It’s Hollywood for where two lovers meet and fall in love.”
“Oh,” said Harry. “I think I liked myself better before I knew that.”
Scarp laughed. “You writers,” he said, downing his martini. “
We
writers, I should say. By the way, I have to tell you: I’ve ripped you off mercilessly.” Scarp smiled proudly.
“Oh?” said Harry. Something lined up in him, got in order. His back straightened and his feet unhooked from the table legs.
“You know, when we met last time, I was working on an episode for the show where Elsie and John, the two principals, have to confront all sorts of family issues, including the death of an elderly relative.”
“That doesn’t really sound like ripping me off.”
“Well, what I’ve done is use some of that stuff you told me about your family and the radon gas—well, you’ll see—and that fabulous bit about your Aunt Flora dying while you were dating the Kennedy girl. It’s due to air early next month. In fact, I’ll give you a call when I find out exactly.”
Harry didn’t know what to say. The room revolved dizzyingly away from him, dumped him and spun, because he’d never really been part of it to begin with. “Excuse me?” he stammered. His hand started to tremble, and he moved it quickly through his hair.
“I’ll give you a call. When it’s on.” Scarp frowned.
Harry gazed at the striated grain of the table—a tree split to show its innards.
“What?”
he said, finally, slow and muzzy. He picked up his seltzer, knocked it back fast. He set the glassdown with a loud crack. “You’d do that for me? You’d really, honestly, do that for me?” He was starting to yell. The people at the table nearest the piano turned to look. “I have to go.”
Scarp looked anxiously at his watch. “Yes, I’ve gotta run myself.”
“No, you don’t understand!” said Harry loudly. He stood up, huge over the table. “
I
have to go.” He pushed back his chair, and it fell all the way over into a plant. He strode quickly toward the door and pushed against it hard.
The night was just beginning to come, and come warmly, the air in a sweet, garbagey thaw. Midtown was crawling with sailors. They were all youthful and ashore and excited to be this way, in their black and white-trimmed suits, exploring Manhattan and knowing it, in this particular guise, to be a movie set they had bought tickets to, knowing the park was up,
the park is up!
knowing there were girls, and places where there were girls, who would pull you against them, who knew what you knew though they seemed too bonelessly small to. Harry loped by the sailors, their boyish, boisterous clusters, then broke into a run. Old men were selling carnations on the corner, and they murmured indecipherably as he passed. The Hercules was showing
Dirty Desiree
and
Throbbin’ Hood
, and sailors were going in. Off-duty taxis sped from their last fares at the theaters to the Burger King on Ninth for something to eat. Putting block after block beneath his feet would clear his heart, Harry hoped, but the sailors: There was no shaking them. They were everywhere, hatless and landlubbed with eagernesses. Up ahead on his block, he saw a woman who looked like Deli strolling off with two of them, one on each arm. And then—it
was
Deli.
He stopped, frozen midstride, then started to walk again. “Aw, Deli,” he whispered. But who was he to whisper? He had tried to be a hooker himself, had got on the old hip boots and walked, only to discover he was just—a slut.
The Battery’s down
, he thought.
The Battery’s down.
He stood in front of the 25 Cent Girls pavilion. Golden lights winked and dashed around the marquee.
“Wanna buy, man?” hissed a guy urinating at the curb. “I got bitches, I got rods, I got crack.”
Harry stepped toward the cashier in the entrance booth. He slid a dollar under the glass, and the cashier slid him back four tokens. “What do I do?” he said, looking at the tokens, but the cashier
“Oh,” said Harry. “I think I liked myself better before I knew that.”
Scarp laughed. “You writers,” he said, downing his martini. “
We
writers, I should say. By the way, I have to tell you: I’ve ripped you off mercilessly.” Scarp smiled proudly.
“Oh?” said Harry. Something lined up in him, got in order. His back straightened and his feet unhooked from the table legs.
“You know, when we met last time, I was working on an episode for the show where Elsie and John, the two principals, have to confront all sorts of family issues, including the death of an elderly relative.”
“That doesn’t really sound like ripping me off.”
“Well, what I’ve done is use some of that stuff you told me about your family and the radon gas—well, you’ll see—and that fabulous bit about your Aunt Flora dying while you were dating the Kennedy girl. It’s due to air early next month. In fact, I’ll give you a call when I find out exactly.”
Harry didn’t know what to say. The room revolved dizzyingly away from him, dumped him and spun, because he’d never really been part of it to begin with. “Excuse me?” he stammered. His hand started to tremble, and he moved it quickly through his hair.
“I’ll give you a call. When it’s on.” Scarp frowned.
Harry gazed at the striated grain of the table—a tree split to show its innards.
“What?”
he said, finally, slow and muzzy. He picked up his seltzer, knocked it back fast. He set the glassdown with a loud crack. “You’d do that for me? You’d really, honestly, do that for me?” He was starting to yell. The people at the table nearest the piano turned to look. “I have to go.”
Scarp looked anxiously at his watch. “Yes, I’ve gotta run myself.”
“No, you don’t understand!” said Harry loudly. He stood up, huge over the table. “
I
have to go.” He pushed back his chair, and it fell all the way over into a plant. He strode quickly toward the door and pushed against it hard.
The night was just beginning to come, and come warmly, the air in a sweet, garbagey thaw. Midtown was crawling with sailors. They were all youthful and ashore and excited to be this way, in their black and white-trimmed suits, exploring Manhattan and knowing it, in this particular guise, to be a movie set they had bought tickets to, knowing the park was up,
the park is up!
knowing there were girls, and places where there were girls, who would pull you against them, who knew what you knew though they seemed too bonelessly small to. Harry loped by the sailors, their boyish, boisterous clusters, then broke into a run. Old men were selling carnations on the corner, and they murmured indecipherably as he passed. The Hercules was showing
Dirty Desiree
and
Throbbin’ Hood
, and sailors were going in. Off-duty taxis sped from their last fares at the theaters to the Burger King on Ninth for something to eat. Putting block after block beneath his feet would clear his heart, Harry hoped, but the sailors: There was no shaking them. They were everywhere, hatless and landlubbed with eagernesses. Up ahead on his block, he saw a woman who looked like Deli strolling off with two of them, one on each arm. And then—it
was
Deli.
He stopped, frozen midstride, then started to walk again. “Aw, Deli,” he whispered. But who was he to whisper? He had tried to be a hooker himself, had got on the old hip boots and walked, only to discover he was just—a slut.
The Battery’s down
, he thought.
The Battery’s down.
He stood in front of the 25 Cent Girls pavilion. Golden lights winked and dashed around the marquee.
“Wanna buy, man?” hissed a guy urinating at the curb. “I got bitches, I got rods, I got crack.”
Harry stepped toward the cashier in the entrance booth. He slid a dollar under the glass, and the cashier slid him back four tokens. “What do I do?” he said, looking at the tokens, but the cashier
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