After he cancelled his poetry reading, Dimitri spent three days at home in
his room, scribbling down limericks and pieces of poems and singing along
to his Linda Ronstadt albums. His room was cluttered with empty glass
bottles and the papers he'd kept from his days at Upton Sinclair. He took
them out of the filing cabinet for the first time since he quit his job. He
didn't think he would ever look at them again but every time he went to
throw them away he felt overwhelmed with guilt.
Now he was determined to finish all the work he'd left incomplete and to finally get rid of it. He hoped this would give him enough sanity to start searching for something new to move on to, something substantial. He lay on his stomach on his bed, his green silk robe half-open, reading the stories from last year that he never finished grading.
He scoffed as he scoured his students' cliches, their tired adolescent characters. A pile of manila folders lay open on the floor, revealing stacks of papers covered in red ink. He read and edited the stories hungrily, feeling useful for the first time in weeks. He finally fell asleep at 4 a.m. on the fourth day and woke up with papers stuck to the side of his face. He rolled over and fell onto the floor. The burn of the carpet against his skin gave him a small thrill and he used the energy to turn and push himself off the floor and walked unsteadily to the bathroom. He forced himself to look in the mirror again.
He lifted his head slowly, blinked at his image. Without his contact lenses in, his face looked like a copper-colored cloud. The spaces beneath his eyes were nearly black. His hair, which he hadn't washed in more than a week was stuck to his head, except for a few strands in the front, which stuck straight out. The beginnings of a beard had sprouted across his chin. He looked like someone had just dug him out of a grave.
He took off the robe, stood under the shower head and stared at the levers of the faucet. Hot. Cold. Everything was split into dichotomies. Was it so hard to come up with a knob that turned on warm water automatically? He laughed angrily as he turned the hot water as far as it would go and stood under the water, his teeth clenched in agony, until his skin was as red as his hair.
Afterwards he went back to the bed and lay naked on the sheets and, soothed by the soft, cool surface of the cloth, he drifted asleep with a sense of certainty growing in his mind until he could almost feel his life take shape into a tangible object he could rest his head against. By the time he woke up, he knew what he wanted and for once was not embarassed to admit that he thought his desires important enough to care about and perhaps even worthy of pursuing.
When he got dressed he gathered the graded papers together and stuffed them into his brief case. His hair was still wet and was dampening the shoulders of his brown blazer but he didn't care. He grabbed a couple of books of poetry from his bookshelf before heading for the door. As he was fumbling with his keys outside, however, he hesitated a moment then went back inside.
He dug through a pile of books and papers lying under the kitchen table until he found the three-word letter and the old copy of Grace's story he had-the one for which she'd made up a shabby ending just as an excuse to see him again. He laughed to himself as he thought about how similar the two of them were. It terrified him.
Now he was determined to finish all the work he'd left incomplete and to finally get rid of it. He hoped this would give him enough sanity to start searching for something new to move on to, something substantial. He lay on his stomach on his bed, his green silk robe half-open, reading the stories from last year that he never finished grading.
He scoffed as he scoured his students' cliches, their tired adolescent characters. A pile of manila folders lay open on the floor, revealing stacks of papers covered in red ink. He read and edited the stories hungrily, feeling useful for the first time in weeks. He finally fell asleep at 4 a.m. on the fourth day and woke up with papers stuck to the side of his face. He rolled over and fell onto the floor. The burn of the carpet against his skin gave him a small thrill and he used the energy to turn and push himself off the floor and walked unsteadily to the bathroom. He forced himself to look in the mirror again.
He lifted his head slowly, blinked at his image. Without his contact lenses in, his face looked like a copper-colored cloud. The spaces beneath his eyes were nearly black. His hair, which he hadn't washed in more than a week was stuck to his head, except for a few strands in the front, which stuck straight out. The beginnings of a beard had sprouted across his chin. He looked like someone had just dug him out of a grave.
He took off the robe, stood under the shower head and stared at the levers of the faucet. Hot. Cold. Everything was split into dichotomies. Was it so hard to come up with a knob that turned on warm water automatically? He laughed angrily as he turned the hot water as far as it would go and stood under the water, his teeth clenched in agony, until his skin was as red as his hair.
Afterwards he went back to the bed and lay naked on the sheets and, soothed by the soft, cool surface of the cloth, he drifted asleep with a sense of certainty growing in his mind until he could almost feel his life take shape into a tangible object he could rest his head against. By the time he woke up, he knew what he wanted and for once was not embarassed to admit that he thought his desires important enough to care about and perhaps even worthy of pursuing.
When he got dressed he gathered the graded papers together and stuffed them into his brief case. His hair was still wet and was dampening the shoulders of his brown blazer but he didn't care. He grabbed a couple of books of poetry from his bookshelf before heading for the door. As he was fumbling with his keys outside, however, he hesitated a moment then went back inside.
He dug through a pile of books and papers lying under the kitchen table until he found the three-word letter and the old copy of Grace's story he had-the one for which she'd made up a shabby ending just as an excuse to see him again. He laughed to himself as he thought about how similar the two of them were. It terrified him.