towels pressed at the bottom of the bedroom door, so he would not die in his sleep, though that had always been his wish but just not now. Healso pressed towels against the bathroom door, in case of an overflow. Safe, barricaded, sulfurous, sandwiched in damp towels like the deviled eggs his mother used to bring to picnics: When he slept he did so dreamlessly, like a bug. In the mornings he woke early and went out and claimed a booth in The Cosmic Galaxy until noon. He read the
Times
and now even the
Post
and the
News.
Sometimes he took notes in the margins for his play.
He felt shackled in nightmare, and in that constant state of daydream that nightmare gives conception to, creature within creature.
In the afternoons he went to see teen movies starring teens. For brief moments they consoled him in a way he couldn’t explain. Perhaps it was that the actors were all so attractive and in high school and lived in lovely houses in California. He had never been to California, and only once in the last ten years—when he had gone home with Breck to visit her parents in Minnesota—had he been in a lovely house. The movies reminded him of Breckie, probably that was it, those poreless faces and hairless arms, those idealistic hearts knowing corruption for the first time and learning it well. Harry would leave the movie theater feeling miserable, stepping out into the daylight like a criminal, shoulders bent into coat-hanger angles, in his body the sick heat of hangover, his jacket rumpled as a sheet.
“Harry, you look like shit,” said Deli in front of his building. She was passing out fliers for the 25 Cent Girls pavilion. She was wearing a patched vinyl jacket, a red dress, and black pumps with no stockings. “But hey. Nothing I can do for you—except here.” She handed him a flier.
Twenty-five Cents! Cheap, Live, and Naked!
“I got myself a day job—ain’t you proud of me, Harry?”
Harry
did
feel proud of her, though it surprised him. It did not feel quite appropriate to feel proud. “Deli, I think that’s great,” he said anyway. “I really do!” Peep show fliers were a start. Surely they were a start.
“Yeah,” said Deli, smiling haughtily. “Soon you be asking me to marry you.”
“Yup,” said Harry, jiggling the key in the lock. Someone in the middle of the night had been jabbing at it with a knife, and the lock was scraped and bent.
“Hey, put on some of that music again, would you?” But Harry had gotten the door open, and it slammed behind him without his answering.
There was mail: a form letter from an agency interested in seeing scripts; an electric bill; a letter from the Health Department verifying his complaint call and advising him to keep after the precinct dispatcher; a postcard for Breckie from some old friend named Lisa, traveling through Italy.
What a place, gal
, it said.
Hello to Harry.
He put it on his refrigerator with a magnet. He went to his desk and from there stared over at it, then stared back at his desk. He went to the window overlooking the street. Deli was still down there, passing out fliers, but people were not taking them anymore. They were brushing by, pretending not to see, and finally she just stood there, in the middle of the sidewalk, frowning, no longer trying, not thrusting a flier out to anyone, just letting the crowds break in front of her, like a wave, until she turned and walked with them, up to the corner, to the light, and threw her fliers into the trash, the way everyone else had done.
The next day Harry got a phone call from Glen Scarp. “Harry, my man, I’m in Jersey directing a scene for a friend. I’ve got an hour between seven and eight to have a quick drink with you. I’m taking a chopper. Can you make it?”
“I don’t know,” said Harry. “I’m busy.” It was important to be cagey with these guys, to be a little unavailable, to act as if you, too, had a helicopter. “Can you give me a call back later?”
“Sure, sure,” said Scarp,
Times
and now even the
Post
and the
News.
Sometimes he took notes in the margins for his play.
He felt shackled in nightmare, and in that constant state of daydream that nightmare gives conception to, creature within creature.
In the afternoons he went to see teen movies starring teens. For brief moments they consoled him in a way he couldn’t explain. Perhaps it was that the actors were all so attractive and in high school and lived in lovely houses in California. He had never been to California, and only once in the last ten years—when he had gone home with Breck to visit her parents in Minnesota—had he been in a lovely house. The movies reminded him of Breckie, probably that was it, those poreless faces and hairless arms, those idealistic hearts knowing corruption for the first time and learning it well. Harry would leave the movie theater feeling miserable, stepping out into the daylight like a criminal, shoulders bent into coat-hanger angles, in his body the sick heat of hangover, his jacket rumpled as a sheet.
“Harry, you look like shit,” said Deli in front of his building. She was passing out fliers for the 25 Cent Girls pavilion. She was wearing a patched vinyl jacket, a red dress, and black pumps with no stockings. “But hey. Nothing I can do for you—except here.” She handed him a flier.
Twenty-five Cents! Cheap, Live, and Naked!
“I got myself a day job—ain’t you proud of me, Harry?”
Harry
did
feel proud of her, though it surprised him. It did not feel quite appropriate to feel proud. “Deli, I think that’s great,” he said anyway. “I really do!” Peep show fliers were a start. Surely they were a start.
“Yeah,” said Deli, smiling haughtily. “Soon you be asking me to marry you.”
“Yup,” said Harry, jiggling the key in the lock. Someone in the middle of the night had been jabbing at it with a knife, and the lock was scraped and bent.
“Hey, put on some of that music again, would you?” But Harry had gotten the door open, and it slammed behind him without his answering.
There was mail: a form letter from an agency interested in seeing scripts; an electric bill; a letter from the Health Department verifying his complaint call and advising him to keep after the precinct dispatcher; a postcard for Breckie from some old friend named Lisa, traveling through Italy.
What a place, gal
, it said.
Hello to Harry.
He put it on his refrigerator with a magnet. He went to his desk and from there stared over at it, then stared back at his desk. He went to the window overlooking the street. Deli was still down there, passing out fliers, but people were not taking them anymore. They were brushing by, pretending not to see, and finally she just stood there, in the middle of the sidewalk, frowning, no longer trying, not thrusting a flier out to anyone, just letting the crowds break in front of her, like a wave, until she turned and walked with them, up to the corner, to the light, and threw her fliers into the trash, the way everyone else had done.
The next day Harry got a phone call from Glen Scarp. “Harry, my man, I’m in Jersey directing a scene for a friend. I’ve got an hour between seven and eight to have a quick drink with you. I’m taking a chopper. Can you make it?”
“I don’t know,” said Harry. “I’m busy.” It was important to be cagey with these guys, to be a little unavailable, to act as if you, too, had a helicopter. “Can you give me a call back later?”
“Sure, sure,” said Scarp,
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