Dreams of a Robot Dancing Bee (25 page)

Dewey finished painting the house, but of course there were large splotches he missed altogether, painting in that eerie light. But Mr. Snead grudgingly thanked Dewey anyway, since it was about the only thing he had ever stuck with in his whole life, except the singing. The two men walked around the house and admired those parts Dewey had covered.

“Not too bad, considering your approach.”

Dewey was all smiles, he wasn't dumb. He wasn't dumb at all. He just didn't want what most people wanted.

“I'm going to London next week, Uncle. I thought I should tell you. I've got a job singing. Reverend Starkey recommended me. I tried out last Sunday and I got word today. They're paying for my ticket and everything.”

Mr. Snead was stunned. “You've got to be kidding me, somebody's flying you to London just so you can sing for ‘em?”

“That's right, Uncle Benton. I'm going to be singing seven days a week.”

“But how . . . What . . .”

“You've been real good to me, Uncle Benton. My mother always said I would amount to nothing. You tell her for me, will you?”

“But Dewey, what if something happens to me? What if I have a heart attack mowing the lawn? What if I have a stroke picking beans?”

Dewey looked his uncle in the face and saw how afraid he was of dying alone.

“I'll sing at your funeral, Uncle Benton. You'll hear me because I'll sing prettier than I ever sung in my whole life. You'll see, it won't be so bad.”

O
ur lives go on. Our fathers die. Our daughters run away. Our wives leave us. And still we go on. Occasionally we are forced (or so we like to say) to sell everything and move on, start over. We are fond of this myth mainly because we have so few left. The Starting-Over-God is, of course, as arbitrary as the one who took father before his time. But we have to hang onto something. So we start over. There is a little excitement to spice the enormous dread. Not again, I can't, I don't have it in me. I've seen this one before and I can't sit through it again. But we do, just in case. In case we missed some tiny but delicious detail all the other times we saw it.

Can you recommend a dentist, a doctor, an accountant, a reliable real estate agent, a bank? And before you know it, a life is beginning to fall into place. You have located the best dry cleaner, the best Chinese food. A couple of the shop owners have remembered your name. How long have you been here? they ask. And here is the opening, the opportunity you've been waiting for.

“I was born here,” you reply, “lived here all my life.” Rooms
full of pain, lawns of remorse, avenues of regret, whole shopping malls of grief begin to detach themselves from you, from the person, from this husk, this shell you call simply Bill.

“My name's Bill, I live just down the street, it's funny we haven't met before.”

“Nice to meet you Bill. My name's Carla. I just opened the shop a week ago. I moved here from Chicago last summer. Divorce, you know.”

She was an attractive woman, slight, fine-boned, and had a pleasant manner, and Bill couldn't imagine why anyone . . . He stopped himself. Let it go, let her previous life go. And why had he lied to her automatically? He wanted to clear it up right away, but what would she think, telling lies to a stranger, what kind of behavior is that, anyway?

“Carla, I have to apologize to you.”

“Why? I don't understand.”

“I haven't lived here all my life. I'm new in town. I just . . .”

“That's all right, you don't have to say anything.”

“Well, then, can I buy you a drink or something when you close up today or some other day?”

“That'd be nice. Can you come by about five past five?”

“Great.” And so, it was starting again. Some single-minded agent of life was stirring, was raising its perky head, and Bill smiled and waved goodbye to Carla.

On the short walk back to his house Bill found himself humming an old Billy Holiday tune, “God Bless the Child that's got his own,” and he laughed at himself and shook his head. Here he
was in his new place, his new life, so much blood and ashes under the bridge. But it wasn't under the bridge. It was
his
, all that pain was not washed away, it was his, and suddenly he was proud of that.
Carla
, he said the name several times out loud.
Carla
, wow, who would have thought.

 

Published by Wave Books
www.wavepoetry.com

Copyright © 2008 by James Tate
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

ISBN
978-1-933517-71-1

Originally Published by Verse Press

Copyright © 2002 by Verse Press

All Wave Books titles are distributed to the trade by
Consortium Book Sales and Distribution
Phone: 800-283-3572 /
SAN
631-760X

The following stories appeared previously and are reprinted by permission of the author: “Little Man, What Now?” and “Hedges, by Sam D'Amico” in
Columbia
. “Mush” in
Franck
(Paris). “Suite 1306” in
The Missouri Review
. “Raven of Dawn” in
New Letters
. “The Thistle” and “Welcome Signs” in
The North American Review
. “Dear Customer,” and “The New Teacher” in
Ploughshares
. “A Cloud of Dust” and “Dreams of a Robot Dancing Bee” in
Sonora Review
. “Eating Out of Mousetraps” and “Robes” in
Denver Quarterly
. “At the Ritz” and “Vacation” in
Boulevard
. “Running for Your Life” in
Georgia Review
. “Pie” and “My Burden” in
The Illinois Review
. “The Stove” and “What It Is” in
Black Warrior Review
. “TV” in
Michigan Quarterly
. “Pie,” “Dear Customer,” “The Torque-Master of Advanced Video,” “The Examination,” and “The Invisible Twins” in
Denver Quarterly
.

The following stories © 1999 by the University of Michigan Press and reprinted by permission of the publisher: “At the Ritz,” “What It Is,” “Despair Ice Cream,” “Dreams of a Robot Dancing Bee,” “Vacation,” “A Cloud of Dust,” “The Thistle,” “Pie,” and “Dear Customer.”

The Library of Congress has cataloged the
Verse Press hardcover edition as follows:

Tate, James, 1943–

Dreams of a robot dancing bee : stories / by James Tate.
p. cm.

I. Title.

PS3570.A8 D74 2002

813´.54—dc21

2001006107

 

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