Love and Will: Twenty Stories

The Last

I want to throw the whole thing into the river. I think I’ve already said that. Or I’ve done that. Which is it? Me mind, me mind. Been working at this so long I forget what I do, why I do it, when I did it. Let me see, when was it? I was, well there I was, I mean it was, oh forget it. I’ll never remember, but give it one more shot. I had this thing, right, this thing and threw it into the river, there it was, floating for a while, sank after a while, so be it. But what was that thing? I thought I said. Let me think. No you didn’t. It was a thing, right. It was it. It was this. I mean — looking over to where this thing is or was — it isn’t there so it was my manuscript. That’s what it was. There. To be exact: my biggest manuscript. That’s exactly what it was. Threw the damn thing into the river. Wrote about it, wrote it, wrote what I did with it after I wrote it: river, manuscript. Wrote that I was finished with it, had enough, couldn’t go on with it, that’s what I felt, that’s what I did, threw it into the river, the whole thing, so what more’s to be said about it, right? I guess nothing, so I’ll sign off.

But now I’ve nothing to do. It’s like a child who’s upped and gone away from home, just left, left home for good, deserted the hearth, said to its daddy, me, I’m leaving for good, said to its mommy, me, I’ve had it here forever, said to its parents, me, because I did it, I’m responsible, I gave birth to it, I suckled it, I provided the egg and sperm and place to grow, I nurtured it, I brought it up, I got its food and fed its face, I took care of it when it was sick, I cut its cord with my teeth, bit through it and sewed it up, I read it its first words, taught it how to talk and walk, held it against my chest, held it to my breast, I wiped its ass every day and night eight-ten times a day and threw out its shit, I let it piss on my head and toes, I let it pull my nose and lobes, I held and kissed it, I was held and kissed by it, I am lost without it, I walk around town wondering where it is and what I’ll do for the rest of my life without it, I, well, I can’t, well I just can’t live without it I sometimes think.

So I start something else. I find another woman. Or continue with the previous figure of speech. A woman finds another man. She gets him to pump into her when she’s ready to conceive. It doesn’t work the first or second or even the third time so she gets him to keep pumping into her every day and night till he’s sure she can’t do anything but conceive. He and she conceive. They do. I do with my woman and man. We conceive. I’m they. She has, I have, we do, a baby. Another one — our second — end of figure of speech. A fine figure of speech. An awful figure of speech. I’m not even sure it was a figure of speech. But we have, it is, I start, again and again. Work on it day and night, night and day, days and nights, and what then? What could I expect? It runs off. Leaves the house. It leaves us. Be more direct. Another unfinished — yes? Goddamn novel, that’s what it was. There it is. Why wasn’t I that specific at first? Now I have been, so what’s the dif? Ran off, left me, left us, gone, where to? The river. There it goes. Someone save it. Please, anyone, it’s drowning, I can’t swim, a man jumps in, woman too, he sinks but she swims a couple of strokes, says I can’t make it so far to get him and it both, swims back dragging the man with her to land. So I jump in with my shoes on, jump and swim but it’s gone, what can I say? Murky as this river is, this body of water is, this figure of speech is, I still dive and dive and dive till I decide the water’s too murky and I’ll never find it no matter how many times I dive, so I swim to shore, where I am now, drying off, manuscript gone.

So what do I do but start another one. Use my penis and vagina, testes and ova. Doesn’t work. Nothing produced. We’re infertile, she’s barren, I’ve little to no sperm count, she’s lost count, I’m barren, she’s infertile, whatever it is, or we are, nothing comes, though it’s fun, so damn much fun, but not another fetus, no more children, not even a part of one manuscript, I’m done, can’t last like this for that long without another one, so might as well chuck it all in, jump into the river myself, which I do, we.

Together we jump. Holding hands. What else is there to do now? Can’t do anything but what we can do I suppose, though I don’t know — I’m not very good with those — but anyway, it’s what we do, jump into the river, we know it’s over our heads, heard of others who’ve jumped into it from the same spot we did and sank ten feet or so over their heads, so we’ve jumped, hand in hand, not a very long jump, fifteen feet at the most, not even as long as that, twelve, ten, we jump, fall, end up in the river, sink, about eight feet so two to three feet over our heads, we’re done, wasn’t fun, drowning wasn’t, falling was quite a thrill, but drowning was dreadful, couldn’t breathe, choked to death, gagged when I lost my last breathe, I’m not sure if it was my last, drowning was agonizing, though, never again.

So I watch all this from my window. Watch the river through the only window of my apartment, a good apartment despite just a single room and its shortage of space and what might be called a dining alcove: right on the river, window with a broad view. Once though, it’s true, I threw my manuscript into the river, no one jumped after it. I sure didn’t. Just threw it out the window into the river. It can be done if the manuscript’s heavy enough and I give it a good toss. But that was it. Sank, didn’t float. None of the pages came up. Maybe somewhere one did, but never here, far as I know, and none was ever found anywhere else, far as I know too. Now I look out this window. Water. Bridges. River traffic. Ships, barges, tugs. A pleasure craft. Flock of geese or ducks go past flying south though at this time of the year I’d think it’d be north. Workers on the docks way off. Nearer me, and below, people on the promenade. Mothers, carriages, nannies, men reading on benches, and so on. Boys and girls skipping by and jumping rope. In the sky: planes, clouds. A beautiful day. White clouds, blue sky, setting sun. Quite a sight. And before me, nothing. Meaning in my typewriter or at the end of my pen, nothing. Time maybe for me to go. No. Out the window first. I look. I open it. Mild as it looks. The pen. From three stories up I throw it into the river. It makes a blip and is gone. Now the typewriter. Too heavy to throw. I go downstairs, cross the promenade, dump it over the railing. Drop it over, really. Plop. Gone. I thought it’d make a louder sound. A woman jogs by. “What’d you drop in the river,” she says on the run, “your newborn child?” Wow, that’s a strange thing to say. Even if she saw what I dropped and knew what I’d been thinking, which I’m sure she didn’t, a very strange remark. That woman must be crazy.