The Cost of Lunch, Etc.: Short Stories

The Cost of Lunch, Etc.: Short Stories

by Marge Piercy
     
 

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“As always, Piercy writes with high intelligence, love for the world, ethical passion, and innate feminism.”  —Adrienne Rich, feminist and author, A Change of World

In this collection of short stories, bestselling author Marge Piercy brings us glimpses into the lives of everyday women moving through and making sense of their

Overview

“As always, Piercy writes with high intelligence, love for the world, ethical passion, and innate feminism.”  —Adrienne Rich, feminist and author, A Change of World

In this collection of short stories, bestselling author Marge Piercy brings us glimpses into the lives of everyday women moving through and making sense of their daily internal and external worlds. Keeping to the engaging, accessible language of Piercy’s novels, the collection spans decades of her writing along with a range of locations, ages, and emotional states of her protagonists. From the first-person account of hoarding and a girl’s narrative of sexual and spiritual discovery to the recounting of a past love affair, each story is a tangible, vivid snapshot in a varied and subtly curated gallery of work. Whether grappling with death, familial relationships, friendship, sex, illness, or religion, Piercy’s writing is as passionate, lucid, insightful, and thoughtfully alive as ever. This paperback edition includes a new introduction from the author.

Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly
05/19/2014
With uncompromising emotional intensity, Piercy (Gone to Soldiers), the author of 17 novels, 17 volumes of poetry, and a memoir, captures the complex female experience in her debut short story collection. From the title story featuring an aspiring female poet who weighs the price of sex and poetry to a student’s disenchantment with her high school teacher (“Somebody Who Understands You”), Piercy maps the interior lives of women across generations, paying special attention to the socio-politcal environment that affects them. Her writing maintains a skillful detachment, limning moments of isolation between characters with palpable unease: “He is gentle. If he does not touch her with passion, neither does he hurt her. That is very important, not to be hurt.” Piercy, whose work is inseparable from her feminist politics, includes many characters (seven of whom are writers) who are suggestively autobiographical in their histories and musings, including a girl dying of rheumetic fever (“She’s Dying, He Said”), an anti–Vietnam War activist shuttling men to the Canadian border (“The Border”). Piercy is best at unraveling what she creates—turning an answer into a question in “Do You Love Me?,” and a soliloquy punctuated by silence in “Little Sister, Cat and Mouse.” Powerful in scope, the collection feels driven by an idea rather than a story, demonstrating Pierce’s understanding of how social constructs evolve in deeply personal ways. (July)
From the Publisher

“The author displays an old-fashioned narrative drive and a set of well-realized characters permitted to lead their own believably odd lives.”  —Thomas Mallon, Newsday

“This reviewer knows no other writer with Piercy’s gifts for tracing the emotional route that two people take to a double bed, and the mental games and gambits each transacts there.”  —Ron Grossman, Chicago Tribune

“Marge Piercy is not just an author, she’s a cultural touchstone. Few writers in modern memory have sustained her passion, and skill, for creating stories of consequence.”  Boston Globe
 

School Library Journal
07/01/2016
Gr 5–8—A reimagining of the Saint Francis tale. With short chapters and a large typeface, this title has the appearance of a chapter book, though the themes and vocabulary are more advanced. A red wolf is born. As she grows, the wolf learns to share and not be greedy, to take only what is needed, and to understand that selfishness brings consequences. After becoming an adult and suffering the loss of her parents, the red wolf leads her pack wisely until humans begin to hunt and food becomes scarce. After hunger and loneliness drive her to steal from the humans in the village, a caring man referred to as the Beggar King (Saint Francis) teaches the red wolf to cooperate with the villagers. After some time, the wolf also helps a group of outlaws (who are really homeless people in need of food) and, with the help of the forest animals, teaches the outlaws to be self-sufficient and caring. Illustrations are realistic in a primitive style of mostly brown and red. There are several morals highlighted in this story: sharing, helping others to become independent, and not hurting others—all aspects of the parables of Saint Francis. A short afterword from the author indicates his inspiration and explains his idea to tell the story from the wolf's point of view. The author also shares facts about Saint Francis and the wolf of Gubbio. This parable sheds a light on Saint Francis and does so without being heavy-handed. VERDICT This will be most useful in religious studies curricula.—Susan Lissim, Dwight School, New York City

Product Details

ISBN-13:
9781604864960
Publisher:
PM Press
Publication date:
04/01/2014
Pages:
224
Product dimensions:
5.20(w) x 8.10(h) x 0.90(d)

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The Cost of Lunch, Etc.


By Marge Piercy

PM Press

Copyright © 2015 Middlemarsh, Inc
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-62963-145-5



CHAPTER 1

The Cost of Lunch, Etc.


Circa 1970

When the knocking came, Maud was taking a sponge bath.

Grabbing the sheet from the daybed she stuck her head out. One of the old men from the first floor stood there looking sore. "You got a phone call — why don't you come down to the phone when I call? All the way up here on account of you don't listen ..."

Clutching the sheet she ran for the upstairs extension, right across from the john. Hearing Duncan's voice she was sure it was all off. "Duncan, what is it? He can't make it? He won't meet me?"

"Of course, Maud, don't get excited. Didn't I tell you it's all arranged?" His voice playing cool and dependable. "Just a little change of plans. First, we're not meeting at my place ..."

"Oh." Goodbye to his wife's potato salad, the sesame crackers and cheeses — Port Salut, Roquefort, Camembert. All day she had been figuring the odds on salami, slicing those virgin cheeses. Gorgonzola, Gouda, Brie.

"Bill wants to meet us in town, at the Low Blow. There's a jazz man he wants to hear." The familiarity of the first name hung on the telephone wire as if with clothespins.

She had an urge to add the last name. The lumpy old man from downstairs had not hung up. He wouldn't know who W. Saltzman was. They hated her in the roominghouse, her and the two still sexual men up on three: said they were noisy, said they used the phone too much. Doors opened eye-wide behind her in the halls, but when she spoke to them, the old men answered with suspiciously pursed lips if at all. Duncan was warning briskly that she not be late. He would pick her up — he and the wife, chuckle. Damp under the sheet she ran for her room. Duncan was eager to fuck her, would like to set up an extracurricular lay on Fridays after his last class. He taught at the college but lived in a house adorned with oriental carpets in an older suburb. With lumbering suaveness he tried to nudge her guilty for lunches at his expense in an off-campus Italian restaurant. Often he spoke of his friendship with the poet W. Saltzman, discovering in her work even more influence than there was, quoting the great man on trivial occasions. Introducing Saltzman was an attempt to net her in obligation: rubbing herself dry, she grinned.

Rhoda, his wife, was an excellent cook. Rhoda: chicken gently sautéed in white-wine sauce, roast sesame lamb, avocado salad. She would move in, if Rhoda would cook for her. But Duncan was a beefy milk-fed professor; from dead men's bones he ground plastic bread. He was so sure she was his proper prey, a rootless, nameless arty girl half nuts and outside the pale: because it never, never occurred to him that she might be a real writer.

She put on her good dress — the shade of blue was good, anyhow. The refrigerator held about a glass of milk and something in a napkin. She babysat occasionally for a couple she'd known during her stint teaching at the college. Besides baby food, she'd turned up maraschino cherries, cocktail onions and half a box of animal crackers.

She had consumed the cherries and onions and carried off the box.

She poured out a little milk and sat slowly chewing the crackers, eating each animal paw by paw and the head last.

She crossed to the john then. The light was on, the door ajar. The toilet was filled to the brim, splashing over to puddle the floor.

Lazily, like a carp in the bowl, a long cigar-brown turd floated. She backed out.

She had as landlady an ex-inmate of Treblinka. She would go down tomorrow to complain, and Mrs. Goldman would show her tattoo: Mr. Goldman and the little Goldmen long since ashes. Mrs. Goldman would assure her she was lucky to be in the United States and alive. She would retreat apologizing. Nothing was commensurate, and the plumbing broke every two weeks. Mrs. Goldman would hint she was flushing Tampax down the toilet, and she would deny it. Mrs. Goldman would bat her large weak eyes in disbelief. She and Mrs. Goldman would continue the argument as she backed up the staircase. Then Mrs. Goldman would utter a few Yiddish curses for women of loose morals and retire, slamming her door. Maud would piss in the sink as she did now, then run over to the college whenever possible. The college, where she had taught until replaced by a PhD, who was equally needy and would be equally badly paid, had useful facilities.

She reread the poems she had gone through five times. Saltzman could tell her where to send stuff, give her introductions, even help her find a job, point her out to editors, tell her how to get a book published. He was power. Besides it was getting to be winter. Though he was not her only literary pa, surely he would not mind the other influences. He was the local celebrity and everybody claimed to know him or his ex-girlfriend or his dentist. Imagining this meeting had soothed her to sleep bitter nights. She felt she was stumbling in darkness about to come round a corner into blinding light and be — not consumed but transfigured. Someday she would make it, why not now? She had to: how else could she survive?

The buzzer rasped. She jumped up. Turned, grabbed the envelope of poems. Saw herself in the bar bearing down on him poems in hand. She took out the bottom three, her cream, shoved them in her purse. Just happened to have on me. Well, shit, he could ask. Shrugging on her mouton coat. Going slowly down she felt the weight of the coat. It had been Sandy's. A year in the state hatch, insulin, electric shock and hydrotherapy had dulled her, but not enough. When Mrs. Gross decided Sandy was getting too wild and must be put away again, Sandy went up on the apartment house roof and jumped. She saw Sandy's long gentle face, her tea-brown hair, her freckled hands with the chewed nails, so vividly she could not take in Duncan. Docilely she followed him to the small Mercedes and got in back.

"What, Rhoda?" Maud came back into the present. "Oh, Harry the Tailor got robbed. No, they didn't smash the window when they robbed him, it was a man and a woman and they cut him up." She sat with head ducked, assuming Sandy's old position with hands knit, foot tapping shyly. Dead, stone dead. "No, some kids smashed the window, after." Mrs. Gross had acted funny when she gave her the coat. Maud had not wanted a fur coat — she thought they were gross, wearing the skin of some poor dead animal, but she did need a coat. Further, she felt she had a right to Sandy's things. What she wanted was Sandy's books, but Mrs. Gross brought out the coat. Mrs. Gross kept talking about how much she had paid for it, what good condition it was in, how little Sandy had worn it, till Maud had taken it to please her. She sat up, her knuckles bumping her teeth. Mrs. Gross had wanted her to pay for the coat. Then she began to laugh, covering her mouth so they would not hear.

Rhoda was sitting turned from Duncan. Her coat had a high fur collar, her reddish hair was done up in smooth whorls, and she radiated a faint smell of hair spray and spicy perfume. Rhoda did not like her because she was young, single and therefore presumably scheming. She and Rhoda were always talking in oblique boring sideways conversations. If they were to talk straight out:

RHODA: See my house! See my pretty things! They cost a lot! See how expensive I am.

MAUD: If you can't get out the door, have you tried the window?

RHODA: See my man. No Trespassing! Keep Off the Grass!

MAUD: It's only lunch I want. I swear it'll never happen while I'm conscious.

Duncan was of middle height but he sat tall: the Man behind the Desk. A dark blond thirty-eight, his jaw was square and he thrust it forward like a girl proud of her bosom. "Did you call Julie Norman about the seventeenth? I want her at the party."

"Duncan, I hardly know her," Rhoda whined.

"What do you mean, you don't know her? What do you do at those meetings?"

"You know what I mean." Rhoda's neck arched from the collar, angry goose neck stretching. "She won't remember me."

"Well, make her remember. Doesn't Susan play with her kid?"

"Let's leave Susan out of this."

"Out of what?" Duncan reared back from the wheel. "Can't you make a simple phone call?"

William Saltzman (Bill, Duncan had called him: hello, Bill, help!) made and broke reputations. His earlier poems were in the newer college anthologies. He had put out a paperback of younger poets, and why not me, dear god. Would he be gay? He was supposed to have had that affair with a woman anthropologist. Besides, his poems were full of breasts. She reached down the neck of her dress and jerked the bra straps tighter. Made a languorous face of surrender and giggled in disgust.

"There's the Low Blow." She leaned over Rhoda's shoulder to point.

"Yes, love, but do you think I can check the car with the hat girl?

The dashboard clock read five to nine. Her stomach dropped.

"There's a parking lot," Rhoda sang out.

"We're paying through the nose for a sitter. Hold on. Plenty of on-street parking."

They passed the Low Blow again. If it were like other jazz spots there would be nothing to eat. The rock music she heard with her last man never came there. Maybe afterward sandwiches, roast beef or pastrami. The clock hand slipped down from nine. "Maybe he won't wait, Duncan, if we're late."

"What do you think he'll do, go home? He'll be there." Around the block again past Nail It, past the Hoochie Mama All Night Hairdressers, past the Low Blow and Orvieto's pizzeria and Ron's Ale House and around the other corner. She sank back, cradling her cheek in Sandy's coat. Open the door and make a break for it. "There's somebody pulling out!" she yelled. He jammed on the brakes and backed into position, ignoring a Cadillac leaning on its horn.

"See," he said, expansive on the sidewalk with an arm guiding each woman, "Why pay a bundle? A little patience. Keep cool."

She dodged free of Duncan's arm entering and shrank behind him. What was the use, he wouldn't like her stuff. He'd say it was too female, too wet, too emotional, the way her own professors had. He must have his own protégées.

Duncan got tense, solider. "There he is."

"Where? Which one?" From behind she poked his arm.

"By the bar, talking with that big African American fellow."

Peeking around him, she studied W. Saltzman. Over loose and baggy Army fatigues he wore what had been a good leather jacket lined with fleece. He ought to feel hot in almost steamy room. He was tall with a gaunt face, a short kinky mustard yellow beard streaked with gray and a paunch sloping somewhat over his pants. His gaze on them, when finally he ended the conversation and waved them over, was cold and cat green.

She thought him a fine-looking man, because he was W. Saltzman and she knew his poems backwards, and because his cheeks and forehead were textured like weathered bark, and also because he had a satyr's paunch and must like food. But his eyes were cold as the sidewalks outside. Shuffling behind came a man his age and seedier, broader built, with a ruddy face, strong white hair and a knowing grin. Saltzman left the bar at a slow deliberate amble, looked at Duncan's outstretched hand for a moment, touched it.

Duncan said nervously, "How are you making it?"

W. Saltzman grunted. He said hello to Rhoda, looked then at Maud, was introduced. "We need a table, Ed," he said to the person who asked how many of them there were.

"Sure, Willy, right up front." They hung back in brief conversation. The table was tiny and near the small stage. Saltzman and his friend, still unintroduced, sat on one side, and the three of them huddled on the other. The set was starting.

"Uh, Bill," Duncan began.

Saltzman looked at Duncan with his eyelids lowered and then raised in disbelief. He motioned they should listen. The first round of drinks was on the house: Saltzman was known here. The second Duncan bought. The bourbon hurt her stomach. The tenor sax was a name she had heard, though she had thought him dead: a contemporary of Charlie Parker. She listened conscientiously, conscientiously not looking at Saltzman. Her hands sweated cold.

Saltzman offered a cigarette. She fumbled. Politely he lit it. The sound was dull, finally. The music said little to her, and after a while she was not listening but daydreaming about her next-to-last man, about getting published and getting laid and getting fed and keeping warm. She was drowsy and the music lulled her.

Duncan asked, "What's that smell?"

She felt a stab on her thigh. "Oh, shit." A hot ash had fallen from her cigarette and burnt through the dress. She brushed at it.

"What's wrong?" Saltzman looked halfway interested.

"Nothing, nothing really." Her face heated.

The waitress in short shorts brought another round and, after a longish pause, Duncan again paid. Fixing her gaze on Saltzman's mustard beard she willed him to notice her, to speak. At last when the set finished, he did, asking gently, "What do you do with yourself?"

Hadn't Duncan explained? "For a job you mean? I was teaching, and then —"

He nodded and leaned back as if his curiosity were satisfied. Quickly she added the important part. "But that's just what I do to support it, you know. I mean, I write poems."

His face shrank. Very quietly he mumbled, "Fuck."

His friend said cheerfully, "Everybody's doing it, doing it, doing it. They think it's poetry, but it's snot."

Her words lay on the table like a fat turd. For a moment she hated him. Did he think he would be the last poet? Duncan, the bastard, had said nothing. Produced her as random female.

Saltzman turned to him. "That workshop, how about it? I expected to hear by now. Is it coming off?"

The friend was staring at Duncan with shrewd assessment. Duncan furrowed his brow. "Arrangements take time. Departments of English grind exceedingly slowly and grind exceedingly fine. I'm pushing for it, every chance I get."

"Eh." The friend's mouth sagged. He shrugged his disbelief.

"I have to know soon. Other things depend on it."

"Like he has to pay the rent." His friend smirked. "And eat sometimes. Poets pay rent too. Ask the little lady."

"I'm trying to get a decision," Duncan said. "I'm trying to put it through. But you know how encrusted with tradition —

"Out on the west coast I had twelve readings in two weeks, including a couple of lectures."

"Kids were standing up outside wanting to hear him," the friend said. "Crowds of college kids."

"By the way, Saturday the seventeenth we're having a sort of preholiday thing. Wassail bowl and all, right, Rhoda? Most of the department will be there and the boys from the press, and we'd sure like to see you. And your friend too," he added weakly, but the tone of the invitation was confident.

Saltzman's old tomcat eyes went opaque. Duncan was putting it on the line. Even if Saltzman went, he wouldn't know if Duncan could or would arrange the workshop. Cf. her vague feeling that Duncan could have saved her job. "Sounds fine," said Saltzman. "I'll let you know. I'm spending the holidays in New York, and I don't know when I'm leaving."

The friend did not reply. Rattling the ice in her glass Rhoda came alive to ask, "Don't think I caught your name?"

"Charlie Roach," he said, inclining his head.

"He's one of the West Side roaches," Saltzman said and caught Maud's gaze as she smiled. She had given up. She pitied him with his grizzled beard and still needing Duncan.

Rhoda was being social. "And what do you do?" her voice slurred from rapid drinking.

Charlie grinned. His teeth were stained and worn down in his ruddy face. "Anything, Ma'am."

"Charlie's a true fan of the golden rule, though he likes to operate a little ahead of the beat."

Rhoda was flustered, as designed, but Duncan was enjoying the show. They couldn't shock him if they slit their gullets on his tweeds. Saltzman lolled back, withdrawn. She remembered the poems in her purse and bowed her head, fingering the cigarette burn that had marred her dress.

They were leaving. As they passed the bar, guys here and there slapped Saltzman's shoulder. On the sidewalk he halted, turned. For a moment he stared at her and she stared back. His eyes, ice green, were glacial crevasses, his mouth curled in a perhaps amused smile.

The eyes said he was bored sick with women wanting to fuck his name, with men wanting to suck his talent: he'd been used and used like an old toothpaste tube, he was well chewed. She looked back posturing, can't you see my ineffable Name, I'm as real as you but you only wanted a young girl to chew on tonight: your mistake, Willy, I'm good and you won't get into my biography for saving me, so there!

Following Duncan and Rhoda to the car she said hopefully, "Damn, I'm starving," but nobody answered. In the back seat she huddled into Sandy's coat. The first time she wore it she had found old Kleenexes in the pocket and unable to have preserved Sandy, preserved them. Then she caught a cold.

Not that long ago she had brooded over slitting her wrists: she felt ashamed. There were years, years yet of inventive tortures and deprivations, of hollow victories and bloody defeats. She no longer felt sorry for Saltzman. She would wear the same face. The worst that could happen then might be to meet a kid who had eaten her books and survived.


(Continues...)

Excerpted from The Cost of Lunch, Etc. by Marge Piercy. Copyright © 2015 Middlemarsh, Inc. Excerpted by permission of PM Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Meet the Author

Marge Piercy is the author of 17 novels, including the national bestsellers Braided Lives, Gone to Soldiers, and Woman on the Edge of Time; 17 volumes of poetry; and a critically acclaimed memoir, Sleeping with Cats. She has been the recipient of four honorary doctorates and has been a key player in many of the major progressive political battles, including the anti–Vietnam War and the women’s movements, and more recently an active participant in the resistance to the war in Iraq. She lives in Wellfleet, Massachusetts.

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