Dorothy And Jack

'Dorothy &; Jack'

by

Philip Craggs

Have you ever been stood by the side of the road and had a truck drive
past you at top speed and it's like 'pow' like something off the old
kid's comic because you've not been hit but there's been an impact -
you've been affected for the moment that the lorry takes to pass you
and once it's gone you feel suddenly devoid of feeling because you
aren't being affected anymore? Well, there are people who have the same
effect. They don't even touch you, they just pass somewhere in your
vicinity but you feel their passing and you wonder what didn't hit you.
Maybe you know this already. Maybe you know one of these people. Maybe
you are one. I met one recently. It was at a party.

Now, my friends call me 'The Widget' because I spend my life immersed
in beer (and there have been some serious mornings after when the world
has seemed to be filtered through a brown liquid). I like being drunk
because it makes the world seem so damn romantic. Don't ask me why. I
mean, at the back of my mind I must know that romance and vomit
shouldn't be closely linked, and on these nights one often follows the
other (and on one unforgettable occasion, during the other) but my
spirits never dampen. When sober the world is a cold place where your
neighbour would stab you in the back to keep his knife sharp. After a
few pints the air tastes sweeter, the streets look romantic and the
women look hot. And they say alcohol is bad for you!

But anyway I had just arrived at a party celebrating my mate's fifth
anniversary (anniversary of what? He's single) and I walked in to the
living room and there she was. Man I am telling you her eyes were the
lorry's headlights - that's the kind of connection we're talking about
(you do remember my analogy at the intro don't you?). Her long dark
hair like the smoke from those upright exhausts they have and a
back-side that should have had a 'wide-load' sign on it and a beeper
for when she reverses. But that was in a pleasing, hour-glass kind of
way. And I swear down I felt a breeze through my hair that was stronger
the closer I got. Now I'd been single for a while and there wasn't any
guy hanging round her so fought the gale to get over to her and, casual
like, leant against the wall next to her. Now, I knew it wouldn't be
easy. She was dressed serious and smart (quite old-fashioned formal)
but with just too much skin showing to be accidental. Hard to get but
available. This girl was by the bookcase, staring at the names on the
spines, only turning away when blowing out cigarette smoke so the books
didn't stink. Shows respect for books. Means telling her about how I
used to be a star student athlete probably isn't going to cut the ice.
But I have the advantage of being a writer myself so that might impress
her, though this girl looks hard to impress. She's looking at an old
Hemmingway with obvious admiration. It's almost too perfect - I love
Hemmingway too, although I'd moved on to Tom Wolfe (who I'd just
spotted in the corner chatting to Arthur Miller). I mentioned this to
her. She turned and looked up at me with the kind of eyes I haven't
seen since my school days when teachers trying to cope with student who
towered above them by perfecting the kind of glare that made you feel
about four feet tall. Mind you, back then I really was only four feet
tall.

'I'm not familiar with Wolfe's work,' she replied, 'but if you like
him I'm sure there's not much to him.'

Now, that's a bad start I admit. But I've had worse.

'That's harsh,' said I, a smile on my face showing I wasn't offended.
'They've both influenced my own writing,' I added.

She looked me up and down, which considering her short stature takes
about equal time both ways.

'You are one of those Beatnik people aren't you?' she asked.

'Yeah,' I replied, impressed. 'My name's Jack.'

'In that case you can climb back down your beanstalk and get away from
me. You'll be getting none of my gold tonight.'

'Don't get me wrong,' I said. 'I'm not just trying to make you,'
although of course I was, 'I find one-night stands spiritually
unsatisfying.'

'Is suppose you're the kind of loving, considerate man we've been
hearing so much of recently, even though no-one has ever met
one.'

'That's me!' I replied, a big grin on my face. 'I'm just looking for a
woman to love.'

'Well, I'm sorry to disappoint you,' she drawled, 'but Love died long
ago. Cancer, I heard, from too many post-sex cigarettes.'

I'm sure you'll pardon the admission, but I gave up trying to make her
at this point. But she had something...I just had to keep on talking to
her.

'If you don't believe in love, what do you believe in?' I asked.

She paused for a moment before answering. 'Liquor,' she replied.
'Spirits. Anything but Gin. Room service. Dinner with my so-called
friends. Occasional rendezvous with young men who do their job then
leave. And dogs. I have never understood why despicable men are called
'dogs'. My dogs are the only things that have ever been faithful to me,
with one exception, dear old Mr Benchley. They are much better than
men. I have had my fill with love.'

And it was then that I realised what it was that had brought me over
to this woman. What had affected me like passing trucks. This woman,
she was the Void. The Void I had seen on the top of Mt Desolation but
different. Not something ancient and serene, calm and everlasting like
that Void, but stormy and in a turmoil. It was only then that I noticed
the ribbons around her wrists. She was the Void incarnate, made flesh,
made woman. She was emptiness, she was the vacuum but for her it was a
lonely curse. I knew what she needed but also that I couldn't give it
to her. When I had seen the Void in the mountains I had thought a human
Void would be like a wise Caughnawaga Chief, distant from man's folly
and linked to the Eternal. But really, such a huge Void in a person
needs filling, and if love fails then nothing else will do, no matter
what you pour down your throat to replace it. I suddenly felt very
sorry for her, and out of the mood for the party. She was no longer
looking at me, so I walked away.

On my way out, our host stopped me.

'You got the brush off, eh?' he said with a smile. 'Don't worry about
it, Dorothy's like that with everyone. Still, you should know that
considering the review she gave to 'The Subterraneans' for
'Esquire'.'

And then I understood. Trust me to make a bee-line straight to her! I
took one last look at Mrs Parker by the book-case, and then went to
find my beat buddies for a night of poetry and liquor. I was feeling
restless. Perhaps it's time for me to go on the road again.