I have to hear all about them, over our sandwiches.
She has a new one now. He came up to her just outside the gates, as she was leaving the plant with the rest of the crowd. . . ."
When she saw that he was corralled, cut out from the rest of the herd, and practically pleading to be branded, she gave him an armful of rope. She practically gave him a whole lariat. Let him step into it and then tugged the knot closed.
"What do you know?" he said. A question that wasn't to be taken literally. He didn't care about her mind.
"What do you know yourself?" she replied. She didn't care about his mind either.
He tipped his hat, that outdated, forgotten prewar custom in these circles, and that pleased her. It was almost like having your hand kissed.
She just kept going, and he trotted along beside her, fast to her saddle now.
Demureness was even more outdated than hattipping. It would have been about like throwing a curtsey.
Nobody kidded anybody else. There was no time. You came to the point.
"You taking me anywhere?" she wanted to know.
"You name it."
She did. "All right. Harry's, down by the Square." And then, just so there wouldn't be any financial obstacle, she added, "Don't let it throw you. I'll go Dutch if it worries you; I'm making ninety a week, and the damn stuff's getting in my way. I gotta kick it under the mattress at nights."
"Who said it worries me?" he said. "It's just on account of looking like I do. . . ."
"Everybody goes in there looking like us. What're we supposed to do, change clothes? There's a war on."
On the way he said, "Where's your friend tonight?"
She said, "Oh, her." Then she said, "Oh, you noticed her, hunh?"
He quickly said, "Only because she was with you."
"You can't get her to go out," she said. "She's one of these war widows. just sticks around the room all night. Y'ought to see her. She even changes to skirts when she gets back home."
They went into Harry's dine and dance joint, and they fought their way to a table. They had to share it with another couple, but though their elbows grazed and their smoke drifted into one another's faces, the two parties were as isolated from one another, as exclusively self-contained, as though they were a thousand miles apart. Neither one existed in the other's awareness.
They had a warm-up drink. They gave each other their names. His, he told her, was Joe Morris.
"Have another," he said, when that stage was past.
"Do you want me drunk, or do you want me to know what I'm doing? It don't have to make any difference, because I can be just as easy to get along with when I know what I'm doing."
They had another. Then she said, "Let's limber up. It'll help make the drinks go down."
They got up and went out where the dance floor was. You could see flashes of it at times under people's feet, but only very briefly.
The eighteenth century had the minuet. The nineteenth had the waltz. The nineteen forties had arrived at a state of delirium tremens, which could be turned on and off, however, without the intervention of strait jackets and attendants.
He spread his legs and shot her through to the other side, like a mail sack going down a chute; then braked her and jerked her back again, and she--miraculously--found her feet once more and stood upright before him. Then he bent down and rolled her across his back, from the left side to the right, and dropped her down to the floor.
Nobody collided with anybody else. Or if they did, it was just like another dance step anyway, you couldn't tell which was the mistake and which the intent. Except that the accidents looked a little better, maybe.
They got through and they complimented one another.
"You're good," she said.
"You're all right," he said.
They had two more drinks. Then they each had a sandwich, to soak up some of the liquor. Then, with the room this gave them, they had a final round. Then they got up and went out. They'd had a quiet, pleasant, completely-average wartime evening together. A little
She has a new one now. He came up to her just outside the gates, as she was leaving the plant with the rest of the crowd. . . ."
When she saw that he was corralled, cut out from the rest of the herd, and practically pleading to be branded, she gave him an armful of rope. She practically gave him a whole lariat. Let him step into it and then tugged the knot closed.
"What do you know?" he said. A question that wasn't to be taken literally. He didn't care about her mind.
"What do you know yourself?" she replied. She didn't care about his mind either.
He tipped his hat, that outdated, forgotten prewar custom in these circles, and that pleased her. It was almost like having your hand kissed.
She just kept going, and he trotted along beside her, fast to her saddle now.
Demureness was even more outdated than hattipping. It would have been about like throwing a curtsey.
Nobody kidded anybody else. There was no time. You came to the point.
"You taking me anywhere?" she wanted to know.
"You name it."
She did. "All right. Harry's, down by the Square." And then, just so there wouldn't be any financial obstacle, she added, "Don't let it throw you. I'll go Dutch if it worries you; I'm making ninety a week, and the damn stuff's getting in my way. I gotta kick it under the mattress at nights."
"Who said it worries me?" he said. "It's just on account of looking like I do. . . ."
"Everybody goes in there looking like us. What're we supposed to do, change clothes? There's a war on."
On the way he said, "Where's your friend tonight?"
She said, "Oh, her." Then she said, "Oh, you noticed her, hunh?"
He quickly said, "Only because she was with you."
"You can't get her to go out," she said. "She's one of these war widows. just sticks around the room all night. Y'ought to see her. She even changes to skirts when she gets back home."
They went into Harry's dine and dance joint, and they fought their way to a table. They had to share it with another couple, but though their elbows grazed and their smoke drifted into one another's faces, the two parties were as isolated from one another, as exclusively self-contained, as though they were a thousand miles apart. Neither one existed in the other's awareness.
They had a warm-up drink. They gave each other their names. His, he told her, was Joe Morris.
"Have another," he said, when that stage was past.
"Do you want me drunk, or do you want me to know what I'm doing? It don't have to make any difference, because I can be just as easy to get along with when I know what I'm doing."
They had another. Then she said, "Let's limber up. It'll help make the drinks go down."
They got up and went out where the dance floor was. You could see flashes of it at times under people's feet, but only very briefly.
The eighteenth century had the minuet. The nineteenth had the waltz. The nineteen forties had arrived at a state of delirium tremens, which could be turned on and off, however, without the intervention of strait jackets and attendants.
He spread his legs and shot her through to the other side, like a mail sack going down a chute; then braked her and jerked her back again, and she--miraculously--found her feet once more and stood upright before him. Then he bent down and rolled her across his back, from the left side to the right, and dropped her down to the floor.
Nobody collided with anybody else. Or if they did, it was just like another dance step anyway, you couldn't tell which was the mistake and which the intent. Except that the accidents looked a little better, maybe.
They got through and they complimented one another.
"You're good," she said.
"You're all right," he said.
They had two more drinks. Then they each had a sandwich, to soak up some of the liquor. Then, with the room this gave them, they had a final round. Then they got up and went out. They'd had a quiet, pleasant, completely-average wartime evening together. A little
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