Shorter man smiles, is about to take his hand out of his pocket, says “Doubtful as I was at first when I saw you approach that it could actually happen — for I’m usually a keen judge of character and I had you down as odd and troublesome, especially after you walked back a block after your screaming-fag incident, it was a pleasure,” and I say “Thank you, thank you both,” pat his shoulder and pass the corner, policeman still on the phone but now facing the street and nodding to me as he listens, carefully pull the little notebook out of my back pocket, flip through it to make sure nothing of interest’s in it—“‘Free speech,’ the orator said, batting his adversary over the head, ‘and also freedom of action’”…“kasha tonight — make it!!”…“dahlias: 366: 4182”…“pick up ticks to Bunraku by fri and dont let May give any excuses shes not going”…“Parnassus 205 w 89 10024”…“military court of national salvation”…“dovecote”…“Grossingers mocha apricot or praline”…“trichloroethane at hardware stead of regular typewriter cleaner — savings 4–1 Di says”…“tissues, al foil, lemons, limes, Times, cake plates 24 white”…“May’s folks: demitasse set; Mom: subscription to New Yorker”—and rip it apart and drop it into the trashcan and walk uptown.

CHAPTER SIX. Helene

I’m dancing and the band’s too loud and been going on too long and I’m also starting to feel sick, so I say “Really, I’m getting dizzy, mind if we stop?” and the man I’m dancing with, I don’t know his name, he told me it and I forgot, his name’s Allan or Aaron or some name with an A and I think an an or on at the end of it, well Adman I’ll call him just for the heck of it, since he said he was one or was that the last man I danced with, says “Anything you say, Miss Helene — just a-kiddin; too many old movies. But what is it? You’re not feeling too good?” We’ve stopped. People dance around us in twos, threes and groups plus a few snapping their fingers and with their eyes shut doing entranced oohing solos. “Too much champagne — Watch out for the whirling whale on your left — we’ll get rolled over. I always drink too much at these damn affairs. Not damn. It’s a nice affair and not Dorothy and Sven’s fault I don’t know how to drink. One glass, that should have done it, while I must have had three, maybe four. And this music. Excuse me, but you don’t think it’s God’s gift to modern ears, do you? Ears, Ears,” when he looks at me as if he didn’t hear, “because that’s exactly what it gives you, hearing problems. I find it too loud, fast, for children — give me Piranesi — Palestrina, if not to dance then just to listen and sing to. But I used to be able to dance furiously to this — liked it better then too. Eons ago, but now — I hated to be Miss Killjoy but if I had danced another few steps, and God forbid another big swirl, I would have thrown up.”

“Please, no excuses necessary. I’m in fact gratified,” bowing, “knowing the physical effect it would’ve had on you, since I am wearing my new party shoes and only renting this — but why am I being so gross?” He takes my upper arm, holds out his other hand and says to the dancers he parts us through “Pardon, scus-e moi, happy man, hapless damoiselle,” and we walk back to the dais where I have a seat next to Dorothy’s. Pleasant man, clever enough tongue, but so unattractive. And what an awful affair. From the bagel tree to the champagne fountain. How could she have let her mother throw it? Reminder if I ever marry again: take the ladder route, toots, even if I am eight flights up, then to relent to those insurmountable — unsurmountable? — whatever it amounts to — parental forces. “Thank you very kindly, Mr. — I’m sorry, my champagne head, and last names.”

“Arthur Rosenthal.”

“Arthur, right. With an A.”

“Vut den? The only way.”

“No, it’s just — Oh, out with it, girl — no more dissembling. Do you know who Satchel Paige was?”

“From what I read, still is. A great old baseball pitcher.”

“Well I had a friend who loved to repeat—”

“A male friend?”

“Yes, a man. Loved to repeat what Satchel Paige said about lying. He said, Paige did — oh God, what did he say? His mother — Something about if you’re going to lie — I wish my friend was around, but only to feed me the line. Anyway, I knew your first name started with A and while we were dancing I raked my brain to remember it. But the champagne again. Out goes memory, in goes whatever goes in. A headache tomorrow. But, don’t know how I would have made it back here without you, so thanks — Arthur? Artie? Art?”

“I prefer Arthur. Mind if I sit with you? Till Dorothy gets back?”

“Where is Dorothy? There she is. Hi, Dots. Great party. Dance it away, me lady.”