CHAPTER FIVE. The Car

Up. Still that car commotion, but now just a half block off and smaller. I start for it but get just one step.

“Dennis?”

“Yes, uh, excuse me?”

“Dennis? It is Dennis. Dennis, it’s Harold. How are you?”

“I’m sorry, you have to have the wrong number. Person.”

“Dennis, stop it, I said it’s Harold. Tell me. It’s been — but it actually hasn’t been that long. By the tone of my voice, I’m saying.” Grabs my hand and shakes it. “How the hell are you? Your hand’s cold. Really, I want to know.”

“Listen, it’s possible I might look like this guy—”

“Look like him? What a laugh. You’re more than the spitting image of him. You’ve never in fact looked more like yourself. You look wonderful. But Dennis, you want to forget, go on, forget, forget. I won’t mind. In the past — well I’d be the last to admit you occasionally treated me like that and did I mind? Did I ever say it at least? At least, that much? All right, I minded a little — said it and minded — complained a little you could say — kvetched, but that’s about all I did. You might say I did more, but let’s have a drink and talk about it.”

“Honestly.”

“Honestly what? Or talk about anything but that if that’s what you want. All that’s elapsed. For instance, how you could look even better after so many years. Because when really was the last time? My memory, not good then, is now a has-been.”

“My name…You see, when you said Dennis, because my name’s—”

He laughs, grabs my arm and starts walking me to the street. “Cab,” he shouts. “Taxi.” One stops. I slip my arm out of his. A very beautiful young woman and a man are walking toward us, woman saying “New-Age entrepreneurs. You know who they are?” They’re about even with us. The man stops, shakes his head, takes her hand and kisses it.

“Thirty seconds,” Harold says to the driver. He holds up a finger, crosses it with another. “Sí—you got it — Dennis, you ready?”

“They’re going to turn-around America’s economics and social, political and moral consciousness, or in all the hip states if we’re ever so lucky. New Mexico—”

“If you say so,” he says, putting her hand to his cheek and shutting his eyes.

“If I? It’s not I, and besides, how am I supposed to have an intelligent discourse with all this kissy hand action. Because—” but she suddenly notices us before I can look away and stares briefly at me and then at Harold at length as if she knows him.

“Look, my name’s Daniel,” I say to Harold, glancing over his shoulder at the woman, as he’d seen me staring at her and stepped between us. She turns to the man.

“Anything interesting?” he asks her.

“You know that woman?” I ask Harold.

“Just something,” she says.

“What woman?”

“If you guys don’t—” the cabby says.

“It was the way you were looking at them,” the man says.

“That absolutely beautiful one who just passed with the man,” as they’d resumed walking, his head on top of her shoulder. He turns to them and then back to me.

“He’s quite handsome — maybe more stunning then she. Those incredible lashes. He could easily become an actor.”

“She was staring at you as if she knew you. I’ve seen her someplace. Commercials. Maybe a subway station ad. I don’t have a TV, but I’ve watched them. Or the movies or stage.”

“Could be, Dennis, but she’s certainly not from the stage. I know the stage and she’s not on it. I make a point of seeing all the showcases and plays. As for subways — never touch the stuff.”

“Anyway”—the woman repeatedly looking back as she walked—“my name’s Daniel. Daniel, Dennis — see?”

“Free?” a man says and gets in the cab and it drives away.

“So it’s Daniel now, Dennis. So it always was and will be. So you say you’re not Dennis, Daniel. So you were never Dennis we’ll even say. You want to say that, we will. So, as a matter of fact, there never really was any Dennis. Not in the history of American and English stage design or of mankind. It’s a name I made up out of dewdrops. So what to all that I also say. Cab,” he shouts. “Taxi.” One stops. “Now let’s have that drink. I love the unflappable way your eyes take in everything and your mind makes split-second discriminations about people and things. And you didn’t take a swing at me. Now that more than anything, because what does it say? You didn’t call me this and then that when I’d say by most people’s precepts and norms you could have gotten away with it. You didn’t mime to that divine pair ‘He your friend, for I sure don’t know him.’ You didn’t say to me ‘You’re nutsy, Buster, take a powder.’ Not a raised voice or fist and I more than most you’ll meet appreciate that.”

Cabby rolls down his window and is about to say something.

“One second, friend,” Harold says. To me: “You didn’t and you’re not and the rest of those things. You’re also sympatico.”

“Sure I am.”