Free 14 Stories by Stephen Dixon Page A

for a bottle of chili sauce or vinegar the household could always ultimately use, but no actions if she didn’t elicit them more unguarded or venturous than that.
    Next door’s the corner candy store I go into to get the afternoon paper for my dad. He’ll gripe I’m only tossing good money away by buying such a rag but read it from beginning to end including the larger ads. She’s at the magazine rack in back, scanning the magazine covers while gnawing off the chocolate remains of an ice­ cream-pop stick. I open the paper I’ll buy, look at it as if checking a movie timetable, say huh-huh, and nod while folding the paper in two and pore over the many choices of my favorite candy brand. She’s taking a magazine off the rack. There’s a flavor I’ve never seen anywhere before called pink grapefruit. She slips the licked ice­cream stick into a back pocket and turns a page. And tangerine, which I think I had in the sour-fruit assortment and found either too tart or sweet. She’s coming front to pay for the magazine and I feel which of my pants pockets has the change. Her bell-bottom white denims have brown buttons for a fly. She isn’t carrying a shoulder bag but extracts a wallet from one of the two breast pockets of her denim workshirt. Sandals I’ve never seen, woven colorful cloth for a belt that’s half-tied, but hair, face, expression and walk all the same. Everything else the same. “Excuse me,” I say, “but would you mind if I took a brief look at the table of contents of your magazine?”
    â€œI’m really in a rush and they’ve plenty more copies back there.”
    â€œIt’s just because they are in back and out of the way that I asked, though I don’t see why I should be such a laze. Thanks.”
    â€œSure.”
    I go to the back.
    â€œA dollar,” the proprietor says and she pays up and leaves. I find the same magazine, one I could always read, good author in it and poet I’ve mostly liked, many reviews, elegant ads for places and goods I could never afford, pay for it and the newspaper and pink­grapefruit candy and wait for my change. Her voice is deeper than I thought it’d be, unaffected, without regionalism or unpleasant twang, pitch or tone and she did seem in a hurry and genuinely sorry she couldn’t help me out.
    She’s at the corner in front of the store waiting for the light to change. Traffic’s heavy with lots of zipping cabs, cars, buses and trucks booming downtown one-way. “Judy,” I say. She turns and looks. “Now I know.” She points to her chest as if saying do you mean me? “You see, I used to teach at 54.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œThe junior high school there.”
    â€œThat long white brick building?”
    â€œYou’re Judy Louis, aren’t you?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œBut you answered to the name Judy before.”
    â€œMy name’s Judy—though Judith, never Judy—but not Louis. You’ve got to have me mistaken for someone else.”
    â€œShe graduated two years ago. I’m a sub there and had her class many times. I think it was an SP—a special class for gifted students.”
    â€œNever went there. And gifted I surely never was. I even thought your school was some kind of factory or warehouse or even a prison of sorts—I had no idea. I’m missing my light—excuse me.” She steps off the sidewalk as the light turns red, stays by the curb with her back to me, waiting for the light to change.
    â€œNaturally it must seem silly my pursuing this, but it’s still inconceivable to me how much you look like this girl.”
    â€œI hate being compared to anyone else. I don’t do it to others, but since I don’t know you you wouldn’t know that. I’ve also got to be a lot older than this girl if she was still in grade school two years ago. There’s the coincidence of our