A few days after that, I received notice of eviction in the mail. I expected it, it figured, I shrugged. I was still numb from the loss of the book and not feeling any too happy about the apartment along about this time anyhow. Still, Kate persuaded me to contact a lawyer, Mr. Weisscoff, who assured me I would be able to remain in the building another six months at least. He made me promise not to talk to the new landlords or their lawyers, to refer everything to him. He assured me we could eventually expect a cash settlement if I did not panic.
Then, as I was feeling this was the most outrageous, the longest-lasting, record-holding, prize-winning enema of all time—there came a consolation prize.
Two weeks after the second robbery my agent sent me to read for a play, Married Alive, to star the current generation’s answer to Debbie Reynolds, Miss Bebe Peach. I read three times in five days and to my surprise ended up with one of the three leading male roles, that of Tommy. I was to get featured billing, $450 a week, and rehearsals were to start January 2nd.
I knew that eventually I would get around to redoing the book. It would be hard, harder to try to re-create what I’d written than creating it in the first place. It was too soon to launch back into it, but I knew I would.
Kate and I celebrated that Friday night. We painted the town, used up all the primary colors, then stayed in bed almost all weekend. I was extremely virile.