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  The friend says, I remember that song.

  The man says, So did I.

  The friend says, Did he try to kiss you?

  The man says, I don’t feel like talking about it.

  The guitar player didn’t try to kiss the man.

  The guitar player has never tried to kiss a man in his life, which has lasted a long fifty-three years, but probably won’t last another.

  The guitar player has been unwell of late. He’s had problems with digestion. It’s probably cancer.

  He finished his song and looked over at the man, who reached into his pocket and gave him a dollar.

  The guitar player remained on the bench for the rest of the day. He played his thirty-minute song in three-quarter time for anyone who would listen, making almost seven dollars.

  Three-quarter time is also known as waltz time.

  Waltz, probably deriving from German Ländler, is dance music in triple meter, and often written in time signature 3/4. A waltz typically sounds one chord per measure, and the accompaniment style particularly associated with the waltz is to play the root of the chord on the first beat, the upper notes on the second and third beats.

  The name “waltz” comes from the German verb walzen, in turn taken from the Latin verb volvere, which describes the turning or rotating movement characteristic of the dance.

  Although French writers have attempted to connect the waltz to the sixteenth-century volta, firm evidence connecting this Italian form to the earliest occurrence of “walzen,” in the mid-eighteenth century, is lacking.

  Classical composers traditionally supplied music for dancing when required, and Franz Schubert’s waltzes were written for household dancing, without any pretense at being art music. However, Frédéric Chopin’s surviving eighteen waltzes, along with his mazurkas and polonaises, were clearly not intended for dance. They marked the adoption of the waltz and other dance forms as serious composition genres.

  The First World War, which destroyed the Austro-Hungarian monarchy and the Viennese culture, brought the long period of the waltz’s popularity to an end. European light music shifted from Vienna to Berlin, and compositions by composers such as Gustav Mahler, Igor Stravinsky, and William Walton treated the dance in a nostalgic or grotesque manner, as a thing of the past.

  In a jazz context, “waltz” signifies any piece of music in 3/4 time, whether intended for dancing or not. Almost all jazz before 1955 was in duple meter. It was only after the “bop waltz” appeared in the early 1950s (such as Thelonious Monk’s recording of “Carolina Moon” in 1952 and Sonny Rollins’s “Valse Hot” in 1956) that triple meter became at all common in jazz.

  Neither the man nor his friend is musical, so neither considers the history of waltz music, though sometime next year the man will hear a waltz on the radio, which may spark an interest.

  They continue to speak in this manner for another hour or so, discussing what is wrong with people, with themselves, with their wives, until the friend decides to go home.

  END of ACT II

  ACT III

  The setting remains the same, an ordinary kitchen with a table and chairs.

  It is the same Sunday, now evening.

  The man is setting the table, which has been cleared of the beer and whiskey bottles, for supper.

  The woman is also setting the table.

  They are walking back and forth between the cupboards and table, each time retrieving something new, dinner plates, salad plates, water glasses, forks, knives, spoons, napkins.

  They are using cloth napkins today, as it is Sunday.

  The man says, How was the thing earlier?

  The woman says, The shower, it was fine.

  The man says, Did you enjoy yourself?

  The woman says, It was a shower. I wasn’t expecting to enjoy myself.

  The man says, I understand.

  The woman says, There were women in suits. There was food. There were gifts. I found myself stealing away to the upstairs bathroom at one point, but, otherwise, it was fine.

  The man says, What was the matter?

  The woman says, I couldn’t take it anymore.

  The man says, What couldn’t you take?

  The woman says, I don’t like watching someone I don’t know opening gifts.

  The man says, I thought you knew her. I thought she was a colleague.

  The woman says, She was, years ago.

  The man says, Why were you invited?

  The woman says, I don’t know.

  The man says, Why did you go?

  The woman says, To be polite.

  The man says, What did you give her?

  The woman says, A toaster.

  The man says, Is that a good gift?

  The woman says, What do I care?

  The man says, Well, then.

  The woman says, Do you remember Georgia, the dog?

  The man says, The crazy one?

  The woman says, This was the woman who took her off our hands.

  The man says, Is that right?

  The woman says, It is.

  The man says, How is Georgia?

  The woman says, She got sick and had to be put down last year.

  The man says, That’s terrible.

  The woman says, Cancer.

  The woman didn’t give the bride-to-be a toaster, but rather a gift certificate to a local spa that has an excellent reputation for using all-natural products.

  The spa’s owner is a young woman from California. She has visited the woman for acupuncture several times to treat her carpal-tunnel syndrome, which has been debilitating.

  She says, Women were laughing, sipping tea, eating gourmet cookies, and there was the bride-to-be, showcasing the ring for the throng. I couldn’t take it.

  He says, I wouldn’t take it either.

  She says, So there I was upstairs in the bathroom, smoking cigarettes. I was blowing smoke out of the window and flicking ash into the toilet. The sound it makes is a hissing, when it hits the water. You’ve got to try it sometime.

  He says, A hissing?

  She says, Go try it. It’s a great sound.

  The woman has tried to quit smoking many times. She has chewed the gum, worn the patch.

  The man doesn’t smoke.

  Still, he fishes a cigarette out of the pack left on the kitchen counter and disappears upstairs.

  The woman continues setting the table. She also stirs the pot.

  The man has made a kind of chicken stew.

  He prepared most of it while the woman was at the shower and before his friend came over.

  First he rinsed the organic chicken breast and then seasoned it with salt, pepper, and thyme and baked it for twenty minutes at 350 degrees.

  During this time, he chopped onions, garlic, carrots, red bell peppers, celery.

  Then he threw the vegetables into a pot and sautéed them while systematically adding chicken broth, tomato paste, crushed tomatoes.

  Then he shredded the chicken and added that.

  The man returns to the kitchen.

  He scratches his head and in doing so musses his hair, if he has hair, which he does, though it is both thinning and receding.

  The man thinks of himself as a good cook, but he isn’t.

  A monkey could make what he makes.

  He says, That is a great sound. I don’t know why I’ve never tried that before.

  She says, I told you.

  He says, How long were you in there?

  She says, In where?

  He says, The bathroom.

  She says, Maybe half an hour, maybe more. They didn’t miss me. I could hear the throng laughing and carrying on downstairs. I didn’t know too many of them. The whole time I was thinking it was bad form to be up in the bathroom smoking cigarettes and drinking imported beer, but then I decided I didn’t care.

  He says, Good decision.

  She says, I’m good with decisions.

  He says, When did you decide this?

  She sa
ys, I don’t know.

  He says, Indecision is as good a word as decision, probably better.

  She says, What time is he getting here?

  He says, He should be here soon.

  She says, Last time he was late.

  He says, I don’t remember last time.

  She says, And where is his wife tonight?

  He says, She’s not feeling well.

  She says, The poor darling.

  He says, She’s a free spirit.

  The woman looks at the man and this goes on for a time.

  The world outside is going on the same as ever. There is weather and people and animals.

  One could imagine that the neighbors are out walking the dog or Sunday driving or protesting police brutality, as last week saw a young black man shot dead by a cop somewhere in the middle of the country.

  Let’s say for now the victim was a young black man, but next time he can be brown or white or some other color altogether. However, statistics show that the next victim is likely to be black, too, and also the one after that.

  Police aren’t always particular about who they shoot and kill.

  This was a time when police regularly shot and killed people.

  Statistics show the next victim will be male.

  One could imagine there are slugs and birds and cars moving about the world, too.

  One could imagine Janice at home doing God knows what.

  One could imagine almost anything. And then what, is the question.

  So what is another question.

  The friend enters through the kitchen door. He is carrying two bottles of wine and sets them down on the counter. He walks across the kitchen to the table and sits down.

  The man says, Look who’s here.

  The woman doesn’t look. She continues stirring the pot.

  The friend says, Getting here was a problem, I nearly ran out of gas.

  The man walks over to the window and looks out of it.

  The man says, You walked.

  The friend says, I know. Listen. Two planes take off from the same airport, one right after the other. One crashes twenty minutes into the flight, killing all 228 souls on board. The other plane lands safely at its destination, where all 228 souls die intermittently over the course of the next fifty-seven years—car accidents, fires, heart attacks, cancer.

  The man says, I know this one.

  The friend says, I don’t believe you do.

  There is silence. The man is trying to remember this one.

  The man says, Okay, I give up.

  The friend says, Let’s talk about something else, then.

  The man says, Good idea.

  The man opens a bottle of wine and pours three glasses.

  He then walks through the dining room and into the living room. He looks at the window.

  He retraces his steps to the kitchen.

  He says, That car is still out there.

  The friend says, Maybe you should call the police.

  The man says, I think I will if it’s still there come the end of the week.

  The friend says, Then that’s settled.

  The woman says, How is your darling wife?

  The friend says, She’s better now, thanks.

  The woman says, I’m sorry, was she unwell?

  The friend says, I think so, yes.

  The woman says, Give her my regards, the darling.

  The friend says, Of course.

  There is quiet. Everyone is unsure of themselves.

  The friend says, They’re filming midgets on the other side of town. No one knows who is doing the filming or why they’re doing it on the other side of town, but that’s where they’re doing it.

  The man says, What are you talking about?

  The friend says, Midgets. They’re filming them on the other side of town. In the gazebo.

  The man says, No one believes this.

  The friend says, That’s fine.

  No one is filming anybody on the other side of town. The friend saw a movie where one of the characters said this line in a pitch of excitement because he happened upon a film shoot and one of the actors was a dwarf.

  The man enjoyed this and has been looking for an opportunity to use it in conversation.

  Historically, the term midget was used to describe proportionate dwarfs; however, this term is now regarded as offensive and pejorative.

  A typical defining characteristic of dwarfism is an adult height of less than four feet ten inches. Since those with dwarfism have such a wide range of physical characteristics, variations in individuals are identified by diagnosing and monitoring the underlying disorders.

  Disproportionate dwarfism is characterized by one or more body parts being relatively large or small in comparison to those of an average-sized adult, with growth variations in specific areas being apparent. In cases of proportionate dwarfism, the body appears normally proportioned, but is unusually small.

  The man is nowhere close to being a dwarf or midget, standing at five feet seven inches.

  Still, his wife towers over him.

  Antonio Gramsci, Eddie Gaedel, Alexander Pope, and Chick Webb were all dwarfs.

  Gandhi, James Madison, Andrew Carnegie, Charlie Chaplin, Picasso, Voltaire, Beethoven, Genghis Khan, Sammy Davis Jr., John Keats, and Toulouse-Lautrec were all five foot four or shorter, all thought of as midgets by family and friends, strangers and acquaintances, bystanders and passersby.

  The man says, My beautiful bride was at a shower today.

  The friend says, Is that right?

  The woman says, That is correct.

  No one says anything. This goes on for minutes, hours, days.

  Down the block, the neighbors with the dog are sitting down to supper, too.

  This night they have ordered takeout Chinese food and had it delivered.

  One or the other will feed the dog a dumpling and get scolded for doing so.

  After, one will make a pass at the other while watching a game show on television. The other will say, What the fuck is wrong with you?

  The woman never fed Jasper the dog any human food, though the man would occasionally sneak him a hamburger or hot dog during summer.

  Eventually the dog developed cancer and had to be put down.

  The man and woman were devastated and said Never again.

  The friend says, I forgot to shower today.

  The man says, There are worse things that could happen.

  Again there is quiet. Again the conversation goes nowhere.

  The friend says, Some of the worst things that happen happen because I forget how to breathe or I get lost. For instance, I am out walking. There are buildings and trees and dogs and the sound of my shoes on the pavement. I’ve always liked the sound of my shoes on the pavement.

  The man says, I, too, like that sound.

  The friend says, I am talking about the sound of my shoes on the pavement, Charlie Shoemaker. The sound of my shoes on the pavement is like no one else’s shoes on no other pavement. I’m not talking about your shoes.

  The man says, I realize this. I, too, like the sound of your shoes on the pavement. I have often noted its particular rhythm and music.

  The men look at each other.

  Sometimes they call each other Charlie, though neither is named Charlie.

  It is often in conjunction with some object—like Charlie Beer Bottle, Charlie Ballgame.

  Both enjoy the sound of shoes on pavement, on hardwood floors, any surface where a report is audible.

  The friend says, Then like that I forget how to breathe. If I don’t think about it, I’m fine. I can breathe like everyone else in the world if I don’t think about it. But then I start to think about it.

  The man says, This is troubling.

  The friend says, Oftentimes I collapse right there on the street. My chest hurts and my vision blurs and my mouth goes dry and then I’m down.

  The man says, Down on the ground.

  The friend says, Only
sometimes do I get the shakes when I am lying on the pavement.

  The man says, The shakes are no good.

  The friend says, People are careful to step around me whenever this happens. Sometimes people are good this way. But other times not so much. Sometimes they kick me when I’m flopping around on the pavement. The kicks hurt but sometimes it’s like they are jumpstarting the breathing, hard as that might be to believe.

  The man says, Being outside is dangerous, with the people.

  The friend says, Yes, they are always spilling onto me and everyone else. And this is why I like to stay in the house. I almost never forget how to breathe in the house. I never have any trouble when I am inside.

  The woman says, This would be awful if it were true.

  The friend says, It’s true, I’ve been to the doctor.

  The man says, It’s true, he has.

  The woman says, And what did the doctor say?

  The friend says, They don’t know anything.

  The man says, It’s true, they don’t.

  The friend says, The worst part is, I bruise easily so I always have black and blue bruises up and down my ribs. Both sides.

  The woman says, Show them to me.

  The friend says, I’m afraid I can’t.

  The woman says, Too shy, are you?

  The friend says, I’ve always been modest.

  The woman says, I’ve heard otherwise.

  Everyone looks at everyone else.

  The woman says, What about the toothpicks?

  The man says, What about the toothpicks?

  The woman says, Wouldn’t you swallow them?

  The friend says, Hasn’t happened yet.

  The friend has suffered from panic attacks, and during these he does forget to breathe. He doesn’t realize he’s holding his breath and by then it’s too late. He hears a whooshing sound in his ears and he starts to pass out. When he comes to, he is gasping for breath.

  No one has ever beaten him, though.

  His wife, Janice, is responsible for most of the bruising.

  She has a habit of kicking and punching in her sleep.

  This sleep disorder is very rare and may be more common in smokers or those heavily exposed to pesticides.

  The sleep-kicking disorder is actually called REM sleep behavior disorder. People typically lose muscle tone during the rapid eye movement stage of sleep, but this doesn’t occur in people with the disorder, causing movements that can seriously harm the individual or their sleep partner. It is estimated to affect only 0.5 percent of adults.