make it to the Lion’s Head and the poor girl will be left to the slender mercies of all those aspiring actors and failed writers. A few friendly drinks with her wouldn’t kill you. You throw on a jacket and head out.
You arrive ten minutes late. It’s two deep along the bar and no sign of Allagash. No sign of anybody wearing a plaid tartan skirt and Allagash features.
In the middle of your beer you spot a woman standing alone beside the coatrack, holding a drink and reading a paperback. She looks up from time to time and then returns to her reading. You watch her eyes as they move around the room. Her face is intelligent. The hair is somewhere between strawberry and gold, you can’t tell in this light. That she could be the Boston Allagash is too much to hope. Boots, jeans and a black silk shirt. Not a patch of madras or tartan on her.
The hell with Allagash and his race. You would like to speak to this woman, ask her if she’s eaten dinner. Perhaps she is the one who could make you forget your cares and woes, start eating breakfast, take up jogging. You edge in closer. The book in her hand is Spinoza’s Ethics . No flies on that. She looks up again and you catch her eye.
“We don’t get many Rationalists in here,” you say.
“I’m not surprised,” she says. “Too dark.” Her voice is like gravel spread with honey. She holds a smile just long enough to encourage you and then returns to her book. You wish you could remember something about Spinoza, besides the fact that he was excommunicated.
Allagash appears in the door. You consider hiding out in the Men’s Room, but he spots you and comes over. Tad shakes your hand. Then he plants a kiss on the philosopher’s cheek.
Introductions, brief confusion about whether everyone has met. Allagash tells you, with a deprecating roll of his eyes, that Vicky is studying Philosophy at Princeton. He introduces you as a literary cult celebrity whose name has not yet reached the provinces.
“Hate to dash out again. But I said seven-thirty and Inge thought I said ten. So she’s still in media dress, as we say. Got to get crosstown and pick her up. But let’s by all means meet for dinner.” He consults his watch. “Let’s say nine-thirty. Better make it ten. Ten o’clock at Raoul’s. Don’t forget.” He slips a glass vial into your pocket while he’s kissing Vicky. Then he’s gone in a wake of camel’s hair.
Vicky seems confused by her cousin’s hospitality. “Did you catch all that?”
“More or less.” You know you will not see Tad for the rest of the night.
“He said seven-thirty and his date thought he said ten?”
“It’s a common mistake.”
“Well,” she says, putting her book in her purse. This could have been a very awkward situation, but she’s taking it in stride. “What now?”
Allagash has bribed you with a piece of the rock. You could invite her back to your place to share the booty, but somehow you think not. Although you suppose she would appreciate it, you’d like to see if it’s possible to get through an evening without chemicals for a change. Hear yourself and another person talk without Speedy Gonzales South American accents.
You ask her if she wants to stay for another drink, and she asks what you want to do. Eventually you ascend the stairs to the street. You think of Plato’s pilgrims climbing out of the cave, from the shadow world of appearances toward things as they really are, and you wonder if it is possible to change in this life. Being with a philosopher makes you think.
You linger at the edge of Sheridan Square to watch an acrobat ride a unicycle across a tightrope strung between the fences. A teenager in the crowd turns to Vicky and says, “He did that between the towers of the World Trade Center.”
“Can you imagine,” a woman asks.
“Sounds like my job,” you say.
When the acrobat passes the hat you throw in a buck. You walk west, without any firm destination in mind. Vicky is telling you
You arrive ten minutes late. It’s two deep along the bar and no sign of Allagash. No sign of anybody wearing a plaid tartan skirt and Allagash features.
In the middle of your beer you spot a woman standing alone beside the coatrack, holding a drink and reading a paperback. She looks up from time to time and then returns to her reading. You watch her eyes as they move around the room. Her face is intelligent. The hair is somewhere between strawberry and gold, you can’t tell in this light. That she could be the Boston Allagash is too much to hope. Boots, jeans and a black silk shirt. Not a patch of madras or tartan on her.
The hell with Allagash and his race. You would like to speak to this woman, ask her if she’s eaten dinner. Perhaps she is the one who could make you forget your cares and woes, start eating breakfast, take up jogging. You edge in closer. The book in her hand is Spinoza’s Ethics . No flies on that. She looks up again and you catch her eye.
“We don’t get many Rationalists in here,” you say.
“I’m not surprised,” she says. “Too dark.” Her voice is like gravel spread with honey. She holds a smile just long enough to encourage you and then returns to her book. You wish you could remember something about Spinoza, besides the fact that he was excommunicated.
Allagash appears in the door. You consider hiding out in the Men’s Room, but he spots you and comes over. Tad shakes your hand. Then he plants a kiss on the philosopher’s cheek.
Introductions, brief confusion about whether everyone has met. Allagash tells you, with a deprecating roll of his eyes, that Vicky is studying Philosophy at Princeton. He introduces you as a literary cult celebrity whose name has not yet reached the provinces.
“Hate to dash out again. But I said seven-thirty and Inge thought I said ten. So she’s still in media dress, as we say. Got to get crosstown and pick her up. But let’s by all means meet for dinner.” He consults his watch. “Let’s say nine-thirty. Better make it ten. Ten o’clock at Raoul’s. Don’t forget.” He slips a glass vial into your pocket while he’s kissing Vicky. Then he’s gone in a wake of camel’s hair.
Vicky seems confused by her cousin’s hospitality. “Did you catch all that?”
“More or less.” You know you will not see Tad for the rest of the night.
“He said seven-thirty and his date thought he said ten?”
“It’s a common mistake.”
“Well,” she says, putting her book in her purse. This could have been a very awkward situation, but she’s taking it in stride. “What now?”
Allagash has bribed you with a piece of the rock. You could invite her back to your place to share the booty, but somehow you think not. Although you suppose she would appreciate it, you’d like to see if it’s possible to get through an evening without chemicals for a change. Hear yourself and another person talk without Speedy Gonzales South American accents.
You ask her if she wants to stay for another drink, and she asks what you want to do. Eventually you ascend the stairs to the street. You think of Plato’s pilgrims climbing out of the cave, from the shadow world of appearances toward things as they really are, and you wonder if it is possible to change in this life. Being with a philosopher makes you think.
You linger at the edge of Sheridan Square to watch an acrobat ride a unicycle across a tightrope strung between the fences. A teenager in the crowd turns to Vicky and says, “He did that between the towers of the World Trade Center.”
“Can you imagine,” a woman asks.
“Sounds like my job,” you say.
When the acrobat passes the hat you throw in a buck. You walk west, without any firm destination in mind. Vicky is telling you
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