one-armed hug.
“I’m sorry we’re late,” he said, sounding sincere. “Were you waiting long?”
“Just a couple of minutes,” I replied as Max and Chris reached us. “How far did you get?”
Max grinned. “About two blocks. But, then, a lot of the stores were closed, it being Sunday.”
Jonathan opened his shopping bag like a kid trick-or-treating on Halloween. I glanced in but saw only several unidentifiable items wrapped in tissue paper.
“I got a New York coffee mug for my boss and a New York tee-shirt for Kyle, and New York key chains for the rest of the guys,” he announced happily.
I don’t know what there is about that guy, but every now and then he says or does something that makes me melt. It was my turn to hug him, and I did. Tight. “That’s great, Babe,” I said. “I’m sure they’ll appreciate it.”
Max reached into his pocket for his keys, then walked to the Whitman’s front entrance and opened it. “I figured we could leave his bag in my cubicle rather than having to risk carrying it all over town. Let me run it in. I’ll be right back.”
Jonathan handed Max his bag, and I was a little surprised that Max hadn’t asked us all in, especially since I knew how excited Jonathan was by the whole theater thing. Apparently my thoughts were reflected on my face: Jonathan grinned. “I told Max I’d rather wait until tomorrow to go in so we can take everything in at once.”
Well, that’s a first.
Max came out, locked the door, and said, “Ready?”
“Sure,” I said. “For what?”
Chris grinned. “Well, we figured we should take Jonathan up to give him a closer look at Times Square. I told him not to expect too much; it’s getting a little sleazy.”
“That’s okay,” Jonathan said. “It’s still Times Square!”
*
We took the Broadway bus past Times Square to 51st Street and got off almost directly in front of the Winter Garden Theater, where Cats was playing. Jonathan had been distracted (surprise) by something on the other side of the street and didn’t notice the Winter Garden until we got off the bus. When he saw it, he stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes big as saucers, staring up at the marquee, mesmerized. I took him by the arm so he could look into the lobby and stare at the posters. I was glad he didn’t have a tail, or he’d have batted us all silly wagging it. Max, Chris, and I finally started to walk away and got about twenty feet before Jonathan realized we were gone. He hurried over to us with a sheepish grin. “Sorry, guys.”
We walked back toward Times Square, Max and Chris pointing out the various theaters on the side streets as we passed.
Chris was right: there were a lot more “Girls! Girls! Girls!” and “Adult Entertainment!” places than I’d remembered; lots of panhandlers and not a few hustlers. But, as Jonathan said, it was still Times Square. Most of the stores and shops were open, and of course Jonathan wanted to go into a lot of them, but other than insisting on buying us all hot dogs (sauerkraut, mustard, catsup, relish, pickles, and onions) and sodas from a sidewalk pushcart, Jonathan was a model of fiscal restraint.
“You up for a little walk?” Max asked as we dropped our empty soda cans and napkins in an overflowing trash receptacle.
“Sure!” Jonathan said enthusiastically, wiping a spot of mustard from the corner of his mouth. “Where to?”
“How about Grand Central Station and then the Empire State Building?”
“Great!” Jonathan said. “Can we go to the top?”
“Eighty-sixth floor, at least,” Chris said.
We began walking down East 42nd toward Grand Central, Chris and Jonathan slightly ahead of Max and me.
I decided to take advantage of the opportunity to ask Max about some of the Whitman’s cast and crew and their relationships, if any, with Rod Pearce.
“If you had to make a suspects list, does anyone at the Whitman stand out?” I asked as we paused once again for either Chris or Jonathan to
“I’m sorry we’re late,” he said, sounding sincere. “Were you waiting long?”
“Just a couple of minutes,” I replied as Max and Chris reached us. “How far did you get?”
Max grinned. “About two blocks. But, then, a lot of the stores were closed, it being Sunday.”
Jonathan opened his shopping bag like a kid trick-or-treating on Halloween. I glanced in but saw only several unidentifiable items wrapped in tissue paper.
“I got a New York coffee mug for my boss and a New York tee-shirt for Kyle, and New York key chains for the rest of the guys,” he announced happily.
I don’t know what there is about that guy, but every now and then he says or does something that makes me melt. It was my turn to hug him, and I did. Tight. “That’s great, Babe,” I said. “I’m sure they’ll appreciate it.”
Max reached into his pocket for his keys, then walked to the Whitman’s front entrance and opened it. “I figured we could leave his bag in my cubicle rather than having to risk carrying it all over town. Let me run it in. I’ll be right back.”
Jonathan handed Max his bag, and I was a little surprised that Max hadn’t asked us all in, especially since I knew how excited Jonathan was by the whole theater thing. Apparently my thoughts were reflected on my face: Jonathan grinned. “I told Max I’d rather wait until tomorrow to go in so we can take everything in at once.”
Well, that’s a first.
Max came out, locked the door, and said, “Ready?”
“Sure,” I said. “For what?”
Chris grinned. “Well, we figured we should take Jonathan up to give him a closer look at Times Square. I told him not to expect too much; it’s getting a little sleazy.”
“That’s okay,” Jonathan said. “It’s still Times Square!”
*
We took the Broadway bus past Times Square to 51st Street and got off almost directly in front of the Winter Garden Theater, where Cats was playing. Jonathan had been distracted (surprise) by something on the other side of the street and didn’t notice the Winter Garden until we got off the bus. When he saw it, he stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes big as saucers, staring up at the marquee, mesmerized. I took him by the arm so he could look into the lobby and stare at the posters. I was glad he didn’t have a tail, or he’d have batted us all silly wagging it. Max, Chris, and I finally started to walk away and got about twenty feet before Jonathan realized we were gone. He hurried over to us with a sheepish grin. “Sorry, guys.”
We walked back toward Times Square, Max and Chris pointing out the various theaters on the side streets as we passed.
Chris was right: there were a lot more “Girls! Girls! Girls!” and “Adult Entertainment!” places than I’d remembered; lots of panhandlers and not a few hustlers. But, as Jonathan said, it was still Times Square. Most of the stores and shops were open, and of course Jonathan wanted to go into a lot of them, but other than insisting on buying us all hot dogs (sauerkraut, mustard, catsup, relish, pickles, and onions) and sodas from a sidewalk pushcart, Jonathan was a model of fiscal restraint.
“You up for a little walk?” Max asked as we dropped our empty soda cans and napkins in an overflowing trash receptacle.
“Sure!” Jonathan said enthusiastically, wiping a spot of mustard from the corner of his mouth. “Where to?”
“How about Grand Central Station and then the Empire State Building?”
“Great!” Jonathan said. “Can we go to the top?”
“Eighty-sixth floor, at least,” Chris said.
We began walking down East 42nd toward Grand Central, Chris and Jonathan slightly ahead of Max and me.
I decided to take advantage of the opportunity to ask Max about some of the Whitman’s cast and crew and their relationships, if any, with Rod Pearce.
“If you had to make a suspects list, does anyone at the Whitman stand out?” I asked as we paused once again for either Chris or Jonathan to
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