over a month. But when I asked you to come to my apartment you got nasty. God, you were nasty!”
“What did I say to you?”
“I won’t repeat what you said. I’ve never had anyone in all my life say the nasty things to me that you did. If I’d been a man I would have hit you in the face.” He shook his head. “I was sick. That summer I was really sick.” And to himself, “Sicker than you thought, son.”
“I don’t want to ever see you like that again.”
“I’ve gotten over it. I’ve made a separate peace. I mean it.”
She stood up. “We’d better go; it’s getting late.”
“Do you have any place in mind?”
“Oh, anywhere we can get served quickly. I don’t feel up to a lot of bother.”
“How about Nick’s?”
“That’s all right. We can have steaks.”
They were tense and silent in the taxi as it skirted the quiet darkness of Gramercy Park, past the old stone mansions with their brass knockers and foot-scrapers and shining carriage lamps, and turned south on Irving Place. He glanced in passing at the front of the picturesque bar where it was said O. Henry spent many brooding hours, and he thought, “Son, you and me both.” And a moment later, as they came into 14th Street facing Luchow’s, his thoughts went back to the moronic editor.
“Should have told him: ‘And had I known any Apemen, bub, they would have been the progeny of Apemen and not of English peers, me being the type of ungrateful, unpatriotic, bitter-minded, sordid-souled, pessimistic son of a bitch who can only think of Apemen as half ape and half men.’ Which will never do at all, son… never do at all !” he said the last aloud without realizing it, and Kriss gave him an irritated look.
“What?”
He looked at her perplexed. “What what?”
“You said, ‘never do at all!’ What will never do at all?”
“Oh!” He threw her a look and told the first lie that came to mind, “I was thinking of the way you said I acted at Don’s. I must have been really sick.”
“Jesse! If you ever get that drunk again I’ll never speak to you as long as I live,” she threatened in a tight furious voice. “I swear it!”
She was in a blind rage with herself for seeing him again even now, for her sexual need of him. If she could sleep with him and immediately afterward have him beheaded, then she could enjoy his company. But now he would sleep with her and go away feeling good because he had slept with a white woman, and she might not see him again until he wanted another one. “Niggers! Niggers! Niggers!” she thought in her blind rage.
“Don’t worry, baby, I won’t,” he muttered, impotently furious at being forced to repeat a vow he’d already made out of genuine shame.
She noticed a woman walking a poodle along Union Square. “At least they’re better than dogs,” she thought with such an overwhelming surge of venomous glee that her rage abated and she turned toward him, smiling maliciously, wishing he could read her mind.
But he didn’t notice. Now as the taxi turned south on Seventh Avenue, from delayed reaction, he suddenly thought of Luchow’s . “That’s where I should have taken her.” And he wondered why he had chosen Nick’s . “Association of ideas, no doubt,” he thought, and then, “Damn son, what goes on in your brain!”
His last visit to Nick’s had been tragic. That had also been in that period following his visit to Skiddoo. He’d taken his wife to a dinner at Paul’s—one of the other writers who’d been to Skiddoo—one hot July Sunday afternoon; or rather to a dinner in the Greenwich Village flat of the little tramp, Kathy, whom Paul had lived with—and off, too—that summer.
Roy had come too, bringing a very dignified and respectable looking woman whom he had introduced as Estelle. She had looked as out of place as Becky in that dirty two-room flat.
Paul had been well along the way when they arrived, receiving them dressed in a spotty tee-shirt that looked
“What did I say to you?”
“I won’t repeat what you said. I’ve never had anyone in all my life say the nasty things to me that you did. If I’d been a man I would have hit you in the face.” He shook his head. “I was sick. That summer I was really sick.” And to himself, “Sicker than you thought, son.”
“I don’t want to ever see you like that again.”
“I’ve gotten over it. I’ve made a separate peace. I mean it.”
She stood up. “We’d better go; it’s getting late.”
“Do you have any place in mind?”
“Oh, anywhere we can get served quickly. I don’t feel up to a lot of bother.”
“How about Nick’s?”
“That’s all right. We can have steaks.”
They were tense and silent in the taxi as it skirted the quiet darkness of Gramercy Park, past the old stone mansions with their brass knockers and foot-scrapers and shining carriage lamps, and turned south on Irving Place. He glanced in passing at the front of the picturesque bar where it was said O. Henry spent many brooding hours, and he thought, “Son, you and me both.” And a moment later, as they came into 14th Street facing Luchow’s, his thoughts went back to the moronic editor.
“Should have told him: ‘And had I known any Apemen, bub, they would have been the progeny of Apemen and not of English peers, me being the type of ungrateful, unpatriotic, bitter-minded, sordid-souled, pessimistic son of a bitch who can only think of Apemen as half ape and half men.’ Which will never do at all, son… never do at all !” he said the last aloud without realizing it, and Kriss gave him an irritated look.
“What?”
He looked at her perplexed. “What what?”
“You said, ‘never do at all!’ What will never do at all?”
“Oh!” He threw her a look and told the first lie that came to mind, “I was thinking of the way you said I acted at Don’s. I must have been really sick.”
“Jesse! If you ever get that drunk again I’ll never speak to you as long as I live,” she threatened in a tight furious voice. “I swear it!”
She was in a blind rage with herself for seeing him again even now, for her sexual need of him. If she could sleep with him and immediately afterward have him beheaded, then she could enjoy his company. But now he would sleep with her and go away feeling good because he had slept with a white woman, and she might not see him again until he wanted another one. “Niggers! Niggers! Niggers!” she thought in her blind rage.
“Don’t worry, baby, I won’t,” he muttered, impotently furious at being forced to repeat a vow he’d already made out of genuine shame.
She noticed a woman walking a poodle along Union Square. “At least they’re better than dogs,” she thought with such an overwhelming surge of venomous glee that her rage abated and she turned toward him, smiling maliciously, wishing he could read her mind.
But he didn’t notice. Now as the taxi turned south on Seventh Avenue, from delayed reaction, he suddenly thought of Luchow’s . “That’s where I should have taken her.” And he wondered why he had chosen Nick’s . “Association of ideas, no doubt,” he thought, and then, “Damn son, what goes on in your brain!”
His last visit to Nick’s had been tragic. That had also been in that period following his visit to Skiddoo. He’d taken his wife to a dinner at Paul’s—one of the other writers who’d been to Skiddoo—one hot July Sunday afternoon; or rather to a dinner in the Greenwich Village flat of the little tramp, Kathy, whom Paul had lived with—and off, too—that summer.
Roy had come too, bringing a very dignified and respectable looking woman whom he had introduced as Estelle. She had looked as out of place as Becky in that dirty two-room flat.
Paul had been well along the way when they arrived, receiving them dressed in a spotty tee-shirt that looked
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