line dividing it horizontally a fourth of the way from the top.
“For ten words or less left one whole day, a dollar is all you have to pay; unless you want a message easier to view, then above this line will cost you two.”
Ward remembered Freddie’s advice, that Big John gave rhymsters top billing.
“Big John, I’d like to give your system a whirl, but I’m trying to get a message to a girl. As a business man, you’ll have to face it, the boy’s room wall is no place to place it.”
Big John shook his head. “All the little foxes have deposit boxes. Word gets past the wall in no time at all.”
Ward was reasonably sure no long-haired hedonist would make a deposit in Diana’s box, but young girls whispered secrets to each other. Besides, Diana would be waiting for his message.
“I’ll pay the two for a message with a view.”
The old man handed him the chalk with an admonition as he pocketed Ward’s two dollars. “Write it plain and keep it clean because I erase anything obscene.”
Glancing over the board, Ward mused aloud, “Since humor’s the nitty-gritty of graffiti, it’s easier remembered when it’s witty, but this girl is fond of myth so I’ll make ancient lore the pith.”
“Man, you’ll pass,” Big John blurted in admiration. “That’s classic gas.”
Above the line, someone had out-hustled the hustler with a compound word to cut down the count: “Filmore, I’m becoming dreadfully afraid of Virginia Werewolf. Please, rescuemefromherpad.”
Above the plea for help, Ward lettered boldly, “APHRODITE, DIONYSUS IS HERE AND IS LONGING FOR YOU.”
When Ward returned to the table, Freddie seemed to be in an argument with Margie, for he was saying vehemently, “Dolores, I’m no bagman and I don’t handle dolls. It’s like I’m tired of hearing ‘Up against the wall.’ ”
“What wall?” Ward asked.
“Man,” Freddie said, “I could be rock-hunting in the Mojave and out would come a helicopter, full of pigs and dangling a wall. Next thing I’d hear would be ‘Up against the wall, you black mother-lover!’ ”
Freddie finished the phrase, shouting into silence because the jukebox had suddenly gone dead.
“Glamorgan cometh,” Margie said.
Ward groaned aloud at this delay. He had forgotten the premiere of the Welsh Bard in the United States in his concentration on Dolores.
Margie heard him. As the lights dimmed, she said, “I dig all Glamorgan’s platters. His voice is like touching in a nude sensitivity-encounter group. It’s way out.”
In total darkness, Dolores leaned over and whispered to Ward, “Dionysus, wow.”
Ward was amazed and disconcerted. At this rate of progress, his message should be in Venice West in another five minutes, and Diana might find him before he escaped with Dolores.
But the room was pitch dark, now, and silent with expectancy. Ward found himself tensing forward in the dark, waiting.
Suddenly a lute sounded three clear notes. A pencil-thin spotlight scratched the black and diffused slowly around Glamorgan, seated on a stool on the go-go platform, from which the cage had been lifted. Profile to the audience, hunched forward over his three-stringed lute, he gazed down in awe and wonder at his own instrument.
“Get a load of those eyebrows,” Margie whispered.
Somewhere a girl screamed as Glamorgan turned to his audience, a gentle half-smile on his lips. His hair fell to broad shoulders and curled under a page boy hairdo which framed a wide and rugged face tapering to a delicate, pointed chin. A pink shirt opened to show his marble neck.
Gazing down on his audience, Glamorgan’s eyes glowed with a sweetness—Ward couldn’t think of a better word—and his sensitivity mixed with his massiveness to project the impression of a masculine angel.
Glamorgan spoke.
In lilting Welsh accents, the Bard explained that he had come to “Amerikah” to sing of simple yet enduring things, the touch of hands, butterflies fluttering, of
“For ten words or less left one whole day, a dollar is all you have to pay; unless you want a message easier to view, then above this line will cost you two.”
Ward remembered Freddie’s advice, that Big John gave rhymsters top billing.
“Big John, I’d like to give your system a whirl, but I’m trying to get a message to a girl. As a business man, you’ll have to face it, the boy’s room wall is no place to place it.”
Big John shook his head. “All the little foxes have deposit boxes. Word gets past the wall in no time at all.”
Ward was reasonably sure no long-haired hedonist would make a deposit in Diana’s box, but young girls whispered secrets to each other. Besides, Diana would be waiting for his message.
“I’ll pay the two for a message with a view.”
The old man handed him the chalk with an admonition as he pocketed Ward’s two dollars. “Write it plain and keep it clean because I erase anything obscene.”
Glancing over the board, Ward mused aloud, “Since humor’s the nitty-gritty of graffiti, it’s easier remembered when it’s witty, but this girl is fond of myth so I’ll make ancient lore the pith.”
“Man, you’ll pass,” Big John blurted in admiration. “That’s classic gas.”
Above the line, someone had out-hustled the hustler with a compound word to cut down the count: “Filmore, I’m becoming dreadfully afraid of Virginia Werewolf. Please, rescuemefromherpad.”
Above the plea for help, Ward lettered boldly, “APHRODITE, DIONYSUS IS HERE AND IS LONGING FOR YOU.”
When Ward returned to the table, Freddie seemed to be in an argument with Margie, for he was saying vehemently, “Dolores, I’m no bagman and I don’t handle dolls. It’s like I’m tired of hearing ‘Up against the wall.’ ”
“What wall?” Ward asked.
“Man,” Freddie said, “I could be rock-hunting in the Mojave and out would come a helicopter, full of pigs and dangling a wall. Next thing I’d hear would be ‘Up against the wall, you black mother-lover!’ ”
Freddie finished the phrase, shouting into silence because the jukebox had suddenly gone dead.
“Glamorgan cometh,” Margie said.
Ward groaned aloud at this delay. He had forgotten the premiere of the Welsh Bard in the United States in his concentration on Dolores.
Margie heard him. As the lights dimmed, she said, “I dig all Glamorgan’s platters. His voice is like touching in a nude sensitivity-encounter group. It’s way out.”
In total darkness, Dolores leaned over and whispered to Ward, “Dionysus, wow.”
Ward was amazed and disconcerted. At this rate of progress, his message should be in Venice West in another five minutes, and Diana might find him before he escaped with Dolores.
But the room was pitch dark, now, and silent with expectancy. Ward found himself tensing forward in the dark, waiting.
Suddenly a lute sounded three clear notes. A pencil-thin spotlight scratched the black and diffused slowly around Glamorgan, seated on a stool on the go-go platform, from which the cage had been lifted. Profile to the audience, hunched forward over his three-stringed lute, he gazed down in awe and wonder at his own instrument.
“Get a load of those eyebrows,” Margie whispered.
Somewhere a girl screamed as Glamorgan turned to his audience, a gentle half-smile on his lips. His hair fell to broad shoulders and curled under a page boy hairdo which framed a wide and rugged face tapering to a delicate, pointed chin. A pink shirt opened to show his marble neck.
Gazing down on his audience, Glamorgan’s eyes glowed with a sweetness—Ward couldn’t think of a better word—and his sensitivity mixed with his massiveness to project the impression of a masculine angel.
Glamorgan spoke.
In lilting Welsh accents, the Bard explained that he had come to “Amerikah” to sing of simple yet enduring things, the touch of hands, butterflies fluttering, of
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