Got food all over me.”
“It didn’t stop you coming,” she pointed out.
“No,” Sandy said fondly. “No. It didn’t.” He pointed. “No bookcase then. Just old boards and those cinder blocks that Froggy and me swiped from that construction site for you. And maybe half as many paperbacks. And that big cable spool you kept saying you were going to strip and stain and turn into a table. And all your posters.”
“You didn’t mention my mattress in the back room,” Maggie said. “Haven’t forgotten that, have you? We balled on it often enough.”
Sandy grinned. “Mattress?” he said. “What mattress?”
She gave a snort of disdain. “I remember how you used to read us whatever you were working on, and afterward we’d talk about it.”
“The criticism was unduly influenced by Boone’s Farm,” Sandy said. “I won’t forget those arguments with Lark, though. I was never radical enough for him. Whatever I read, he’d just smile and say it was competent bourgeois entertainment, but he couldn’t see how it would help the revolution any.”
Maggie gave a sudden whoop of delight. “Shit, I’d forgotten that. You’re right. Good old Lark. You know what Lark is doing these days?”
“Haven’t a clue,” Sandy admitted.
Maggie’s grin was so big it threatened to crack her face clean in half. “Look him up when you’re in Chicago to see Maggio,” she urged. “He’s in the book. Look under L. Stephen Ellyn.”
Sandy felt his mouth drop open. “L. Stephen Ellyn?” he said dumbly. Lark Ellyn had always been perversely proud of his first name, no matter how much gender-confusion and kidding it caused. Sandy had ragged him about it when they first met, and Lark had told him coolly that his namesake was a creature of song and beauty, gifted with the ultimate freedom of flight, and that therefore Lark was an appropriate name for a man committed to love and freedom, whereas
Sander
meant “defender of mankind” or some such bullshit, with all the militarism and sexism that implied. Lark was real big on the symbology of names.
“L. Stephen Ellyn?”
Sandy repeated. “No, c’mon.”
“Really,” Maggie said. She held up a hand as if to swear. “L. Steve is a real comer in the ad world, too. Account executive.”
Sandy stared at her. Then he giggled. Helpless, he giggled again, then burst into laughter. “No, no,” he muttered, “it can’t be, c’mon, it can’t,” but Maggie just kept insisting, and Sandy kept on laughing. “L. Stephen Ellyn, oh, no, Jesus H. Christ on a crutch, you can’t tell me…
no
!”
That was the start of the real silliness. After that, they made jokes about L. Stephen Ellyn for ten minutes or so, and drank some more wine, and started singing old songs in horribly off-key voices, and drank some more wine, and somehow got onto old TV theme songs, and worked through
Superchicken
and
George of the Jungle
and most of the Warner Brothers westerns and
Car 54, Where Are You?
before getting sidetracked by too much wine and
Tombstone Territory.
“Whistle me up a memory,”
Maggie was singing uncertainly, though loudly.
“Whistle me back where I want to be. Dum dum, something something Tombstone Territory!”
she finished with a flourish.
Sandy felt a bit dizzy from the wine, and what she was singing seemed very profound and terribly, urgently important. “And where
do
you want to be?” he demanded suddenly.
Maggie stopped singing, refilled her glass, grinned at him. “Huh?” she said amiably.
“Where do you want to be?” Sandy said again. “Do you know? What kind of memories are we whistling up? Where they going to take us?” He ran his fingers through his hair, confused by the sound of his own voice. “I’m drunk,” he said, “but it doesn’t matter. I just…I dunno, it’s confusing. What happened, Maggie?”
“Huh?” she said. “Happened? To what?
Tombstone Territory
?” She giggled. “It got canceled, Sandy.”
“No,” he snapped.
“It didn’t stop you coming,” she pointed out.
“No,” Sandy said fondly. “No. It didn’t.” He pointed. “No bookcase then. Just old boards and those cinder blocks that Froggy and me swiped from that construction site for you. And maybe half as many paperbacks. And that big cable spool you kept saying you were going to strip and stain and turn into a table. And all your posters.”
“You didn’t mention my mattress in the back room,” Maggie said. “Haven’t forgotten that, have you? We balled on it often enough.”
Sandy grinned. “Mattress?” he said. “What mattress?”
She gave a snort of disdain. “I remember how you used to read us whatever you were working on, and afterward we’d talk about it.”
“The criticism was unduly influenced by Boone’s Farm,” Sandy said. “I won’t forget those arguments with Lark, though. I was never radical enough for him. Whatever I read, he’d just smile and say it was competent bourgeois entertainment, but he couldn’t see how it would help the revolution any.”
Maggie gave a sudden whoop of delight. “Shit, I’d forgotten that. You’re right. Good old Lark. You know what Lark is doing these days?”
“Haven’t a clue,” Sandy admitted.
Maggie’s grin was so big it threatened to crack her face clean in half. “Look him up when you’re in Chicago to see Maggio,” she urged. “He’s in the book. Look under L. Stephen Ellyn.”
Sandy felt his mouth drop open. “L. Stephen Ellyn?” he said dumbly. Lark Ellyn had always been perversely proud of his first name, no matter how much gender-confusion and kidding it caused. Sandy had ragged him about it when they first met, and Lark had told him coolly that his namesake was a creature of song and beauty, gifted with the ultimate freedom of flight, and that therefore Lark was an appropriate name for a man committed to love and freedom, whereas
Sander
meant “defender of mankind” or some such bullshit, with all the militarism and sexism that implied. Lark was real big on the symbology of names.
“L. Stephen Ellyn?”
Sandy repeated. “No, c’mon.”
“Really,” Maggie said. She held up a hand as if to swear. “L. Steve is a real comer in the ad world, too. Account executive.”
Sandy stared at her. Then he giggled. Helpless, he giggled again, then burst into laughter. “No, no,” he muttered, “it can’t be, c’mon, it can’t,” but Maggie just kept insisting, and Sandy kept on laughing. “L. Stephen Ellyn, oh, no, Jesus H. Christ on a crutch, you can’t tell me…
no
!”
That was the start of the real silliness. After that, they made jokes about L. Stephen Ellyn for ten minutes or so, and drank some more wine, and started singing old songs in horribly off-key voices, and drank some more wine, and somehow got onto old TV theme songs, and worked through
Superchicken
and
George of the Jungle
and most of the Warner Brothers westerns and
Car 54, Where Are You?
before getting sidetracked by too much wine and
Tombstone Territory.
“Whistle me up a memory,”
Maggie was singing uncertainly, though loudly.
“Whistle me back where I want to be. Dum dum, something something Tombstone Territory!”
she finished with a flourish.
Sandy felt a bit dizzy from the wine, and what she was singing seemed very profound and terribly, urgently important. “And where
do
you want to be?” he demanded suddenly.
Maggie stopped singing, refilled her glass, grinned at him. “Huh?” she said amiably.
“Where do you want to be?” Sandy said again. “Do you know? What kind of memories are we whistling up? Where they going to take us?” He ran his fingers through his hair, confused by the sound of his own voice. “I’m drunk,” he said, “but it doesn’t matter. I just…I dunno, it’s confusing. What happened, Maggie?”
“Huh?” she said. “Happened? To what?
Tombstone Territory
?” She giggled. “It got canceled, Sandy.”
“No,” he snapped.
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