Crossroads by Mary Morris Page A

tantalize the woman, they end up making love to one another, though the picture fades before they actually get into anything too complicated.
    As we left our booth, we saw a small group of men, very middle-class, homebody types, in jackets, heading into what was called “the theater.” The word “Theater” was written in very elegant pink letters with lots of swirls, each letter outlined in black. “Must be some kind of vaudeville act,” Sean said.
    â€œThe theater” consisted of about twenty booths, all in a circle, each with a curtain at the entrance and a black window in front, facing the stage. We entered a booth, closed the curtain, and put another quarter into another slot. The black window began to rise and we heard music coming from the other side of the window.
    When the window was up, I saw two women, in G-strings and with spangles on their nipples, writhing on the stage and clawing their way toward the windows that were open. Pairs of little eyes peered from their windows and the eyes seemed to grow glassy as the dancing grew more frenzied, and for a few moments I found myself transfixed by the shimmying breasts and gyrating hips. The women seemed to have some kind of oil on their skin, and when one of the women sat back on her heels, swaying in a circular motion in front of our window, she looked like a snake in heat as she crawled in the direction of our window.
    â€œAll right,” Sean said, catching me by the elbow as I hailed a cab. “I made a mistake. It was a big mistake. I’m sorry. I didn’t know it would upset you.” Regular Broadway theater was getting out and there weren’t any cabs to be had.
    â€œI’d just like to go home. Is that all right?”
    He held me firmly by the elbow. “I made a mistake. I’ve made a lot of mistakes. I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m an actor; I make movies. I didn’t think going in there would cause this crisis.”
    â€œYou’re apologizing again,” I told him. “There isn’t anything to apologize for. I’d just like to go home.”
    Sean held me tightly, but when I stared at where his fingers had wrapped themselves around my arm, he loosened his grip. “I didn’t take you to a peepshow to upset you. I didn’t take you there to make you feel bad or because I thought it would be good for our souls or so you could stage a protest on Seventh Avenue or walk away from me or so we could have a disagreement about my inappropriate behavior or so you can decide all men are impossible. I took you there as a goof. For the hell of it.” I was staring at a piece of gum, flattened on the sidewalk, as I told him I didn’t think it was “a goof” to watch people humiliate themselves.
    Sean stared at the same piece of gum I had my eyes fixed on. It was a brownish wad that had gotten walked on for a long time. For decades, maybe, and it was in the shape of an eyeball with a dent in the middle, where someone had put a cleat, and it seemed to be staring back at us. A miserable, brown eyeball, a wad of gum, permanently embedded in the sidewalk of Broadway. Chewing gum comes from Chicago, where I come from, and at that moment I wished more than anything that I were home. That I’d never left home.
    He raised his voice. “Sometimes I think you like to have a bad time and take everything so seriously. I think disagreeing and being very serious makes you feel nice and safe. Do you want to know something? Everyone is scared. Everyone is just as scared and afraid as you are. Everyone. And I haven’t been with a woman in a long time, so why don’t we just say that we’re all scared and we all make mistakes and start the evening over.”
    A small crowd had formed, ready to absorb any tragedy that came their way in New York, and watched us argue. Sean shooed them away with some determination. I looked around Broadway. All the cabs were filled.