The Collected Stories Read online

  “Don’t answer,” said Liebowitz.

  “Maybe it’s someone else,” she said, her voice as frightened as his.

  It wasn’t somebody else. Liebowitz opted for the bedroom. Then he was tearing at the window, wild to piss.

  “Didn’t you say you were going to work this evening?”

  “Did I say that?”

  Mandell had had a whimsy impulse. Here he was, body freak, father of Joyce’s unborn children. She could have done better, thought Liebowitz. Consider himself, Liebowitz. But seven years had passed since he’d put his hand on her thigh. A woman begins to feel desperate. Still — Joyce Wolf, her style, her hips — she could have done better than Mandell, thought Liebowitz, despite her conviction — her boast — that Mandell wasn’t just any professor of rhetoric and communication art. “He loves teaching — speech, creative writing, anything — and every summer at Fire Island he writes a novel of ideas. None are published yet, but he doesn’t care about publication. People say his novels are very good. I couldn’t say, but he talks about his writing all the time. He really cares.”

  Liebowitz could see Mandell curled over his typewriter. Forehead presses the keys. Sweat fills his bathing-suit jock. It’s summertime on Fire Island. Mandell is having an idea to stick in one of his novels. “You know, of course, my firm only does textbooks.” Joyce said she knew, yet looked surprised, changed the subject. Liebowitz felt ashamed. Of course she knew. Why had he been crude? Did he suppose that she hadn’t really wanted to telephone him, that she was using him as a source of tickets? What difference? He had an erection, a purpose; she had Mandell, novelist of ideas, celebrated for his body.“He is terribly jealous of you,” she said. “It was long ago, I was a kid, and he wasn’t even in the picture. But he’s jealous. He’s the kind who wonders about a girl’s former lovers. Not that he’s weird or anything, just social. He’s terrific in bed. I’ll bet you two could be friends.”

  “Does he know I’m seeing you tonight?” Liebowitz’s hand had ached for her knee. Her voice had begun to cause brain damage and had to be stopped. It was getting late, there was nothing more to say. She laughed again. Marvelous sound, thought Liebowitz, almost like laughter. He was nearly convinced now that she deserved Mandell. But why didn’t she send him away or suggest they go out? Was it because Liebowitz’s firm didn’t do novels? Was he supposed to listen? burn with jealousy? He burned to piss.

  “Is something wrong, Joycie?”

  Mandell didn’t understand. Did she seem slightly cool, too polite? Did she laugh too much?

  “I wanted to talk to you about my writing, but really, Joycie, is something, like, wrong?”

  “What do you mean? There’s nothing wrong. I just thought you’d be working tonight.”

  Mandell was embarrassed, a little hurt, unable to leave. Of course. How could he leave with her behaving that polite way? Mandell was just as trapped as Liebowitz, who, bent and drooling, gaped at a shoe, a dressing table, combs, brushes, cosmetics, a roll of insulation tape … and, before he knew what he had in mind, Liebowitz seized the tape. He laid two strips, in an X, across a windowpane, punched the nail file into the heart of the X, and gently pulled away the tape with sections of broken glass. Like Robinson Crusoe. Trapped, isolated — yet he could make himself comfortable. Liebowitz felt proud. Mainly, he felt searing release. Liebowitz pissed.

  Through the hole in the windowpane, across an echoing air shaft, a long shining line — burning, arcing, resonant — as he listened to Mandell. “I have a friend who says my novels are like writing, but not real writing, you get it?” Liebowitz shook his head, thinking, Some friend, as he splashed brick wall and a window on the other side of the air shaft and, though he heard yelling, heard nothing relevant to Robinson Crusoe and, though he saw a man’s face, continued pissing on that face, yelling from the window, on the other side of the air shaft.

  A good neighborhood, thought Liebowitz. The police won’t take long. He wondered what to say, how to say it, and zipped up hurriedly. In the dressing-table mirror he saw another face, his own, bloated by pressure, trying not to cry. According to that face, he thought, a life is at stake. His life was at stake and he couldn’t grab a cab. Mandell was still there, whining about his writing. Joyce couldn’t interrupt and say go home. Writers are touchy. He might get mad and call off the marriage. Liebowitz had no choice but to prepare a statement. “My name, Officers, is Liebowitz.” Thus he planned to begin. Not brilliant. Appropriate. He’d chuckle in a jolly, personable way. A regular fellow, not a drunk or a maniac. Mandell was shrill and peevish: “Look here, look here. My name is Mandell. I’m a professor of rhetoric and communication art at a college. And a novelist. This is ironic, but it is only a matter of circumstances and I have no idea what it means.”

  A strange voice said, “Don’t worry, Professor, we’ll explain later.”

  Joyce said, “This is a silly mistake. I’m sure you chaps have a lot to do—”

  Mandell cut in: “Take your hands off me. And you shut up, Joyce. I’ve had enough of this crap. Like, show me the lousy warrant or, like, get the hell out. No Nazi cops push me around. Joyce, call someone. I’m not without friends. Call someone.”

  The strange voice said, “Hold the creep.”

  With hatred Mandell was screaming, “No, no, don’t come with me. I don’t want you to come with me, you stupid bitch. Call someone. Get help.” The hall door shut. The bedroom door opened. Joyce was staring at Liebowitz. “You hear what happened? How can you sit there and stare at me? I’ve never felt this way in my life. Look at you. Lepers could be screwing at your feet. Do you realize what happened?”

  Liebowitz shrugged yes mixed a little with no.

  “I see,” she said. “I see. You’re furious because you had to sit in here. What could I do? What could I say? You’re furious as hell, aren’t you?”

  Liebowitz didn’t answer. He felt a bitter strength in his position. Joyce began pinching her thighs to express suffering. Unable to deal with herself across the room from him, she came closer to where he sat on the bed. Liebowitz said, “The cops took the putz away.” His tone revealed no anger and let her sit down beside him. “It’s horrible. It’s humiliating,” she said. “They think he pissed out the window. He called me a stupid bitch.” Liebowitz said, “You might be a stupid bitch, but you look as good to me now as years ago. In some ways, better.” His hand was on her knee. It seemed to him a big hand, full of genius and power. He felt proud to consider how these qualities converged in himself. Joyce’s mouth and eyes grew slow, as if the girl behind them had stopped jumping. She glanced at his hand. “I must make a phone call,” she said softly, a little urgently, and started to rise. Liebowitz pressed down. She sat. “It wouldn’t be right,” she said, and then, imploringly, “Would you like to smoke a joint?”

  “No.”

  She has middle-class habits, he thought.

  “It wouldn’t be right,” she said, as if to remind him of something, not to insist on it. But what’s right, what’s wrong to a genius? Liebowitz, forty years old, screwed her like a nineteen-year-old genius.

  Downers

  BEYOND ORGASM

  She didn’t like me. So I phoned her every day. I announced the new movies, concerts, art exhibits. I talked them up, excitements out there, claiming them in my voice. Not to like me was not to like the world. Then I asked her out. Impossible to say no. I appeared at her door in a witty hat, a crazy tie. Sometimes I changed my hairstyle. I was various, talking, dancing, waving my arms. I was the world. But she didn’t like me. If she weren’t so sweet, if she had will power, if she didn’t miss the other guy so much, she’d have said, “Beat it, you’re irrelevant.” But she was in pain, confused about herself. The other guy had dumped her. I owed him a debt. It took the form of hatred, although, if not for him, she wouldn’t have needed me. Not that she did. She needed my effort, not me. Me, she didn’t like. Discouraged, sad, thinking I’d overdone this bad act and maybe I didn’t like her all that much, I said, �
�Let’s go to the restaurant next door, have dinner, say goodbye.” She seemed reluctant, even frightened. I wondered if, in such decisive gestures, there was hope. She said, “Not there.” I wondered if it was his hangout, or a restaurant she used to enjoy with him. I insisted. “Please,” she said, “any other restaurant.” But I needed this concession. She’d never given me anything else. For two men I’d talked and danced, even in bed. I insisted. Adamant. Shaking. “Only that restaurant.” She took my arm. We walked briskly in appreciation of my feelings. As we entered the restaurant, she pulled back. I recognized him — alone, sitting at a table. Him. The other guy. My soul flew into the shape of his face. He yawned. Nothing justifies hate like animal simplicity. “Look. He’s yawning. What a swine.” Was it a show of casual vulnerability? Contempt? She pulled my arm. I didn’t budge. I stared. His eyes squeezed to dashes. I heard the mock whimper of yawns. He began scratching the tablecloth. Two waiters ran to his side with questions of concern. His yawn was half his face. Batlike whimpers issued from it. Jawbones had locked, fiercely, absolutely. He needed help. My fist was ready. She cried, begging, dragging me away. I let her. That night was our beginning. Whenever I yawned at her, she’d laugh and plead, “Stop it.” Her admiration of me extended to orgasm. Even beyond. It was not unmixed with fear.

  THE PINCH

  Night came. I went to the window. My mother said, “What are you looking at?” I looked. She stood beside me and touched my arm. “What are you looking at?” Swinging through the windy blackness were spooky whites. My mother looked. She said, “Sheets. Sheets on a line.” I saw pale neurasthenics licking bodies of the air. She said, “You don’t believe me? Put on your coat.” She took me to the alley and held my hand. We stood beneath the sheets. I heard a dull spasmodic flap as the wind released them. We went home. I stood at the window. “Sheets on a line,” she said. I was crying. She pinched my arm. “I pinched your arm,” she said. Her face came closer to mine, as if to bring my face closer to mine, pleading, “I will pinch your arm.”

  LEFTY-RIGHTY

  Running in a fast game, I was pushed and went running off the court into a brick wall. My palm flattened against brick, driving shock into my wrist. The city wasn’t big enough for that pain. Other players left the game to watch me. Buildings grumbled in their roots. In tiny grains of concrete I saw recriminations. I rolled onto my back. A circle of faces looked down. I looked at the sky and didn’t scream. I might have broken my nose, my cheek, my left wrist. Why had it been the right? Then someone replaced me in the game. It resumed before I left the playground. I was abolished by tenements. For six weeks I wore a plaster cast. It itched in warm rooms. The left hand held forks and spoons, combed my hair, buttoned shirts. It could soon knot a tie. But it took passes like a wooden claw. It threw them like a catapult, not a hand. Broken this way, a wild animal would have been noticed, killed, got out of sight. I appeared daily, lingering on the sidelines, shuffling in among the healthy when they formed teams. Not saying a word, I begged: “Choose me.” Nobody looked in my direction, but being there gave me a right. Begrudged, but a right. Sooner or later, at least once a day, I’d be chosen. Any team I played on lost. Before and after games, alone, I practiced running to my left, dribbling lefty, shooting lefty I became less bad. The left hand became a hand. In a tough, fast game, a few days after the cast was removed, my opponent said, “Hey, man, you a lefty or a righty?” I mumbled, “Lefty-righty.” My team won easily. He came up to me and whispered, “How do you wipe your ass?” Out of noblesse oblige, I laughed. He grinned like a grateful ape, then offered me a cigarette, which I declined.

  ANGRY

  I heard that he had come to town. He hadn’t called me. I supposed he was angry. I became angry, too. I wouldn’t call him. When he called I was polite and agreed to go to his place. Dinner was pleasant. We talked for hours. When I yawned he raised new subjects, offered more cognac. His wife offered more to eat. I lighted another cigarette. His child, a two-year-old boy, came into the room. It seemed appropriate, delightful. But something was wrong with him. A distortion, quite serious, impossible not to notice. He was told to say hello, then sent back to bed. The air resisted words. We became flat and opaque. I put out my cigarette. They didn’t try to detain me. We shook hands at the door.

  WHAT YOU HAVEN’T DONE

  Wildly piled, pinned black hair. A face of busyness interrupted.

  “Ever think of anyone but yourself?”

  “You.”

  “Bullshit.”

  I shut the door, waited. Nothing changed. Bullshit banged my head.

  “I haven’t cleaned my apartment or done my shopping. My cat has to go to the vet. My mother will phone in twenty minutes.”

  I rushed forward, hugged her, kissed her neck — deep — as if to plug a hole. She hung in my arms. I quit kissing. She looked at me with fatigue, an expression like apology but distinct from it. Then she touched my hand.

  “Take off your clothes,” I said.

  “So much to do.”

  “Everything off.”

  Her face flashed through spaces in her black wool sweater. Her skirt dropped. She walked away naked, rapid, matter-of-fact, and sat on the bed.

  “I want to know something,” I said. “What have you never done with another man?” I sat beside her.

  “This,” she groaned, then plucked out hairpins.

  “A man used to ask a woman if she’s a virgin. Now I ask you a question of the heart.”

  “What do you want to know, exactly?”

  “What you haven’t done …”

  She smacked her fists to her ears. “Cleaned my apartment. Expect a phone call. Cat has to go to the vet.”

  THE BROKEN LEG

  My aunt tapped the spot and described the pain. Big Doctor sneered, “Nothing is wrong with your knee.” She tapped again. Described the pain. Big Doctor slapped his own knee and said, “Nothing is wrong.” She said, “Just give me a prescription.” He refused to prescribe even an aspirin. My aunt said, “My knee is sick. My knee is in pain. That pleases you.” He glanced at his calendar, set a date for the knife. My aunt went home. She read books on diet and health and started doing yoga exercises. Her knee felt better. There was no pain. She dressed and hurried out to see Big Doctor — blue — tinted hair, maroon lipstick, necklace, bracelets, rings, girdle, stockings, high heels — running down Broadway, singing, “Big Doctor, my knee is better,” running, running …

  PORNOGRAPHIC

  The girl had Oriental eyes with blue pupils in a round, white Oriental face. Blue pupils beneath epicanthic folds in the innocent emptiness of a round face. Her mouth was heavy and long and linear. Beautifully curled. The camera identified it with the genitals of her colleagues, perhaps a dozen males bearing temperamentally stiff or floppy pricks. Opposed to her mouth, not beautiful; but problematic or hysterical. Relieved of this or that prick, her mouth smiled. Personal light went unpricked, smiling along abdominal walls to their owners, reassuring them: “We are actors in a pornographic movie. Nothing is at stake.” Then it recurred quickly to cinematic obligations — to suck and lick with conviction. The camera adhered to it, lucid, neutral, ubiquitous. The camera’s look. Nearly like her mouth, assimilating advertisements of the male, but only in its totalitarian looking. The camera’s invincible distance. The look of looking.

  BEING MORAL

  “I’ve got a problem,” she said. “I’m obsessed by trivial reflections. When I brush my teeth, I think people are starving. Yet I’m determined to brush my teeth because it’s moral. But brushing makes me hungry. Eat, brush, eat, brush. I’m afraid someone will have to put a bullet in my head to save me from myself. Being moral is a luxury, isn’t it? No, it’s asking the question. That’s why I spend my time stealing, fucking, and taking dope.”

  LISTENING

  Every seat was taken. Students sat on the floor and window ledges. They barely moved. Nobody smoked. He took off his raincoat, laid it on the desk. At the end of the hour he’d look for his hat. Which wa
s on his head. He arrived with a handkerchief pressed to his lips, wiping away his breakfast. Zipping his fly. He ground fingers into his ears, as if digging for insects. Then, putting his hands in his trouser pockets, he tumbled his prunes. We watched. His loneliness made revelations. Dirty fingernails, nicotine stains, one shoelace a clot of knots. Students followed him to his office. Papers on his desk, piled level with his chest, smelled of rotting food. They defeated conversation. He’d invite you to sit. The chair looked greasy. The floor was splotched with coffee, dried oils, trapped grit. No walls, only book pressure, with small gaps in the volumes for shaving equipment, mirror, hairbrush, and toothbrush. “Please sit.” They never stayed long. They rushed to his classes. Girls with long hair, shampooed five times a week, gave him feeling looks, accumulating knees and ankles in the front row. His life in a pool of eyeballs. He didn’t know he was there. He’d begin. The silence was awesome, as if subsequent to a boom. Nobody had been talking, yet a space cleared, a hole blown out of nothing for his voice. It was like a blues piano rumbling in the abyss; meditations in pursuit of meditations. His course, “Philosophy 999: Great Issues,” was also called “Introduction to Thought” and “History of Consciousness.” He taught one course. He’d blow his nose. The handkerchief still in his hand, he, too, observed a silence. Listening. To listen was to think. We listened to him listening. World gathered into mind. Sometimes the hour ended that way, in silence, then spontaneous applause. His authenticity was insuperable. He scratched his buttocks, looked out the window. Once he said, “Winter.” A girl cried, “January,” eager for dialogue. Toward the end, he sat in a chair, elbows on knees, and shut one eye. Through the other, with heavy head cocked, he squinted at the ceiling, as if a last point were up there. After taking his course, students couldn’t speak without shutting one eye, addressing the ceiling. At a party I saw a girl shut one eye and scratch her buttocks. That was in Chicago, years later, after he was dead. I went up to her, shut one eye, and asked, “Can you tell me one thing, any particular thing he said? He never published a book, not even a book review.” She looked at me as if at moral scum.