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Call My Name Author(s): Aimee Bender Reviewed work(s): Source: The North American Review, Vol. 283, No. 1 (Jan. - Feb., 1998), pp. 24-27 Published by: University of Northern Iowa Stable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/25126201 . Accessed: 05/10/2012 19:04

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N A R

Call My Name

A Story by Aimee Bender

I'm

spending the afternoon auditioning men. They don't know it. It's a secret audition, come as you are.

"No really," I say to the beanpole man on the Muni

with eyes so tired you can see death lounging in them

already, "do you prefer cats or dogs?" He smiles at me in this tolerant way. I can't tell you

exactly what I'm looking for, but I'll know it when it

happens. I want to be breathless and weak, crumpled

by the entrance of another person inside my soul. I

want to be violated by insight. "Cats, no question" he says, pill-rolling with his fin

gers. He's drugged out, but I don't care. What I care

about is dogs, and I am disappointed. I thank him, run a hand through my hair, and go back to

sitting at my surveillance spot, front row, facing backwards,

right behind the driver who winked at me when I came on.

I wear dresses on the subway. I have a lot of money from my dead father who invented the adhesive wall

hook. He invented it when he was in his twenties and it

hit the world like a tornado?no one cares for nails any

more. He died when I was three so I never really knew

him enough to miss him and there are millions of dollars

for me and my mom, and she isn't a spender. So it's just

me! It's all me! I don't much like expensive cars or

gourmet dinners; what I love are fancy dresses. Today I

am wearing maroon satin, a floor- length dress with a V

back and matching sandals with criss-cross straps up my

ankles. My ears are lit by simple diamond earrings. I

look like I should know how to waltz, and I do.

The men are pleased when I come on the subway because I am the type who usually drives her own car. I

am not your average subway girl, wearing black pants and

reading a novel the whole time so you can't even get eye

contact. Me, I look at them and smile at them and they love it. I bet they talk about me at the- dinner table? I

give boring people something to discuss over corn.

The beanpole man stands up to exit and nods to

me. I wiggle my fingers, bye. His death eyes crinkle

up in a wise way and I almost want to chase after

him, have him look down on me with that look and

tell me something brilliant about myself, unveil my whole me with one shining sentence, but there's real

ly no point. He couldn't do it. His eyes crinkle up because he's been in the sun too much? he doesn't

even know my name.

I think I'm done, that I've checked out the whole

car, when I see that behind the older woman in the dull

beige suit who keeps trying to sleep, there is someone I

didn't notice before. The shy man. He is leaning

against the window, wanting a cigarette and not looking at me. I go sit down right next to him.

"If you smoke out the window," I tell him in a low

voice, "no one will notice."

"What?" He's about ten years older than I am, and

his eyes are bright, watery even.

24 TKE NORTH AMERICAN REVIEW January/February 1998

AIMEE BENDER

"I won't tell if you smoke."

He gets it and blinks. "Thanks," he says, but he

doesn't move.

My dress is slithering all over the orange plastic seat,

sounding like a holiday. "So, what's your name?" I ask.

He has his head looking out the window, watching the dark cement flash by. The back of his hair is mat

ted down, like he's just woken up from a nap. "Or where are you going?" I say louder.

He turns to me, eyebrows up.

I lean in a little. My hair falls forward and I can

smell my shampoo which smells like almonds. "I'm

just curious," I say, "what stop?"

"Powell," he says. "Your hair smells like almonds."

I'm so pleased he noticed.

"Do you prefer dogs or cats?" I ask him, even though I don't really, at this exact second, need to know.

"You ask a lot of questions," he says.

"Yes."

"Well."

"What?" My dress isn't holding to the seat, I could

slide right down to the floor.

"I prefer," he says, "whichever turns around when

you call its name."

He may be shy but he looks me in the eye the whole

time.

The train strains to a stop and he stands up to slide

past me. But I'm up with him. The bottom of my dress

is dusty from the floor of the subway and I'm thinking it

looks sort of vintage that way. He presses on the handle

and he's out the door really fast, and I just barely have a

moment to look at the car I've been surveying and

watch the people watch me exit. A man with a brief case smiles back but the women all ignore me.

I float behind the shy man for a few blocks; he's up the escalator and onto Market Street and doesn't notice

my burgundy shadow behind him until he ducks into a

retail shoe store and then I'm hard to miss. The sales

girls are on me in one second, I have Purchase written

all over me. So they think. This is a lame shoe store.

"Hey," says the man, "you following me?"

"May-be." I saunter over to a pair of shoes and pick

them up even though they're so ugly and poorly made.

"Those are one of our best sellers," says salesgirl

number one who has lipstick on her front tooth.

"That is not a good selling point for me," I tell her, "and you have lipstick on your tooth."

Her head ducks down and she rubs her forefinger on

it. "Thanks," she says in a quiet whisper, like it's a

secret, "I hate that."

The man has left the store?one second of conver

sation with a stupid salesgirl on my stupid part, and

he's gone. The store owner is behind the counter

watching me glance around at the racks of shoes and

he tilts his head, indicating the staircase behind him.

"You his girlfriend?" he says.

"Maybe," I say again. Really: if the shy man didn't care at all, if he hadn't looked at me with a certain sly

hunger, then I wouldn't be here. But he was half there

with me, I saw him thinking about the heavy sound the

satin would make piled on his floor, I saw him wondering. He may have wondered very quietly, but it still counts.

I thank the store manager by placing one solid hand on his shoulder and squeezing it. Maybe someday I'll come in here and buy fourteen pairs of shoes from him.

Not like I'd wear them, but I could go give them to

homeless people who must like a change every now and

then. I'll buy practical shoes, cushioned soles, no heels or anything. You probably walk a lot when you're homeless so heels would not be a good choice.

The staircase is fairly dark but you can still sense the

glare of the daylight outside so it doesn't feel scary, just cool and slightly musty. Luckily, there's only one

apartment at the top of the staircase. I try the door and

it's open. For me, it's more nerve-wracking to knock

than to just go on in. He's sitting in his living room

with a beer and no shirt, watching TV. He looks at me, sort of amused, not really surprised.

"Persistent dress lady," he says, "you are one persis

tent cookie."

I love being called cookie. I love it. I love it. I go to sit next to him on the couch.

"Do you know how to waltz?" I ask. He flips a few channels and then turns off the TV.

"So what's the deal?" he says, "are you a prostitute?"

The thing is, I'm not offended. It makes me feel like he's getting the sexual vibe which makes me feel

good, you know, alive.

"No," I say. "I just like you. Do you have plans

tonight? It's Friday night, maybe we can do some

thing."

"I have plans tonight," he says. He looks at his watch. "It's two o'clock. In six hours."

His chest is tan and a little bit doughy, soft nipples that look like a woman's. For some reason it's hard for

me to even look at those nipples. They look so fragile, like fruit pulp, like fruit pulp waiting to be cut into

wedges and served up in an exotic kiwi salad. It makes me want to crawl on top of him and put my thumbs on

his soft fruity nipples and press down on them hard like

they're elevator buttons: hey, baby, take me to a higher floor. I wonder if he's feeling lucky, I mean how often

does a beautiful girl follow you home and come into

your house? That's lucky. That's what guys wish for.

"So." He leans back on his couch and grabs a

cigarette from the side table. I knew it. "I suppose I'd

like to cut that dress right off of you."

"Really?"

"Yup." He takes a long drag off his cigarette and

January/February 1998 THE NORTH AMERICAN REVIEW 25

N A R

then stubs it out. Maybe I should be scared, but I'm not. There's the sound of all the cars and buses going

by on Market Street, and it reassures me.

"Knife or scissors?"

He smiles. "Knife," he says.

"I don't know," I say, "that's a little much, I think, for me."

"Scissors." He relights the butt in the ashtray and

smokes it again.

"Okay. Scissors."

"You can let go of that incredible dress as easy as

that?" he asks.

"I can." I have a bank account the size of your apart

ment, I'm thinking. I can see, on his bathroom door, an

adhesive hook holding up a black t-shirt.

He goes to his bedroom and comes out with a pair of

orange-handled scissors. He walks slowly even though he knows I'm watching him. Back on the couch, he

doesn't sit any closer to me but just takes the hem and

slices up, up past my hip, waist, side of my breast, under my arm, down the sleeve, up around, to the

shoulder, snip at the neck. I feel like he took a letter

opener and gently opened me up; he did such a neat

job of it. Leaning back on his side of the couch, he

replaces the scissors and surveys his work. I smile at

him. The next move should be his.

"I don't think I'm going to touch you," he says. I'm there, waiting, body cooled by the breeze com

ing in off the street through the window behind us.

"What?" I know he can see my breast; it's right there; I can sense it out of the bottom of my eye.

"Nope." He stands up and looks around.

"What, are you going to tie me up or something?" I

slide out my other arm so that my upper body is

exposed, just my legs and waist still swathed in maroon

satin. His couch is kelly green and it's an interesting contrast. I spend a minute looking at it.

"Tie you up?" He goes to the refrigerator and pours himself a glass of water. "No. I don't do that shit." He

doesn't seem to even notice that I'm half out of the

dress.

"Hello," I say, "what is going on here? You just

opened up my dress."

"Yeah," he says, "thanks."

"But we have six hours," I tell him, "you said we

have six hours."

"Well," he says, sipping the water, the counter

between us, "what would you like to do?"

I'm up off the couch which means the dress is on the

floor and I'm naked in high heels. Which is maybe how

I've wanted to be all day, those straps criss-crossing up

my ankles like painted snakes. I take the water out of

his hand and hop up on the kitchen counter and pull him to me with my feet. Then I kiss him, smoke taste

still on his lips which are cold from the water. He keeps

his mouth closed and I press my body to his. "Six

hours," I say, "is a long time."

"Lady," he says, "I don't think it's going to happen here. I wanted to cut your dress. I don't really want to

fuck you, that's just not what I'm looking for today.

Sorry if that was misleading." He has his water back in his hand. I take it from him

and have a sip. It's just water.

"Yeah, well," I tell him, "it was. I do think cutting up someone's dress is misleading."

Stepping back, he exits my feet without difficulty, and looks straight at me, into me, like he did in the sub

way, the way that I love. He leans against the refrigera tor and a magnet drops to the floor.

"You want to be tied up?" he says then, "I'll tie you up." If I need to scream, out of the millions of people on

Market Street, one of them will hear me. Someone would hear me and do something. I can scream really,

really loud.

He leads me to his bedroom which is very plain, nothing on the walls, an unmade bed. He has one chair at a desk

and he puts me in it and goes to his closet and removes two

belts. He starts to weave one of the belts through the slats at the back of the chair and around my hands.

"Bedroom or living room?" he asks, his voice sort of

flat.

"Living room, please," I say.

Lifting me up in the chair, he brings me into the

other room. My arms are already bound so he begins on

my legs with swift, efficient hands. The window is still

open, and I'm thinking about where I should aim my scream just in case.

It seems like he can't tie both legs effectively with out another belt so he reaches down and whips the one

out of his jeans, which then sink a little lower on his

hips. I can see the broken angle of his pelvis. His nip

ples are still soft. I lean down, feeling like a deer in a

trap, and dare to kiss one of them, bite it a little, those sweet soft fearful nipples.

"Hey," he says, "I'm doing something here."

I lean forward to try to kiss him again but he has

stepped back, and I can't move. He circles the chair

and tests the belts. I arch my back. My breasts are pok

ing out like cones, my nipples are not soft. He goes to

the couch and turns on the TV.

"You go imagine what you want," he says, "tell me

when you want to be untied."

I jump the chair around some so that I can see him.

"What do you mean?" I say. He sticks his feet up on

the coffee table, and starts to gently fold my dress.

"Just what I said."

"You tie me up just to tie me up?" He puts the dress in a neat pile next to him, and runs

a hand through his hair again. Why does everyone but me look so fucking tired? I get too much sleep. He

26 THE NORTH AMERICAN REVIEW January/February 1998

AIMEE BENDER

takes a deep breath. "For right now," he says steadily, "I'm going to watch TV."

I watch with him for a minute; it's a show about

Mozart. But I can't really concentrate because behind

the TV is the bathroom door with the hook and I can't

stop looking at that. My father was a millionaire, I want

to tell him. You can't just tie up a millionaire's daugh ter and not fuck her. You can't just tie her up while

she's naked with maroon sandals strapping her ankles

and a taut stomach from ten million sit-ups and watch

television! Who do you think you are?

I want to jump the chair over and pounce on him, but I can't steer it very well, so instead I turn my head

around and stare at him, first seductively and then like a

pain in the ass.

He looks up after a while. "Yes?"

"I'm bored," I say.

"You want to go home now?"

"But we have six hours." It comes out sounding

whiny. I wait for him to react, but he doesn't tell me to

shut up and then unbuckle his pants with one quick rip. His face is kind, still tired, cheeks slack. I want to lay his head on my chest and soothe him, poor man who

lives alone in this shitty apartment. Poor man. Let me

love you here on your green couch for the street to see,

let me offer you something magical in the space between my breasts. Please. Please. Let me.

"Lady," he says again, "you ready to go home?"

I'm thinking about the walk home. I'll have to go into one of the stores and buy myself another dress. I'll

borrow one of his T-shirts, or if he doesn't let me, then

I'll wrap the satin around me like a towel. The salesgirl will note the strange outfit but acknowledge the fine

ness of the material, and decide I'm a good bet. She'll

tell me her name and hang up my choices while I still

browse around. Maybe I'll tell her the story of this

dress, but leave it open-ended. And she'll giggle, for

after all, I am the customer. I'll take a cab home in a

new glorious brocade cream-colored gown. My apart

ment is big and I have a big TV. I have a velvet couch

and it's one of a kind. I have cable. I have better

reception than this stupid nipple man. I have a remote

control that can work through walls.

I look at him again; he's lighting up another match to

continue smoking that same first cigarette. "No," I tell him, slumping back down in the chair.

"I don't want to go home yet." He turns to look at me.

"Is that okay?" I ask.

He gives a little nod. "That's fine," he says, leaning for

ward to change the channel. "So. Game show or the news?"

"Not the news, please," I say. He clicks the knob

three times over. The game show host looks really old.

The shy man puts his elbows on his knees and he starts

to call out answers to the trivia questions. I close my

eyes and listen to the noise of winning fill the room. D

WILLIAM HATH AWAY

Spring Forward

This time of year old questions come again: which crows are ravens

and, putting our ears to the trees,

which inflection?on the^ or the bee?signals chickadee

from phoebe? Such considerations

spring afresh each year to last out

the season. I myself walk about

with autumn now forever within.

No matter how bright it shines

on white crust, moonlight bears

in its gleam the sword's cold gray and the snowwhite owl glows high in drooping boughs like the pine's

private moon. O you'd like to see

what I've seen but no one would be

out in the cold, so long alone

with what pale light to look upon

giving up only degrees of dark.

Ravens are bigger-beaked. Don't strain

to tell wonk-wonk from caw-caw?

blackness clashing against light crushes all calls into any song

your ear would hear. Instead, wait

to see the raven glide into twirls

against the blue of heaven; listen for the throaty trills

that only the drab phoebe warbles

low along the stream bracken.

There are your answers; what light

I've palmed from the steely glisten I gladly give up to you. Turn down

the television and like an old woman

by a hearth of long-ago tell them

to the children as your own.

If my doom is not in this day, it awaits in another. Gray and cold is the sea, certain

is the pitch of black ahead

where a glimmering blade

of moonpath points to the dead.

Whatever doom awaits, it is doom

and he who walks alone

must lock sorrow in his heart

and call that darkness home.

January/February 1998 THE NORTH AMERICAN REVIEW 27