I Could Call You Malone.

Recto

I remember. Russian dolls. A misunderstanding, certainly. Shapes on a street. Hello. An unexpected question.

-- Do you know those people ? -- No. I thought you had to say hello to everyone you passed in the street.

It didn’t seem like a big deal. But there were those you could greet, and all the others you couldn’t. It was already hard enough dealing with masks. You had to urgently construct a new one—one of indifference. No one knew yet if it fit. Or if it really protected you. It made you clumsy, especially if you forgot you were wearing it.

As always, you were expected to choose : indifference, or not.

Verso

I turned. He was sitting in my chair. I had been ejected, it seemed, by some inward force. Pinned against a wall, catching my breath. The shock—always strong—needed time.

When I was ready, I turned again and looked him in the eye. The misunderstanding.

He looked ordinary. A nobody. Someone you’d pass without noticing. But we were alone now. And I had misplaced my mask of indifference. I felt exposed. So did he. We were both naked. That wasn’t ordinary. That redeemed the moment a little. I almost said it aloud : “You notice we’re both completely naked ?”

What to call him ? “Mr. Misunderstanding” felt pompous. Just “Misunderstanding” was too familiar. I voiced the dilemma : -- What should I call you ? -- I was wondering the same. Strange, isn’t it ? Maybe we could remain unnamed.

I thought of Sam. Of Mr. Hackett. Of a park bench. Those belonged to me. Public things. Unlike the chair. This chair was mine. But the misunderstanding could sit in it whenever he liked.

“I’m not pregnant,” he said. “Call me Malone. I’ll spare you the duck dinners.”

He glanced at his watch. Looked at me in silence. A plane passed.

-- Was there something in particular you wanted ? he asked.

His question hit hard after that silence. I had no reply. And the silence cracked the door open to a world behind it. A dusty smell. Furniture untouched for ages.

Rough linen sheets, like iron armor, strangely pleasant in the heat. A one-eyed stuffed animal. Loved once. Now so neglected it made me feel guilty. A shaft of light with dust specks floating in it. A child’s bedroom.

These things had once been mine. As much as anything can be. I saw them now and knew they weren’t. They had given me a chance. I had not taken it.

Malone coughed. A sign I was drifting. He wasn’t interested.

-- You didn’t call me here for nostalgia, he said sharply.

I snapped out of it. Thanked him. -- Thank you, truly. Without you, I’d have stayed in it for hours. Days.

Let’s get to the point, he said. Relaxed. Crossed a leg. Leaned back.

That’s my problem, I said. Getting to the point. I try. I take one step, then things curve. I end up circling.

He laughed. You’re a strange one. For a second, I thought you were Watt. He didn’t say it. That pleased me.

-- You were going to call me Watt ? -- You’re dodging, he said.

Not dodging. At the center, I think. I sense things, Malone. But I say them badly. Maybe they’re not even real. Maybe I shouldn’t speak of them.

-- What things ? Speak !

That’s when I remembered : I had to shrink. Fold inward. Become a point in space.

-- Where’d you go ? he asked. -- Here. Between the floorboards. That black dot.

-- Does it amuse you ? (he laughed) -- I don’t think so. It’s reflex. When someone shouts, I turn into a dot.

-- As long as it’s not a period.

-- Go ahead, laugh. I’m used to it.

-- Now that’s interesting, he said. (He leaned in. Looked closer at the dot I was holding together with all my “no one sees me, no one loves me” strength.)

-- What do you actually do to exist ? he asked. -- I tell myself I write. -- Do you ? -- Yes. Every morning. A thousand to fifteen hundred words. -- What’s it for ? -- Nothing. Must everything have a use ?

-- If you write, it’s to be read. Right ? -- That’s what I thought, once. Not anymore.

The misunderstanding made a face. Then whistled.

-- When do we eat in this place ?

-- Now you’re dodging, Malone. Your turn. -- I’m not dodging. I’m bored. When I’m bored, I’m hungry. -- Me too. -- That makes one thing we share. Got any duck ?

And we held our sides. And we laughed. And then cried. A lot.

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