and over to Park of last night’s holocaust. He noted the wickerwire baskets were all put back, now.
Actually he didn’t know whether it was this mood that had him turned on and going so good, or whether it was some subtle essence extruding from under the exquisitely shaved armpits of Lucky. Maybe it was both. She had the ability to do that, to quietly and without pointing it somehow make a man feel more of a man than most of the time he was willing to believe he was. Whatever it was, he was male, vital, supersensitive, nearly omnipotent, gentle and because of it able to handle everything beautifully today. So naturally he was lying magnificently, about himself, about life, about work, about anything which contained no depression or fear or despair, which today was everything.
Later he was to think back in a nervousness bordering on collapse about how if he had been different that day, everything else might have been different too and he might never really have known her.
Her play wasn’t very much, and he told her this with a rather blunt honesty. Then it turned out she was rewriting it to trim down and Hemingwayize the dialogue and it was the rewrite he was reading. When he asked for the old original, it turned out to be better but it still wasn’t very good, and he told her so. There were some fine ideas and two remarkable scenes in the first act (which shamefully, was as far as he got, and he didn’t even finish all of that). Mostly it was the style, and that extreme selfconsciousness that came through and to which amateurs were so prone. But he couldn’t really think about it much, or bother. He was too caught up and enraptured by her, and by himself even being there with her. Later, he noticed that while they talked on she had quietly and unobtrusively gathered it up and put it away.
He had been caught up again breathless by her beauty, and swept by it as by some violent summer storm. The moment he stepped inside. She was wearing a tight fuzzy white sweater over those magnificent tits and tight brown slacks that molded into the crack of her ass all the way up. It was almost impossible to believe in that incredible rounded, flatwaisted, high-hipped ass. Half the time he didn’t know even what he was saying really, but it seemed to be working apparently. Finally they walked down to P.J. Clarke’s for a hamburger and beer lunch, and that was where it happened.
Grant was good friends with all the waiters and guys who worked at Clarke’s, and the owner Danny, because this was another of his drunken-bachelor hangouts and they all waved and called out to him. But that couldn’t have had anything to do with it. Maybe it was the two or three other couples scattered around at tables in the dim back room, all selfcontained and complete and therefore throwing you into a closer intimacy, a neater rapport than you would have had at home in the apartment or on the street. That can happen sometimes. Anyway, over the hamburgers and two tall steins (which Grant augmented with a large bowl of chili) they were suddenly simpatico, together, a couple sealed against other couples, and finding they liked it.
Grant talked until he almost missed his cocktail date, and had to leave her at Clarke’s and take a cab. He talked about himself with that freshness which only comes when one is with a new girl. All those things he had wanted to say about himself to someone for so long, but was too embarrassed. He talked about his life, his way of life, his new play, his earlier plays, about work in general, about his contemporaries and their work. He even talked about his ambitions, and whenever he mentioned Carol Abernathy and Hunt in talking about his life or way of life, he always referred to her as his foster-mother.—“Who is this woman, Carol Abernathy?” Lucky said once, her eyes glinting mischievously. “Are you her lover?”— “Are you kidding?” he said. “She’s old enough to be my mother. Actually.” But everything
Actually he didn’t know whether it was this mood that had him turned on and going so good, or whether it was some subtle essence extruding from under the exquisitely shaved armpits of Lucky. Maybe it was both. She had the ability to do that, to quietly and without pointing it somehow make a man feel more of a man than most of the time he was willing to believe he was. Whatever it was, he was male, vital, supersensitive, nearly omnipotent, gentle and because of it able to handle everything beautifully today. So naturally he was lying magnificently, about himself, about life, about work, about anything which contained no depression or fear or despair, which today was everything.
Later he was to think back in a nervousness bordering on collapse about how if he had been different that day, everything else might have been different too and he might never really have known her.
Her play wasn’t very much, and he told her this with a rather blunt honesty. Then it turned out she was rewriting it to trim down and Hemingwayize the dialogue and it was the rewrite he was reading. When he asked for the old original, it turned out to be better but it still wasn’t very good, and he told her so. There were some fine ideas and two remarkable scenes in the first act (which shamefully, was as far as he got, and he didn’t even finish all of that). Mostly it was the style, and that extreme selfconsciousness that came through and to which amateurs were so prone. But he couldn’t really think about it much, or bother. He was too caught up and enraptured by her, and by himself even being there with her. Later, he noticed that while they talked on she had quietly and unobtrusively gathered it up and put it away.
He had been caught up again breathless by her beauty, and swept by it as by some violent summer storm. The moment he stepped inside. She was wearing a tight fuzzy white sweater over those magnificent tits and tight brown slacks that molded into the crack of her ass all the way up. It was almost impossible to believe in that incredible rounded, flatwaisted, high-hipped ass. Half the time he didn’t know even what he was saying really, but it seemed to be working apparently. Finally they walked down to P.J. Clarke’s for a hamburger and beer lunch, and that was where it happened.
Grant was good friends with all the waiters and guys who worked at Clarke’s, and the owner Danny, because this was another of his drunken-bachelor hangouts and they all waved and called out to him. But that couldn’t have had anything to do with it. Maybe it was the two or three other couples scattered around at tables in the dim back room, all selfcontained and complete and therefore throwing you into a closer intimacy, a neater rapport than you would have had at home in the apartment or on the street. That can happen sometimes. Anyway, over the hamburgers and two tall steins (which Grant augmented with a large bowl of chili) they were suddenly simpatico, together, a couple sealed against other couples, and finding they liked it.
Grant talked until he almost missed his cocktail date, and had to leave her at Clarke’s and take a cab. He talked about himself with that freshness which only comes when one is with a new girl. All those things he had wanted to say about himself to someone for so long, but was too embarrassed. He talked about his life, his way of life, his new play, his earlier plays, about work in general, about his contemporaries and their work. He even talked about his ambitions, and whenever he mentioned Carol Abernathy and Hunt in talking about his life or way of life, he always referred to her as his foster-mother.—“Who is this woman, Carol Abernathy?” Lucky said once, her eyes glinting mischievously. “Are you her lover?”— “Are you kidding?” he said. “She’s old enough to be my mother. Actually.” But everything
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