, gentlemen?”

“We all do kooky things when we're young,” shorter man says.

“Really, I'm much too cold to listen,” ponytailed man says.

“A moment. Last tale. I did with you both for more minutes than I enjoyed, and if you want I'll stand you to a real drink after—worth the wait? So everyone sit. In the army I threw—on German land but Allied-held territory—a live grenade at my best buddy ever when I got overwhelmingly sore at him for something he did, of what I won't waste your time with, but it was dirty. Fortunately—that it wasn't the advancing enemy with fixed bayonets charging—it was a dud, or I'm sure, for penal reasons, I wouldn't be here speaking to you now. Though after so long and because I was born in the Village and my family would still have been here for sixteen years—my mother the last of her kin to die and in the same apartment I still live in. The same bed, in fact—I switched to theirs after she went—and please, I don't give a blink to what people say about extremely close mother-son relationships—I loved her!—maybe I would be speaking to you right where we're standing and same time, give or take.”

“They also broke the mold after my mother was born,” ponytailed says, “but I never did anything as angry as you. Sure, once tossed a man overboard but knew no sharks were around and he could swim.”

“All of us Peanut Gallery émigrés,” I say. “Wound up so peaceful and, well I was going to say ‘loved our mothers,' but you couldn't have watched it too.”

“My baby brother did. And you can't be too sure sharks aren't everywhere around but in your bathtub,” to the ponytailed man. “Right from the piers over there I've seen them—when I fished as a kid and now just to sit and think—frequently.”

“We had safety nets to keep them out—for swimming.”

“Then if they weren't in the swimming perimeter before you set up the nets, true.”

“So,” I say, “—great talking,” and I stick out my hand.

“Same here,” ponytailed man says, “without reservation,” and shakes.

Shorter man smiles, is about to take his hand out of his pocket, says “Doubtful as I was at first when I saw you approach that it could actually happen—for I'm usually a keen judge of character and I had you down as odd and troublesome, especially after you walked back a block after your screaming-fag incident, it was a pleasure,” and I say “Thank you, thank you both,” pat his shoulder and pass the corner, policeman still on the phone but now facing the street and nodding to me as he listens, carefully pull the little notebook out of my back pocket, flip through it to make sure nothing of interest's in it—“‘Free speech,' the orator said, batting his adversary over the head, ‘and also freedom of action'”…“kasha tonight—make it!!”…“dahlias: 366: 4182”…“pick up ticks to Bunraku by fri and dont let May give any excuses shes not going”…“Parnassus 205 w 89 10024”…“military court of national salvation”…“
dovecote
”…“Grossingers mocha apricot or praline”…“trichloroethane at hardware stead of regular typewriter cleaner—savings 4-1 Di says”…“tissues, al foil, lemons, limes, Times, cake plates 24 white”…“May's folks: demitasse set; Mom: subscription to New Yorker”—and rip it apart and drop it into the trashcan and walk uptown.

I'm dancing and the band's too loud and been going on too long and I'm also starting to feel sick, so I say “Really, I'm getting dizzy, mind if we stop?” and the man I'm dancing with, I don't know his name, he told me it and I forgot, his name's Allan or Aaron or some name with an A and I think an an or on at the end of it, well Adman I'll call him just for the heck of it, since he said he was one or was that the last man I danced with, says “Anything you say, Miss Helene—just a-kiddin; too many old movies. But what is it? You're not feeling too good?” We've stopped. People dance around us in twos, threes and groups plus a few snapping their fingers and with their eyes shut doing entranced oohing solos. “Too much champagne—Watch out for the whirling whale on your left—we'll get rolled over. I always drink too much at these damn affairs. Not damn. It's a nice affair and not Dorothy and Sven's fault I don't know how to drink. One glass, that should have done it, while I must have had three, maybe four. And this music. Excuse me, but you don't think it's God's gift to modern ears, do you? Ears, Ears,” when he looks at me as if he didn't hear, “because that's exactly what it gives you, hearing problems. I find it too loud, fast, for children—give me Piranesi—Palestrina, if not to dance then just to listen and sing to. But I used to be able to dance furiously to this—liked it better then too. Eons ago, but now—I hated to be Miss Killjoy but if I had danced another few steps, and God forbid another big swirl, I would have thrown up.”

“Please, no excuses necessary. I'm in fact gratified,” bowing, “knowing the physical effect it would've had on you, since I am wearing my new party shoes and only renting this—but why am I being so gross?” He takes my upper arm, holds out his other hand and says to the dancers he parts us through “Pardon, scus-e moi, happy man, hapless damoiselle,” and we walk back to the dais where I have a seat next to Dorothy's. Pleasant man, clever enough tongue, but so unattractive. And what an awful affair. From the bagel tree to the champagne fountain. How could she have let her mother throw it? Reminder if I ever marry again: take the ladder route, toots, even if I am eight flights up, then to relent to those insurmountable—unsurmountable?—whatever it amounts to—parental forces. “Thank you very kindly, Mr.—I'm sorry, my champagne head, and last names.”

“Arthur Rosenthal.”

“Arthur, right. With an A.”

“Vut den? The only way.”

“No, it's just—Oh, out with it, girl—no more dissembling. Do you know who Satchel Paige was?”

“From what I read, still is. A great old baseball pitcher.”

“Well I had a friend who loved to repeat—”

“A male friend?”

“Yes, a man. Loved to repeat what Satchel Paige said about lying. He said, Paige did—oh God, what did he say? His mother—Something about if you're going to lie—I wish my friend was around, but only to feed me the line. Anyway, I knew your first name started with A and while we were dancing I raked my brain to remember it. But the champagne again. Out goes memory, in goes whatever goes in. A headache tomorrow. But, don't know how I would have made it back here without you, so thanks—Arthur? Artie? Art?”

“I prefer Arthur. Mind if I sit with you? Till Dorothy gets back?”

“Where is Dorothy? There she is. Hi, Dots. Great party. Dance it away, me lady.”