Frog (42 page)

His wife came in and said “You don't have to get crude.”

“So I'll say it daintier. I keep up with nothing, not even contemporary writing. No time. I father, son, husband, teacher, writer, semidetached homeowner. The little time I get for myself, I go to my cellar, shut the door. I blank everyone and everything out. I do my pages. One to two to three. They add up, spill over, get in my way, when I leave I sometimes have to kick piles of them aside. Eventually they amount to a manuscript. Small to large. When it's done I quickly start another. My life down there's a concatenation of fabulations. Sound good? I can't stand those things, whatever they're called.”

“You're only interested in amounts?” his wife said.

“I'm interested solely in going to the cellar and shutting the door, if only for a few minutes. The messages—reasons—cause-explanations—I blow my nose on. ‘How do I fit in?' it says here. I don't. There's no room. The house is overcrowded with writers and the furniture's painted on the walls. If rooms were added to it, I'd only be told after they were filled. Not that I didn't once try to get in, but they said I was being pushy, ‘Wait your turn… You're stepping on my toe…. I'm holding this place for someone…. You're too noisy and preventing people from sleeping standing up.' I got out—I'd only made it to the foyer. ‘Ether, ether,' I cried. But another. ‘Fabulist, minimalist, where are you?' I'll take the Crispy Chef's Shrimp, not too spicy, and start off with cold Szechuan noodles. Look, I belong to no movement. If I did, I'd hold it till it was still, turn it around from me and say ‘See the pretty birdy?' and run in the opposite direction.”

His wife said “Come on, people are interested in backdrops. Why not be slightly gracious and even informative for once, and not a hypocrite. For you yourself read the Joyce biography, was involved in the Beckett one till you lost it, and carried Kafka's when we went to Prague.”

“Only for the maps,”

“Try. I might even learn something about what you do.” She took the letter from him and read “In what traditions do you think your work follows?'”

“My dad's. He said ‘Every day is labor day'”

“‘Do you feel like an American writer?'”

He started waving an imaginary flag, dropped it, picked it up, kissed it, said “Pheu!” and pretended to spit. “What're they making these things out of lately? Tastes so artificial.”

“‘A New York writer?'”

“Turdy-Gurdy and Merde Avenue. I says, what, what?”

“‘Explain the phenomenon of being so widely published and yet still kind of struggling for recognition.'”

“Keeps my weight down, muscles toned, body in fighting condition, so is among the best things to have happened to me.”

“‘What's your relation to the New York publishing scene?'”

“I walk past their buildings sometimes when I'm in New York. They dwarf me.”

“‘Why do you publish with the small presses and small mags?'”

“Unlike the biggies, they haven't learned yet how to avoid me.”

“‘Where and how did you begin publishing?'”

“OK, a serious question, so rates a serious response. Hold your pantyhose, folks. Someone sent one of my early stories to a fancy quarterly. They took it and wanted to see me immediately about a few minor changes before they sent the issue to the printer's. I went to their office. It overlooked the East River, tugboats going past, hamper factory standing still, sunken living room, framed photos of contemptuous lit lights on the grand piano, an opened bar. ‘No thanks,' I said. I was on my lunch hour from a news job I had and still never touch the stuff till sundown. It ended up where they wanted a total rewrite. I rewrote the story totally and they said they wanted a total rewrite of the rewrite. I rewrote the rewrite totally and they said they wanted a total rewrite of the rewrite of the rewrite. I decided they'd never publish this poor five-page story of a New York merry-go-round and sent them the original draft. Never heard from them again and six months later that draft was published. I learned almost all I needed to know about editors and publishing from it.”

“‘What about commercialism?'”

“Never had the chance. But let's change the subject.” He took the letter from her and read “‘How do you teach?' I say ‘Hi, my name is, nice to meet ya, now start with those lines or similar introductory or valedictory ones and write a short story of any length.' Say, that gives me an idea for one, and just when I've been looking for it,” and he went downstairs. “My letter,” I said, but he'd already shut the door.

I looked at his wife, she raised her shoulders, so I tiptoed down the steps after him. He was typing away at a long table. It was a dark room, a small window over the table but not much light coming through it, even on this sunny day, probably because the window was almost at ground level. A reproduction of a Giacometti drawing of a face was right below the window, or maybe it was an original—I'd ask him. A painting by a child was next to it. The painting was signed by his oldest daughter and said at the bottom of it “Daddy writing again,” and showed a man at a table with his hands over his ears and his mouth open as if shouting. There was no other furniture in the room except a file cabinet to the left of the table with a huge dictionary on it. On the table, besides the manual typewriter and at one end of it the typewriter's plastic cover, was a thesaurus, writing reference manual, ream of erasable paper (sixteen-pound weight), box of second-sheet paper, two fountain pens, bottle of black ink, postage stamps of several denominations coiling out of a mug, lots of eraser pencils, all needing sharpening, letter and manuscript envelopes, mucilage, stapler, nailclipper, paperweights (sea-smoothed stones), architect's lamp, wood box built to look like a little foot locker with probably lots of writing aids inside, pencil sharpener shaped like a duck. “Excuse me, I know I shouldn't be disturbing you now, but may I have my letter back, please?”

“No no, I'm through. It was very short—three pages—which could end up being thirty, but who knows? So thanks for indirectly helping me fill that void. I'd do almost anything for you now, except of course give that interview.”

“I wouldn't think of it, sir. But if you are having so such fun at it, or think it can still be useful in some creative way—could you tear off my poems and give them to me?”

He started to, read something from the letter that seemed to interest him, said “Hey this is good—I could never write or say anything like this, so lucid but literary. ‘Your style, then. It sounds so undecorated, conversational, unstylized, spoken, even reads at times like quote unquote bad writing or neglected conventional writing. Yet the reader is aware of your deliberately ignoring standard sentence structure, syntax, punctuation, etcetera. Can you comment further on how you compose or what this style says about the people, places and situations that you write about?' I could if I was another writer. ‘Were'? And you don't want it ‘situations you write about' instead of with the ‘that'? But I'm done down here for now—got my first draft in. It must be an uncomfortable place also, with only one chair, for the person not writing,” and he covered the typewriter and went upstairs.

I followed him, out to the backyard, he reading the letter as he walked. After we sat he read “Tour work seems to be influenced by European writing, the French writers of the sixties in particular. Is this true?' Is the sun too hot for you? I always stay in the shade, but there's room for both of us here.” I shook my head. “‘Can you talk about how the family or everyday life motivates your life, work, message?' I wonder where everyone is. Usually you hear one of them. With the baby, you have to make sure she doesn't wander through the gate to the street. Sweetheart?” he yelled.

“They're with me,” his wife said from the second-floor back window. “I thought you'd want to talk undisturbed.”

“‘What writers should we be watching? Who have we overrated or ignored? Who are the characters you feel closest to, real or fictional? You seem drawn in your books to people with frenetic, almost neurotic tendencies, certain individuals with overactive imaginations, no?' You know what I think?”

“Certainly, if you want to answer.”

“That you'd be much better off, if you don't mind my saying so—and my wife will agree with you that I've got too big a mouth sometimes. But to give up this notion that interviews with artists of any kind are useful or important whatsoever. The best thing is just to do your work, put out the magazine with the most exciting stuff you can find for it, and also tend to your own poetry, if that's what you do. So what I'm going to do now will be a service to you in the long run, believe me.”

“What's that?” I said.

He tore up the letter and threw the pieces behind him. “Now let's have some fresh coffee, or even a glass of wine. What the hell, it's Sunday, isn't it?”

“My poems,” I screamed.

“Oops—I forgot. That was thoughtless of me.”

“You did it deliberately.”

“No, I told you—I don't think lots of times,” and he got on the ground and gathered all the pieces the wind hadn't blown away. “We can tape it back together,” he said, picking some pieces out of the bushes. “I know how you feel. It's happened to me. Just losing a page or two, though nobody ripping them up in front of me.” He spread the pieces out on the table, but he'd torn them too finely. He saw I was sad and said “Look, I can drive you someplace—the train station or wherever you're going. Washington, to see Stein-right? I'll drive you there—leave you in front of his house; that's how lousy I feel about this.”

I didn't want to be in a car with him that long, but I did want to get away from him and I had nothing to lose if he drove me to the station. I got all the pieces together, asked him for a plastic bag and put them inside. His daughters came with us. He said they love seeing the trains pulling in and out and to run around the big renovated station, and it'll give his wife a little time to do her own work.

We drove to the station. I said good-bye on the platform but refused to shake his hand. I took a seat, and while the train waited to go, he and his daughters waved at me. I opened a book and tried to concentrate on it, but I could still see this multiple flapping going on outside. The hell with him, I thought as the train left. He's a complete fop, fake and fool and I don't mind telling the world about it, not that anyone will be interested.

_______

Weak, weak, it's all so weak, and he rips it out and throws it into the trash pail. Done this before. Out it comes, into that or if bad aim onto the floor, tearing first, sometimes tearing up what's been torn and throwing it back in, grabbing out pieces sometimes and tearing some more, often banging the table with his fist after, maybe stomping upstairs and pouring coffee from the thermos, or making fresh coffee even if there's fairly fresh coffee in the thermos, yelling out to no one in particular “I'm going out for a few minutes,” taking a circular walk around the neighborhood, not looking at much because there isn't much—bird in a tree, squirrel nibbling or digging up a nut, cat or dog in a window looking as if it wants to go out, someone jogging or opening a house or car door or walking a dog, letter carrier delivering mail, only occasionally something like a gardener transplanting pacysandra or a treeman fifty to a hundred feet up sawing off a limb or even some kids playing out front or swinging on a porch—drinking a half glass of wine, quarter glass, just a sip of sherry and maybe straight from the bottle, munching a celery stalk or carrot, peeling, without washing or peeling, even eating its thin tail string or the inch or so of the top, tearing off the skin of a navel, biting down hard on an apple, picking up a newspaper section and usually without reading or anything but a headline or caption putting it down. Now he just sits. Weak. That's what it was. Piss, shit, fit for the trash. Bangs the table top. Just did it for fun. “What's that?” Eva asks upstairs. “Daddy must have dropped something,” Denise says. “That's Daddy mad,” Olivia says. “Daddy gets mad a lot.”

Writes: “There once was a man. Was once. He was a big man. Thick neck, puffed-up pecks, six-feet-sex, puissant-plus.” Weak. Pulls it out. Turns it over to stick back in to type on. Something's on the other side from another work he stopped. “‘Mrs. Simchik stinks,' a boy said, and got whacked. ‘Don't ever say the word—'” That was it. Doesn't know what he planned to follow it. Couldn't come up with anything, probably, besides the prose. Doesn't know when he wrote it: last month, year; just ended up in the scrap pile. Weak. Weak. Throws it into the pail. New scrap paper in. “There was a woman. She was my mother. She's, is. My old mother, mother of young. He went upstairs. Phoned her. I did. Went, up, phone, reached, dialed. ‘Mom, how are you?' ‘Not feeling that great today, thank you for calling.' ‘Why, what's wrong?' he said, What's the matter? What's up?' for he heard it almost every time before, similar words, same tone, minor complaining, nothing good. ‘Well actually, now that you asked me, I'm dying. That's what the report came back from with my doctor.' How was he reacting when she said this? Shock, that's all: ‘What! What!' ‘I'm saying, that's what Dr. Gladman said the report confirmed that came back from the lab. I'm not saying it well because it so upsets me. I took extensive tests. I didn't tell you because I didn't want to bother you. Your children, job, home, you've your own troubles. I had to work it out of him. Worm it out. I had to ask and ask and finally I said “What is it, it isn't good, we both know that, I can feel it and you can see it and the tests and reports all prove it, isn't that right? So tell me, I'm a good listener.”' ‘You said this?' I said. ‘Surely he said “No, you're all wrong, Mrs. T.”' ‘Surely he said yes, I was right. “Listen, Mrs. T.,” he said—he called me Rachel, actually, just as I sometimes call him Bill. Though he always calls me Rachel now. He's very nice, very friendly. He said “If you want the truth, it doesn't look good.”' “This is terrible,' I said; ‘what does one say? For one thing, that you go to someone else for another opinion, of course,' and she said ‘I have,' and we talked some more, I said I was coming right up to see her, called my older brother, he also hadn't known, we'd meet at my mother's, I took the train, three hours, cabbed to it, subway to her place from it, total of four hours, when I got there my brother answered the door and said he'd found her dead.”