Czyzniejewski: 'Trick'

Trick
Michael Czyzniejewski

My father once taught me this trick: if ever I can't fall asleep, I should imagine undressing a woman. I should start with a woman I want to undress, which I knew would be easy, because there were lots. I should next imagine the woman in a specific room, the kind where we could be alone, my bedroom, or maybe the living room, when my parents weren't home. I should picture the time of day, the light quality, what time of year it is. I need to know what the room smells like, too, a robust candle burning, maybe some potpourri, make my brain smell its smell. After that, I should create a scenario, one in which the woman comes to this private, specifically lit, memorably smelling place. It could be a date or study session, or better yet, something more creative. Perhaps her car breaks down in front of the house and she needs to use our phone. Maybe it's raining. Then she'd need to get warm and out of her clothes. From there, I could begin. I should start with accessories, big rings and bracelets, any dangly jewelry, making sure to place it somewhere it won't get lost. Then the shoes—the woman should be wearing shoes, the kind that need untying and pulling off; boots would serve me best, the higher, the better. Next her belt, if there is one, and there should be. The pants should be a challenge—definitely pants, not a skirt and certainly not a dress, much too quick to remove, while pants need to be unbuttoned, unzipped, tugged from the hips. I should then undo her blouse, at least six buttons, if not seven or eight, letting the parted garment fall off her shoulders. This leaves her in just her bra and panties. At this point, I should take a step back and conjure a garter and stockings, fishnets or hose. While unclasping the stockings, I should take care to imagine the hardware, the workings of each clasp as it comes undone in my fingertips. Then go the stockings, one at a time, the woman's heel up on my shoulder. After that, the garter belt, pulled downward, careful to leave the panties in place. And while I'm at it, why not a bustier, or better yet, a corset, the kind with the X-crossings in the back, which have to be untied and unlaced? I should imagine each cross coming undone, the aglets pulling out of each and every eyelet until she's free.

My father stopped. I asked what came next, her bra or underwear. He didn't know: he'd never stayed awake that long. In fact, he'd been winging it since the pants, and he'd only gotten to the pants once. I asked how long he'd been using this trick and he said since he was my age; otherwise he'd lie awake and stare at his ceiling for hours. I asked him if this was why he slept in a different room from my mom. He said no, but immediately changed his answer to yes, then sort of. I asked if I could improvise at all, and he said I should definitely improvise—that's what the candle and jewelry and garter belts were, improvisation. I asked if I could kiss the woman as I undressed her. He asked if I meant on the lips, and I said sure, but other parts, too: her feet, her stomach, her neck and back. He said he'd never thought of that. I said, Really? He reminded me I didn't want to get agitated, that the purpose of the trick was to get me to fall asleep. I told him this was all pretty agitating already, me in my bed, candles lit, a shivering, grateful Mrs. Culkin (my seventh-grade social studies teacher) ready for my warming. My father said it wasn't about the ending but the process—all the eccentricities of women's clothing made undressing them complicated. That's why he chose undressing a woman over counting sheep or reciting state capitals: it was the process, not the reward, that would put me to sleep. Maybe I won't want to go to sleep, I told him. Maybe I'll want the reward.

My father shook his head, said that wasn't how this worked. I assured him that everything he told me was helpful, just not in the way he thought. I was sixteen—I stayed up until I couldn't stay awake anymore, then passed out the instant my head hit the pillow. You're lucky, my father said. Spoiled. He regretted sharing his trick with me. He grunted. I told him I would probably skip ahead, maybe to the garters, if not further, see what all this fuss was with bra hooks. I expected him to smile at this, but he was asleep, sitting upright on a stool at the kitchen counter. I considered helping him up to his room, but decided not to. He'd always made his way on his own, sooner or later.

In bed, I looked at pictures of women with their clothes already off. I couldn't help but think of my father down there. He could fall off the stool, hit his head, bleed out. I went downstairs, brought him halfway around, walked him up to his room. We passed Mom's door—she wasn't home yet. I rested my father on his bed, which smelled like wet concrete. I undid his boots, both a bitch to get off, then pulled off his socks. I peeled off his Carhartt bibs. I worked off his flannel and T-shirt. I tossed his ball cap on the nightstand. He was in his underwear and I was exhausted, felt my eyes growing heavy. I lay down beside him, too tired to move, unsure of what came next.

Michael Czyzniejewski's most recent book is I WILL LOVE YOU FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE: BREAKUP STORIES. He's the Literary Editor at Moon City Press at Missouri State University, where he also teaches.