Onward Toward What We're Going Toward (37 page)

When Lucy finished, Chic jumped up and snaked his way back to her table. He sat down across from her.

“So . . . ?”

She started to chew on her thumbnail.

“What'd you think? Did you like them?”

“I really like the energy. And the title, as I said.”

“I was going for the way people talk. You know, how when someone just starts to talk and pretty much just runs at the mouth without really thinking about what they're saying.”

“I get that. So, why are you trying to evoke that?”

“Because that's the way people talk.”

She nodded her head. “I'm not sure what you're saying with these poems. There's some nihilism, some self-hatred, some awe, some confession, some plagiarism. There are all sorts of different things happening. It's kind of all over the place. Let me ask you something. What's your relationship to other people?”

“My relationship is fine with other people.”

“What's your relationship like with your wife.”

He shrugged. “We've been married for twenty-two years.”

“You have this one poem . . . ”

“I know which one you're talking about.”

“It doesn't portray her very well.”

“I was afraid of that. I think maybe I should change it.”

“Is it honest?”

“Maybe.”

“So you think your wife is overweight?”

“She eats a lot.”

“What about your brother and his wife? I get this feeling that you're infatuated with your brother's wife.”

“No, no. I'm not infatuated with her. That's . . . no. I'm not.”

“Are you being honest?”

He thought about the question. “I don't covet my brother's wife.”

“Do you want to have sex with her?”

“What kind of question is that?”

“Do you wish you had more sex?”

“I have sex.”

“There's a longing to have sex in almost every single poem.”

“How did you get that? I don't ever use the word sex.”

“Also, it's unclear what you think about the people in these poems.”

“I love the people in these poems.”

“It doesn't seem like it. Well, actually, Lomax. You love Lomax. That's clear. And maybe Lijy, but it's more of a desire than love, per se. But the other people—your brother and your wife, mainly. There's this disconnect between you and them. It's like you don't understand them, and you don't think they understand you.”

“Just tell me. Do you like the poems or not? Are they any good?”

She put her hand on top of Chic's hand. Chic looked down at it. Her nails were painted red. She had a ring on every finger, including her thumb. He looked up and locked eyes with her.
She was making a pass at him. Was she making a pass at him? She was making a pass at him. He smiled slightly. She smiled slightly back at him. She was definitely making a pass. She liked his poems. He could tell. She really liked his poems. He could feel himself being pulled into her eyes. She had the brownest eyes he'd ever seen. He wasn't really sure if he'd ever been in a moment like this. He could be in this moment forever. He didn't want it to end. But then it did. She pulled her hand away.

“Did you feel that?” she said.

“Yeah, I felt it.”

“That was a connection. I was making a connection with you. I have a boyfriend, by the way. That was just pretend.”

“Oh, yeah. I know. Me too. I was pretending too. Practicing. It's good to practice those things.”

“You were looking at me like you were about to kiss me.”

“I wasn't going to kiss you.”

“I have a boyfriend.”

“You said that.”

“So, I'm going to get back to work.”

“Yeah. You should. The librarian . . . she's probably looking for you.”

Lucy stood up.

“Oh, hey.” He held out the chapbook to her. “I want you to have this. Thank you for reading it. I don't think anyone really actually read it. I gave it to my wife, but . . . anyway . . . thanks.”

“Good luck, Mr. Waldbeeser.”

“Chic. Call me Chic.”

“Good luck, Chic.”

Chic couldn't stop thinking about the moment he had shared with Lucy. It had lasted only a few seconds, but during that flickering
fraction of time, he had felt so locked into her, so drawn to her, like he was in some sort of trance or something, like her eyes were magnets that were pulling him toward her. He wanted to capture that feeling in a poem. How could he capture that feeling? He needed to find the right words. The telephone rang. He looked at it. He knew Diane wasn't going to answer it. From upstairs, he could hear the voice of Norman Vincent Peale. He wasn't going to answer it, either. It was probably Diane's mother, or worse, someone from the bowling league. The phone continued to ring. Diane yelled for him to answer it. He put down his pencil and went to the phone.

It was Stan Landry, the owner of Stafford's. He wanted Chic to pick up his chapbooks. What did Chic think Stafford's was, a bookstore? Besides, he'd sold only one—to Diane—and also and more importantly, the book hadn't really been published. It was just a bunch of pages stapled together.

“Wait. Diane bought one?” Chic said.

“Two days ago. Another was stolen, I think. There are four left. Didn't you drop off six?”

“I gave one to a cashier,” Chic said.

“Well, then, come pick these four up, please? Or I can throw them away.”

Stan met Chic in the parking lot. He was dressed in a brown leisure suit, polka-dot tie, and horn-rimmed glasses. His hair was carefully messy, and he had a giant, blond mustache. He took a long look at Chic, up and down, seemingly making note of the beret and corduroy blazer.

“Want some advice, Waldbeeser?”

What did Stan know that he didn't? He hadn't gone to college or anything. He had just graduated from high school and gone to work for his father. And, in fact, in high school, Stan had been good at math and everyone made fun of him because of that, but no one remembered Stan Landry the kid everyone made fun of because he was good at math; they knew him only as the
son of the owner of Stafford's, and apparently this gave him the right to offer advice.

Stan shook out a Pall Mall cigarette and offered one to Chic. Chic thought hard about taking it. In time, if the road kept this course, then, yeah, cigarettes, but for now, he'd hold off. (And besides, Diane wouldn't like it.) Stan lit his cigarette with some sort of fancy Zippo trick. He took a long drag, then waved his hand in front of Chic like he was conducting an orchestra. “Look at yourself. You're wearing a beret.”

“I like the beret.”

“Have you ever seen anyone wear a beret in Middleville? This is the Midwest. Illinois. A small town. Look around. We have farm acreage within the city limits. Tractors drive down the street. There are no poets here. The kids don't even study poetry in high school. We didn't study poetry in high school.”

“We did a unit on poetry,” Chic said.

“Yeah, well, but we were snickering in the back of the room.”

“How do you know I'm not a poet?”

“I read those poems. Trust me. You're not.”

“So, is that your advice?”

“Look, Waldbeeser, what are you, forty? You have twenty-some years left at the cannery. Don't rock the boat. Just fit in. Play the part. Put in your time. Hug your wife when you need to. Then, I don't know, do what your mom did—go down to Florida and retire. Sit on the benches and watch people ride by on bikes.”

“My mother didn't retire to Florida. She ran away with Tom McNeeley.”

“Wasn't he a janitor at Blessed Sacrament?”

“That's him.”

“Look. Shave that little bit of hair under your lip. You look ridiculous. And your brother. His health food store. What happened to you guys?”

“What's this have to do with my brother?”

“Nothing. Forget it.”

At home, Chic found Diane upstairs in the nursery. She was in the rocking chair, cradling a doll. It was a good thing Stan Landry didn't know about this. Or maybe he did. Chic took off his blazer and hung it on the doorknob. He took off his beret, threw it on the floor, and stomped on it.

“What are you doing?” Diane asked.

“Stan Landry offered me some advice, and I think he's right.”

“What sort of advice?”

“He said I wasn't a poet, and other things. I have a question for you. Why won't you have sex with me?”

“I have sex with you.”

“Ha. We haven't had sex in, I don't know, a long time.”

“Chic, I feel sorry for you.”

“For me? Don't feel sorry for me. I'm fine. I'm perfect. I'm living my life. I feel sorry for you.”

Diane gave him a hard stare, and Chic thought maybe she knew something he didn't know.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Tell me.”

“Chic, I know you're masturbating in the bathroom.”

“What are you talking about—masturbating in the bathroom? Are you kidding? That's not true. That simply isn't true. I am not masturbating in the bathroom.”

“I hear you. Grunting.”

“You what . . . grunting?”

“Like every day. Sometimes twice a day.”

“Well. I can't believe you're listening to me masturbate.”

“And I know you're sneaking beers and hiding the crushed cans in the garbage.”

“That's . . . how do you . . . did you find the cans?”

“Chic, we need to move forward, move on, change, grow up. Onward toward what we're going toward. Like the title of your poems.”

Chic picked up the beret. “Did Stan Landry say something to you?”

“No.”

“He did.”

“No, he didn't.”

“We used to make fun of Stan Landry because he was good at math. In your dad's class. You remember that?”

“What's that have to do with anything?”

“This has not been helpful. You know, I came to you because I was upset, and you made me more upset.”

She tried to snatch the beret away.

“Don't!”

“Give it to me.”

“I want it. It's mine.”

She let go.

He put the beret on his head and walked out of the room.

“Quit using all my lotion when you masturbate,” she called out after him.

It was Wednesday night, and like every Wednesday night for the past year, Chic and Diane went bowling at Middleville Lanes. A haze of smoke hung from the ceiling like a low-hanging cloud. Chic noticed the smoke every week, and every week, he wondered why no one else noticed it, or if they did, why they didn't seem to mind.

Diane shook her ball out of her pink bowling bag, while Chic picked a community ball, a nine pounder with holes that didn't squeeze his fingers. He sat down at the scorer's table and watched Diane laughing with a few of the women on their team. A couple of the guys shook Chic's hand. One guy bought him a bottle of
beer. He saw Diane looking at him. How long had she known he was sneaking beers at home? He should have stored the cans in the trunk of the car and ditched them in the Dumpster at work.

The guy keeping score, Mitch Watkins, told Diane she was up. Chic and Diane had gone to high school with all the people in the league. They lived in houses not far from the houses they had grown up in. They had kids who would someday most likely end up in a similar Wednesday night bowling league. Stan Landry and his wife were in the far lane. Stan made eye contact with Chic and pointed to his head—Chic had worn his beret. Stan wagged his finger. Stan's wife threw her ball and got a strike. She leapt into Stan's arms and gave him a big hug. Chic was up next. He picked up the ball and without really thinking, rolled it down the lane. It picked off one pin in the far right corner before clunking into the gutter.