to get a shish kebab. I felt a little better. Bob never came back, but I managed to get a drink by myself. I held onto it for dear life. I walked over to where people were dancing. I spotted this girl-not too pretty but a great bod. She was writhing to the sounds of a saxophone, wearing tight pants. You could see that she had nothing on underneath. Same for her top, a T-shirt, with breasts pushing through. You could watch her dance for a long time without getting bored-she was like a little cyclone. I squinted my eyes and took my first sip. I had taken only one, when the sax started cooking. The girl switched into high gear, flinging her arms and legs every which way. I was not far behind, no sir-I stood right in her trajectory. Her arm swung back. My drink went all over my face, the glass smashing into my teeth.
“Christ!” I groaned.
I felt the liquid slide down my chest, dripping from my hair. I held my empty glass in one hand and wiped my face with the other. The girl put her hand over her mouth:
“Oh gosh, did I do that?”
“No,” I said. “I threw my drink in my own face just to see what would happen.”
The girl was nice. She sat me down in a corner and ran off to get some napkins. This latest cruel twist of fate laid me low once more. I waited for her to come back, my head hanging. There are no limits, however, to endurable pain-I no longer felt anything. Nobody paid any attention to me.
She showed up with a roll of paper towels and I let her do her thing. When she stood in front of me to dry my hair, my entire field of vision became her pants. Without closing my eyes it was difficult to look anywhere else but between her legs-the bulges, the creases; her pants were at most one millimeter thick. I thought of sun-ripened fruit-a sliced orange, easily separated with one finger. It was quite a show, but I managed to contain myself. One girl was plenty for me. Be content to watch them dance, I told myself. Don’t stop in front of store windows where there’s a line waiting to get in.
I left the girl and went up to the apartment. I told myself that with a little luck I’d find myself a quiet place where I could finally have a drink in peace. Alcohol is not the answer any more than anything else, but it does let you catch your breath-avoid blowing your fuses. It’s life that makes you crazy, not booze. There were so many people upstairs that I almost ran back down, but what good would that have done? There was a large group in front of the television, arguing about whether to tune in the tennis finals or the landing of the first solo transatlantic flight. Just as it was being put to a vote, I spied a bottle. Without thinking, I went and picked it up. The result of the poll was five to live, with some abstentions. In the relative silence I poured myself a drink. Then this guy with an exaggerated smile got up and came over to me. He had one lock of hair over his eye and nothing on the sides. I held my glass behind my back. He grabbed me around the neck as if we’d known each other for a long time. I don’t like people touching me. I stiffened.
“Hey, man,” he said. “As you can see, we have a little problem here, and I think everyone agrees that you’re the one to set things straight.”
I put my head down to slide out from under his elbow. He pushed his hair back.
“Okay, man,” he said. “Go ahead… we’re all ears…”
They awaited my words with bated breath, as if what I had to say could save mankind. I didn’t have the heart to make them wait too long.
“Personally, I came up here to watch the Jimmy Cagney movie,” I said.
I disappeared with my drink before I could see their reaction. One mustn’t tarry when rejected from all sides at once-one must look straight ahead and continue one’s journey alone. I found myself in the kitchen. There was another big group sitting around the table, deep in conversation. Betty was among them. She saw me and reached out her arm.
“There he is!” she said. “Now that’s what I call a writer-one of only a handful alive today…”
I was swift as lightning, sly as a fox, slippery as an eel or a bar of olive-oil soap.
“Don’t move,” I said. “I’ll be right back…”
By the time they had stood to shower me with accolades, I was already back in the yard. I did not bask in the spotlight. I kept away from the windows. I had spilled most of my drink along the way. I had only enough left to wet my whistle. My writer’s ass was safe. This wasn’t saying much. I thought it was time to throw in the towel. The night was no longer young. I felt like I was stuck in some train station with all the ticket windows closed.
While no one was looking, I backed up to the bow of the ship, straddled the rail, and slid silently into the bottom of a lifeboat. I snipped the rope with one hand and, before the news had spread through the house, melted away into the night.
Back at the apartment, I was greeted with a delicious silence. I sat down in the kitchen and stayed there in the dark. There was a bluish glow coming through the window. I kicked open the refrigerator door, and a square of light spilled onto my lap. I laughed for a second, then got myself a beer. If
22
The little cable car whined as if it were at the limits of its strength, its cabin swinging to and fro in the breeze, two yards off the ground. The only other people in the car were an old couple, so there was lots of room. Still, Betty squeezed herself against me.
“Oh God, oh God… I’m scared…” she said.
I was not exactly at ease myself, but I told her, You must be kidding-this fucking cable car isn’t about to snap TODAY! Millions of people have ridden in it safely. Maybe it’ll crash in ten years, maybe five even-a week from now, perhaps-but NOT NOW, NOT JUST LIKE THAT!! In the end, reason won out. I gave Betty a wink.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “It’s a lot safer than riding in a car…”
The old man nodded his head and smiled.
“It’s true,” he said. “There hasn’t been an accident here since the end of the Second World War.”
“That’s what I mean,” said Betty. “We’re overdue…”
“DON’T SAY THAT!!” I roared. “Why don’t you just look at the scenery like everybody else?”
Whi-i-i-ine…
I got out my vitamin C and gave her one. She grimaced. On the bottle it said eight tablets a day. I rounded that out to twelve, which meant one every hour. They weren’t bad, either… orange flavored. I insisted.
“I can’t take it anymore!” she complained. “I’ve had that taste in my mouth for two days now…”
I didn’t give in. I shoved a yellow tablet into her mouth. I had calculated that at bedtime she would swallow the last tablet in the bottle. According to the label, it was just what the doctor ordered. Add to that a few days in the mountains and a balanced diet, and what more could you ask for to put a little color back in her face. I had given my word to Lisa on the day they left. We were saying good-bye. She begged me to see that Betty didn’t get sick. She said she was worried about her.
Whine… whi-i-i-i-i-ine… If you ask me, they purposely didn’t grease the thing. Taking it up, and taking it down, day after day, year after year, over and over-those people probably had cable cars coming out their ears. The maintenance mechanics probably loosened the bolts once in a while to keep from getting bored-a quarter-turn once a month, a whole turn on days when life seemed too hard. I’m all for facing one’s death, but let’s not go overboard.
“They should relieve those guys every two weeks,” I said. “And keep one in the cabin at all times.”
“Who are you talking about?” she asked.
“Those guys who hold life and death in their hands.”
“Hey, look at all the little sheep down there!”
“Shit, where?”
“Don’t you see those little white dots?”
“OH JESUS!”
