At the Oceana Apartments, he writes gags that will never be performed because Babe is gone. But with each gag that he writes he hears Babe’s voice, and smells Babe’s cologne, and watches Babe’s movements. In the silence of his living room, he stands before the window, practicing the steps, blocking the scenes, testing the lines.
And Babe is his echo.
He has stopped smoking. For decades he chain-smokes three packs a day, mostly Chesterfields, sometimes Pall Malls, until his fingers turn ochre. One day he wakes up and can smoke no longer, does not even feel the urge. He cannot comprehend it. His only concern is that he has long associated the act of writing with holding a cigarette in his hand. He worries that the compulsion to smoke may be linked to the compulsion to write, and without one the other may cease.
But he continues writing.
Get the door, Babe’s voice says.
He leaves the room, and returns carrying a door.
Babe’s shadow ripples its approval.
Yes, says Babe’s voice.
Yes.