The Original 1982 by Lori Carson

on my sweats and buzz him in.
    He laughs when he sees me. Not in a mean way. I do look a sight. My hair is standing straight up and I haven’t bathed or brushed my teeth in days. I’m huge, too. It’s unbelievable that I’ve still got a month to go, because I look ready to pop at any moment.
    Alan seems happy to see me, which makes me feel a little bit better. He launches into a story about a girl on the subway who smiled at him from Grand Central all the way to Seventy-second Street, but turned out to be smiling at someone else. The other guy, muscle-bound and from Jersey, asked Alan if he’d like a punch in the mouth.
    â€œNo way,” I say. “Did that really happen?”
    â€œOh, yes,” Alan says. “It happened all right.”
    â€œWhat did you do?”
    â€œI said, no thank you, and got the hell off the train,” he says, and we laugh. It feels really good to laugh. I realize I’ve gone five minutes without thinking about Gabriel.
    â€œAnyhow,” Alan says, the story trailing off. “So, you all right?”
    I look around the room. It’s a total mess. “Do you think you could hang out while I clean up a little?” I ask.
    â€œSure,” he says easily. He moves across the room toward my guitar.
    I take a quick shower and start to put the place in order. It doesn’t take very long. Alan follows me to the kitchen looking for something to eat, but the cupboard is bare. The cats are on his heels, hoping he’ll fill up their bowl. “I have to eat,” he says. “Do you want to get something at the corner, or should we buy stuff and cook?”
    We decide to cook, and do a quick shop at the Korean deli on Broadway. I feed the cats, and he makes us a couple of omelets with goat cheese and spinach. We toast a loaf of French bread in the broiler and break off big buttery hunks of it to stuff in our mouths. We drink fresh-squeezed orange juice and cut up a melon into large wedges. It’s the first real meal I’ve had in weeks and I’m stuffed.
    â€œIf Minnow’s not like fifteen pounds, I’m in trouble,” I say, leaning back in my chair.
    â€œYou’re not so fat,” Alan says.
    â€œWhat’s happening with music?” I ask him, changing the subject.
    He says there may be some session work coming up. Ideally, he’d like to find a tour. Paul Simon is reuniting with Art Garfunkel, but another guitar player we know seems to have that locked up. Chaka Khan might be looking for somebody. Alan knows her musical director. He grabs the guitar to play some funky licks. I think he’d be perfect for her band.
    â€œHave you been writing at all?” he asks me.
    â€œNot really,” I say.
    But after he leaves I pick up the guitar. It’s comforting to slip into my own world, safe and dark and full of caves to explore. I don’t need Gabriel, I tell myself. My talent will be discovered and I’ll be rewarded with recognition, love, and approval. It might happen anywhere, at any time. The thought consoles me. I don’t have the slightest clue that it’s a childish dream.

Twenty-one
    O n Halloween the streets are filled with children dressed as little ghouls and princesses. I smile and wave to them as they go by the restaurant. One little girl rides on her father’s shoulders, her black curls bouncing, her crown askew. She laughs and her black-fringed eyes sparkle. Minnow, will you burst with happiness like that girl? I see you in every beautiful child’s face.
    All the waitresses at the Café Miriam are in costume, too. I’m wearing cat ears. I’ve painted whiskers on my face and a black nose. I’ve got on a black body stocking and a tail. My pregnant belly seems part of my costume. I’m a mother cat about to birth a dozen kittens.
    My fellow waitresses are sexy gypsies and nurses. Only Will, the bartender, conceals his identity. He is the Tin Man from The