boost?”
“Yes, I guess I did.”
“Why?”
“The usual. Everything sameish. This must be Sunday because there’s no mail. That kind of thing, that’s about all.”
“I know what you mean. Particularly since I’m not dashing out to an office in the morning. The days don’t have a specific meaning. It looks as if you’re ready for another drink, so am I.”
“Yes, I guess I am. I wonder if we could have some of that garlic bread with it?”
“Absolutely.” He half rose from his seat, drew the attention of their waiter. “Two of the same, please, and may we have some garlic bread too?”
Their seconds arrived shortly, along with a napkin-covered basket of bread, its redolence steaming the air. A crock of sweet butter. “That’s a-nice,” Christine said contentedly.
“Yes, that is a-nice,” Jack agreed. “A lot of garlic bread simply pretends, but Mario doesn’t stint on the garlic, as you’ve noticed. I sometimes come here and order a big bowl of minestrone and this bread. It’s one of the best lunches in town.”
“I could go for that today.”
“So could I, except that they have Calamari fritti on Thursdays, and today’s Thursday. Or don’t you dig it?”
“I’d kill for it. Not very many places have it on the menu. Man, oh man. The minestrone will have to wait for another day.”
He got up. “Be right back.”
When he returned he looked satisfied. “It occurred to me that the well might run dry,” he told her. “I was afraid the Calamari’d be gone when we got around to ordering. Mario just laughed. He said, hell, Jack, you know I wouldn’t let you down, especially with such a lovely lady, you think I’d cut your throat?”
“So we’re safe.”
“We’re safe. Lord, this is great. Talking to a real live human being. Not going to an office means you can’t unload a lot of stuff. You don’t yammer with this person and that person, and after a while your voice gets rusty. Or it feels like that, as if it’s drying up inside you. What you really want to do is cover up that threatening typewriter and go out for a whole day’s walk, like maybe over to Brooklyn or somewhere. Or take in half a dozen movies. Escape. You try not to give into it, though, so you sit there with that blank sheet of paper in the machine. There’s that dumb sheet of paper, blank as a wall, and you’re not a Sunday writer anymore, but a working one, a seven-day-a-week one, and you type a few lines and it laughs back at you. I remember a
New Yorker
cartoon picturing just such a situation. This harried-looking author sitting at a portable. There’s a piece of paper in the typewriter with one line, his beginning line.”
He lit a cigarette. She waited. He was smiling faintly. “What was it?” she asked expectantly.
“‘Call me Ishmael…’”
“Oh, marvelous! I guess every author in the city thumbtacked it on his wall. How about you, Jack? Ever find yourself starting with something like, ‘Buck Mulligan came from the stairhead, bearing a bowl of lather … ’?”
“Not yet,” he admitted. “But it would be a damned, natural thing to do. Melville or Joyce or any of them. Their opening sentences are graven on your mind, so much so that you have to be always pushing them out of the way to find your own.”
He regarded her. “As a matter of fact,” he said, “the Joyce sentence isn’t, to be perfectly truthful, graven on my mind with the same exactitude it appears to be on yours. I’m a little abashed. Now I’m trying to remember the rest of it. ‘… bearing a bowl of lather …’”
“ ‘… on which a mirror and a razor lay crossed.’”
“Yes, of course.” He leaned back. “You’re full of surprises, Christine.”
“Is that good or bad?”
“What do you think?”
“We were looking for your opinion, Jack. Now. About the last sentence. Do I remember that with such exactitude. As I recall it, it’s forty-odd pages long.”
“It’s the last few words everyone
“Yes, I guess I did.”
“Why?”
“The usual. Everything sameish. This must be Sunday because there’s no mail. That kind of thing, that’s about all.”
“I know what you mean. Particularly since I’m not dashing out to an office in the morning. The days don’t have a specific meaning. It looks as if you’re ready for another drink, so am I.”
“Yes, I guess I am. I wonder if we could have some of that garlic bread with it?”
“Absolutely.” He half rose from his seat, drew the attention of their waiter. “Two of the same, please, and may we have some garlic bread too?”
Their seconds arrived shortly, along with a napkin-covered basket of bread, its redolence steaming the air. A crock of sweet butter. “That’s a-nice,” Christine said contentedly.
“Yes, that is a-nice,” Jack agreed. “A lot of garlic bread simply pretends, but Mario doesn’t stint on the garlic, as you’ve noticed. I sometimes come here and order a big bowl of minestrone and this bread. It’s one of the best lunches in town.”
“I could go for that today.”
“So could I, except that they have Calamari fritti on Thursdays, and today’s Thursday. Or don’t you dig it?”
“I’d kill for it. Not very many places have it on the menu. Man, oh man. The minestrone will have to wait for another day.”
He got up. “Be right back.”
When he returned he looked satisfied. “It occurred to me that the well might run dry,” he told her. “I was afraid the Calamari’d be gone when we got around to ordering. Mario just laughed. He said, hell, Jack, you know I wouldn’t let you down, especially with such a lovely lady, you think I’d cut your throat?”
“So we’re safe.”
“We’re safe. Lord, this is great. Talking to a real live human being. Not going to an office means you can’t unload a lot of stuff. You don’t yammer with this person and that person, and after a while your voice gets rusty. Or it feels like that, as if it’s drying up inside you. What you really want to do is cover up that threatening typewriter and go out for a whole day’s walk, like maybe over to Brooklyn or somewhere. Or take in half a dozen movies. Escape. You try not to give into it, though, so you sit there with that blank sheet of paper in the machine. There’s that dumb sheet of paper, blank as a wall, and you’re not a Sunday writer anymore, but a working one, a seven-day-a-week one, and you type a few lines and it laughs back at you. I remember a
New Yorker
cartoon picturing just such a situation. This harried-looking author sitting at a portable. There’s a piece of paper in the typewriter with one line, his beginning line.”
He lit a cigarette. She waited. He was smiling faintly. “What was it?” she asked expectantly.
“‘Call me Ishmael…’”
“Oh, marvelous! I guess every author in the city thumbtacked it on his wall. How about you, Jack? Ever find yourself starting with something like, ‘Buck Mulligan came from the stairhead, bearing a bowl of lather … ’?”
“Not yet,” he admitted. “But it would be a damned, natural thing to do. Melville or Joyce or any of them. Their opening sentences are graven on your mind, so much so that you have to be always pushing them out of the way to find your own.”
He regarded her. “As a matter of fact,” he said, “the Joyce sentence isn’t, to be perfectly truthful, graven on my mind with the same exactitude it appears to be on yours. I’m a little abashed. Now I’m trying to remember the rest of it. ‘… bearing a bowl of lather …’”
“ ‘… on which a mirror and a razor lay crossed.’”
“Yes, of course.” He leaned back. “You’re full of surprises, Christine.”
“Is that good or bad?”
“What do you think?”
“We were looking for your opinion, Jack. Now. About the last sentence. Do I remember that with such exactitude. As I recall it, it’s forty-odd pages long.”
“It’s the last few words everyone
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