I just typed up a draft of Mark Wilson's 1978 short short story "She's Funny That Way," which will appear in my
Cold Eye anthology.
This is an odd story, full of wistful longing and humor, and it has a somewhat surprising twist at the end. It's a simple story on one hand, but it reverberates with a somewhat surreal dislocation as well.
She’s Funny that WayBy Mark Wilson
When I saw her I thought how she would look in blue. Her hair was so blond it was almost white. Enormous sky-blue eyes. She was wearing pants and dirty white tennis shoes. Taking long strides, she was climbing a short hill next to a white bungalow, Ohio Street, Lawrence, Kansas. It was spring.
That wasn’t the first time I saw her. The first time I was sitting in a window booth at the Rock Chalk Café. A beer joint in Lawrence, Kansas. Just off the campus of Kansas University. Kansas University sits astride a hill. In the whole of Eastern Kansas there are many hills. A few rivers. Lots of woods and fields. It’s rural.
It was a warm day in March. I first saw her through the plate glass window of the Rock Chalk Café. She wasn’t wearing any shoes that day. Her feet were dirty. I noticed she had no front teeth. She was smiling at me through the window. She stuck out her tongue. I was drinking a beer.
The next time I saw her it wasn’t her. I thought it was her. She came out of the Pam-Pam East all night coffee shop at Geary & Mason. I was sitting on the cab stand drinking coffee, waiting. She got in and she wanted to go out to Geary & Masonic. When she got in the interior of the cab filled with an animal essence. I smelled her. But it was a quiet animal. And sweet. That’s why I thought it was her. All the way out Geary I was thinking of something to say and when was the right moment. But I kept quiet and drove. When we got to the address I switched on the dome light, turned around and looked at her. The meter read $3.40. She had hair so blonde it was almost white. Enormous blue eyes. She wore several rings on long tapered fingers. She was wearing blue. All the way out Geary I had breathed in the quiet animal essence. It was sweet. I thought it was her. But when I looked at her in the cablight—although she appeared as Beauty Incarnate—it wasn’t her. She gave me a 5 and got out. She knew I thought it was her. But she knew she wasn’t her. And I was a cab driver. I started to sing the “cab driver blues,” which is a lot like the “busboy blues.” But I stopped and thought why should I?
I saw her once when I was riding my bike. I was cruising along Ohio Street, Lawrence, Kansas. She was sitting on the handle bars looking straight ahead. We had just come from Safeway where I’d bought her some Milk Duds. For a treat.
Now if it is possible, there are some occasions in life’s moment in which one may wish to spend Eternity.
That day—it was summer and the foliage was out and the world was green—riding a bike with a 6 year-old angel on the handle bars. This is where I wasn’t to spend Eternity.
From year to year I catch glimpses of her. Most times she doesn’t see me. She’s busy or tired or thinking. Riding the bus or passing along the street.
But I do remember seeing her at a barbecue. Her mother approached me. I was sitting on the steps wearing a crew-cut and a Mickey Mouse tee-shirt, drinking wine. I wasn’t wearing shoes that day. It was summer. My feet were dirty. Her mother, Delia, says to me, “Pinasco (that was my name then), are you in love with Toop?”
I says, “yes.”
Delia says, “you know you’ve got about 20 years on her.”
“Yes and they could put me in jail for it.”
Delia says, “they could put me in jail for being her mother.”
“She’s funny that way,” I says.
The next year was bleak. She had gone to Paris to live with her dad. I was living in Lincoln, Nebraska. Delia was living there with her son, Elf. Delia was an anthropology grad student. I was working for an OEO poverty program. Oh, Delia!
I saw Toop again. She came over to America to visit her mom and brother. In Paris, her dad had given her a haircut. She was a year older and her hair had begun to turn brown.
We walked up to the campus, University of Nebraska. I gave her a piggy back ride, like I used to. We got an ice-cream cone. We walked back. It was summer. Trees hanging out over the street. She danced down the street throwing bouquets of light and laughter into the shadows. When we got to her house she ran inside. At the door she turned and looked at me. Right in the eye.
“See you, Pinasco,” she says.
I couldn’t say anything. I was paralyzed. I loved her. She was headed back to Paris the next day. Her front teeth had come in. She was beginning to have an identity. Soon boys would be coming around. She was gone.
After she left I went down and got my passport. I got a job working construction so I could save money. I would go to visit her in Paris!
But I never went. Instead I waited for her to return. I picked California to wait in. California is a good place to wait. There is a lot to do to pass the time. I passed time hitchhiking. Working, eating chop suey. I walked around some. I rode the bus up and down the length of the state. I hung out with some women. I slept a lot. I went to college. I wrote 2 books. I went over to Golden Gate Park stoned. I heard the Grateful Dead. I laughed at Woody Allen. I got drunk. I sold newspapers. I meditated. I got busted. I got rolled. I went swimming. I played pinball. I danced. I sang. I prayed. I paced the great floor of California. In a hotel room I listened to jazz on the radio. I waited.
After 7 years I’d forgotten all about her. I developed my career as a dishwasher. One day I saw her again. She was sitting in the café writing in a leather-bound book. She looked up and saw me. Right in the eye. Her eyes had become more a Mediterranean blue. I stopped. She didn’t. She couldn’t. She is a dancer.
Now we are sitting in her kitchen. Everything has become very quiet. We’re drinking champagne. You can’t know anyone until you love them. She is getting ready to leave again, tomorrow.
I look across the seascape of the champagne. She winks at me. Bon Voyage! Honey Child. Do you hear that bell? It’s still ringing for both of us, together someplace other, to be rivers.
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Expect the anthology sometime next month.
TS
I don't like the feel of the setup in L.A. tonight. Maybe I'm just a natural pessimist (there really is no maybe about it), but I think Oregon will fall tonight. I hope I'm wrong, but something just doesn't feel right.
Speaking of which, I have finished a draft of Cold Eye, the anthology of 1978 Portland writing I've been contemplating for fifteen years now.
