Where I'm Calling From

records.
    “Pick something,” the man said to the girl, and he held the records out to her.
    The boy was writing the check.
    “Here,” the girl said, picking something, picking anything, for she did not know the names on these labels. She got up from the table and sat down again. She did not want to sit still.
    “I’m making it out to cash,” the boy said.
    “Sure,” the man said.
    They drank. They listened to the record. And then the man put on another.
    Why don’t you kids dance? he decided to say, and then he said it. “Why don’t you dance?”
    “I don’t think so,” the boy said.
    “Go ahead,” the man said. “It’s my yard. You can dance if you want to.”
    Arms about each other, their bodies pressed together, the boy and the girl moved up and down the driveway. They were dancing. And when the record was over, they did it again, and when that one ended, the boy said, “I’m drunk.”
    The girl said, “You’re not drunk.”
    “Well, I’m drunk,” the boy said.
    The man turned the record over and the boy said, “I am.”
    “Dance with me,” the girl said to the boy and then to the man, and when the man stood up, she came to him with her arms wide open.
    Those people over there, they’re watching,” she said.
    “It’s okay,” the man said. “It’s my place,” he said.
    “Let them watch,” the girl said.
    “That’s right,” the man said. “They thought they’d seen everything over here. But they haven’t seen this, have they?” he said.
    He felt her breath on his neck.
    “I hope you like your bed,” he said.
    The girl closed and then opened her eyes. She pushed her face into the man’s shoulder. She pulled the man closer.
    “You must be desperate or something,” she said.
    Weeks later, she said: “The guy was about middle-aged. All his things right there in his yard. No lie. We got real pissed and danced. In the driveway. Oh, my God. Don’t laugh. He played us these records. Look at this record-player. The old guy gave it to us. And all these crappy records. Will you look at this shit?”
    She kept talking. She told everyone. There was more to it, and she was trying to get it talked out. After a time, she quit trying.

A Serious Talk

    Vera’s car was there, no others, and Burt gave thanks for that. He pulled into the drive and stopped beside the pie he’d dropped the night before. It was still there, the aluminum pan upside down, a halo of pumpkin filling on the pavement. It was the day after Christmas.
    He’d come on Christmas day to visit his wife and children. Vera had warned him beforehand. She’d told him the score. She’d said he had to be out by six o’clock because her friend and his children were coming for dinner.
    They had sat in the living room and solemnly opened the presents Burt had brought over. They had opened his packages while other packages wrapped in festive paper lay piled under the tree waiting for after six o’clock.
    He had watched the children open their gifts, waited while Vera undid the ribbon on hers. He saw her slip off the paper, lift the lid, take out the cashmere sweater.
    “It’s nice,” she said. “Thank you, Burt.”
    “Try it on,” his daughter said.
    “Put it on,” his son said.
    Burt looked at his son, grateful for his backing him up.
    She did try it on. Vera went into the bedroom and came out with it on.
    “It’s nice,” she said.
    “It’s nice on you,” Burt said, and felt a welling in his chest.
    He opened his gifts. From Vera, a gift certificate at Sondheim’s men’s store. From his daughter, a matching comb and brush. From his son, a ballpoint pen.
    Vera served sodas, and they did a little talking. But mostly they looked at the tree. Then his daughter got up and began setting the dining-room table, and his son went off to his room.
    But Burt liked it where he was. He liked it in front of the fireplace, a glass in his hand, his house, his home.
    Then Vera went into the kitchen.
    From time to time his daughter walked into the dining room with something for the table. Burt watched her. He watched her fold the linen napkins into the wine glasses. He watched her put a slender vase in the middle of the table. He watched her lower a flower into the vase, doing it ever so carefully.
    A small wax and sawdust log burned on the grate. A carton of five more sat ready on the hearth. He got up from the sofa and put them all in the fireplace. He watched until they flamed. Then he finished his soda and made