He goes into his room, shuts the door and says “So let’s have a first line. Give me a first. Give me a second. But first a first. Any first line that leads straight through to a quick first draft of something I really like.”
“Da-da,” Olivia says through the door.
“Da-da,” he types. “Da-da, I want—”
“Mommy says you should—”
“Today Mommy says I should, definitely should, do what?” he types. “I should go—”
She raps on the door. He rips out the paper, a piece of it gets caught in the roller. If he doesn’t get it out now he might forget about it and later it could jam the machine. He starts pulling it out with the tweezers he keeps in a utility box on the desk. He has a magnet in the box for retrieving paperclips that fall through the keys, a brush and sewing needles for cleaning the typefaces. “Da-da, I have to go pee-pee.” “You can’t do it yourself?” “No, and Mommy’s busy. She says—” “Damn,” he shouts, and slams his fist down on the table. An eraser pencil and his fountain pen jump up and fall to the floor. Probably busted the pen’s point. Should always keep it capped. When did he uncap it? Probably been there like that since last night. He jotted down a note and in his compulsion for neatness he must have put the paper the note was on back in the pile of scrap paper or dumped it into the basket. He forgets what he wrote. Can’t be important then. But it could be a good starting line, one he intended for that. Did he? Was it? Heck with it. She’s probably peed in her pants by now. Denise will love that. Heck also with trying to squeeze in minutes, thanking God for a free half-hour. She jiggles the doorknob, had been trying to turn it to get in but this door gets stuck. He gets up. Tweezers are still in his hand. She might think he’s going to do something to her with them. He puts them in the box. Opens the door. She looks sad, a little frightened. “Did you pee in your pants, sweetheart?” “No. Can I sit at your typewriter?” “Let’s just concentrate on your pee-pee. I also don’t want to be washing the floor and your pants.” He picks up the eraser pencil and pen, point’s OK, caps it, sets them side by side on the desk. Picks her up, kisses her forehead a few times as he carries her to the bathroom. Stands her up, unhitches her overalls, pulls them down and her panties and sits her on the toilet. She pees and shits. “Good,” he says. “A double success.”
7. Frog Blahs
Can’t sleep, can’t eat. Goes to the bathroom. Can’t pee. Sits on the seat. The same. Something’s wrong. Feeling queasy inside, bit of a headache. Goes back to bed to rest and think. So what did you do today to feel this way? For instance? Food. Ate very little, no alcohol. Yesterday? A repeat. How come? Didn’t feel like doing anything but that. Why not? Don’t know. Up till now it hadn’t affected my stomach or head, so just did or didn’t do those things without thinking I guess. Think about it now? Just one of those periods when I didn’t feel like drinking alcohol, eating very much or anything but bland. Also not cooking up a storm, cleaning a slew of dishes, going out for the extra ingredient — things like that. No need for alcohol, not even a beer. Wasn’t warm enough for one, if that could be a reason. One reason it could be. Another is a need for a beer sometimes, or for its taste, if that’s not saying the same thing. Something cool or quenching or that tastes like beer, but no. Booze? I don’t do much. Sometimes a hefty straight one to calm myself or mixed with a mixer to help get me to sleep, but no feeling for any of that yesterday or today. Why? Thought I said. Or don’t have to because it’s all so no-relate. I’m just not a big drinker, what can I say? Then what do you think’s causing your physical queasiness, lethargy, inability to sleep, pee, shit, or eat or drink much? Can’t say. Maybe the start of a flu. Something’s in there though, my bladder and bowels. Have the feeling to go but nothing comes out. The day before last? What about it? What you drank, ate, did that might have contributed to how you feel today. Too much exercising perhaps? Some older men don’t know how or when to stop. No, it was just another normal day I think. Or who can remember the details that far back? I might have had a beer. I bought a six-pack that day, along with some other things, that I can remember, so if one’s gone from the refrigerator you know that that day I drank a beer. Also might have had something more to eat than I did yesterday or today. Sure I did. Far as I can remember, I just about felt fine that day. But that was two days ago — a full two. I peed that day I’m sure. And yesterday — remember now lifting the toilet seat to do it — and shit both days too. So I got rid of whatever waste was in me for two days, and probably a lot from yesterday. Well, that leaves me stumped; what do you make of it then? Nothing. I make nothing. I wish I could make more, but that’s all there is in my head now. I’ll try for sleep again. Who knows? Maybe it’ll work this time and when I wake up everything will be fine.
He lies on his side, shuts his eyes, pictures come. Mother. Looking radiant and beautiful, as so many people used to say in just about the same words, standing in a bright light. Theater spots, sunlight — she did both. This is something he’s making up. Or a memory stored away for thirty to forty years and just now emerged from its little hole and came to the top. But so what. Mother, so glad to see her. Great, that’s what it is, since she’s rarely appeared so clearly in his dreams or thoughts: light on her, serene smile, about to speak. What, Mother? Holding a closed umbrella, slowly closes her mouth. No, please, speak. It’s really more a movie scene, though she never did anything but stage. Right: couple of silents, she said, but ones she was only a chorus girl in and he’s never seen. Even her clothes now are from another century, one she wasn’t in. Goodbye, Mother, I know you’re aching to go. She seems to be fading. Goodbye. Then Father. Drill in his hand, patient in his chair, white dental smock, dental lamp overhead. “Open wider,” he says. Or mouths that to his patient. Patient opens wider. Patient’s he. He’s in his father’s operatory, hands clutching the armrests. His father hated to treat him. Also hated sending him to another dentist. Never resolved that. So he got bad teeth from it. When by the time he got to his office the tooth was often gone or the cavity very deep. Root canal needed. But he hated doing root canal on him, so drilled deeper. Oh the pain. “Novocaine isn’t working,” Howard would say. “I gave you a shot big enough to knock out a horse. Sit still, keep your mouth open.” Oh the pain. Later when he was old enough he went to another dentist but didn’t tell his father. Saved the money to pay for it by working as a delivery boy. His father found out. Bill came to the house by mistake. Called him into a room alone. “What’s this?” “Why’d you intercept it? It was addressed to me.” “Don’t worry, I didn’t open it. What’s it for though? Don’t give me a cock-and-bull story either.” “I went for a root canal.” “I’m not good enough to do it for you? That what your mother says too? She lead you up to it?” “She doesn’t know. Besides, she says all the time you’re a fine dentist, a terrific dental surgeon, but that what you’re best at is plates and false teeth. But my tooth got so bad I didn’t want to bother you. I know you hate giving me pain in your chair.” “You still should’ve come to me. If I couldn’t do it myself, or didn’t have the heart to, I would’ve sent you to a dentist friend who wouldn’t have charged you. Or if he did, only for the x-rays and lab work, which I would’ve taken care of for you. What’s this guy charging you? I bet too much.” “Two hundred.” “For one tooth? Is that with a complete set of x-rays and some fillings and a cleaning?” “No.” “He’s robbing you blind.” “But he’s a good dentist, and there was almost no pain. Who would you have sent me to, Hirsch?” “Sure, Dr. Hirsch, why not?” “Because I’ve heard you yourself say he’s a cheapskate with x-rays and giving shots and even his lights. He just digs till you scream and then says ‘spit.’” “He’s an expert dentist, been at it for more than forty years.” “Maybe that’s his trouble then. His hands shake. He’s half-blind and never seems to clean his glasses. I bet he doesn’t even wash his hands, as you do, before he works on a patient. I wouldn’t have gone to him even if you paid me to.” “Then Dr. Wachtel.” “Same. I don’t want your cronies. Excuse me, but I want real careful professionals who don’t skimp on anything.” “you want dentists just out of college. You want fancy equipment and degrees all over the office. You want to pay through the nose. Well good, go ahead, since whatever I tell you to do, you always do the opposite anyway.” “So what are we arguing about then? In the end, it’s my money.” “But I hate seeing you waste it. You should have at least come to me for advice. It’s true I don’t like working on my kids. But I could’ve found you excellent treatment — not Hirsch or Wachtel if you didn’t want — and for a lot less money. I would’ve paid for it all, in fact. Now you won’t get a dime from me for it.” “It’s okay. I didn’t want any. I know how hard you work for your money.” “Good. Then we’re settled.”