Allen was standing near the curb, waiting with the other people to cross Forty-sixth. He was glad he wore his muffler and he wished he knew where his gloves were. The last cheating taxi whizzed past and the cops’ whistles blew and Allen was ready to move when he got the little punch in the ribs. It wasn’t a hard punch, feeling it, but it must have started as a pretty hard punch to feel as much of it as he did through his overcoat, and without looking he knew who it was all right.
“Hey,” she said, and he looked down and around, and it was Mildred all right. She was grinning.
“Hyuh,” he said.
“Didn’t they get you yet?” she said.
“Didn’t who?” he asked, then, “Oh. No, I’m too smart for them.”
“Yeah, I’ll bet,” she said. Somebody bumped her. “Which way you going, I’ll walk along with you.”
“Just uptown,” he said. “I’m not headed anywhere in particular.”
“Well! Then we could go some place and have a beer or something. I’d like to talk to you.”
They were walking slowly uptown. “What about?”
“What about?” she said. “Anything. Mutual acquaintances. Or maybe you do’ wanna sit and talk and have a drink with me.”
“I do’ wanna sit and have a fight with you,” he said.
“Why do we have to fight? We don’t have to fight if you control your temper and so forth. Let’s go down the street to Eddie Spellman’s.”
“All right,” he said. They turned at Forty-seventh.
“Now don’t do me any favors,” she said. “If you rather not go, say so now but don’t act disagreeable when we get there.”
“They’ll think I’m Victor Mature,” he said.
“Yeah? They will, but I won’t. Oh, you mean polite. Victor Mature isn’t polite. He’s a blabber-mouth.”
“I jist mentioned the first name of an actor that came into my head,” he said.
“Well pick one that’s polite if that’s what you mean. Herbert Marshall. Ronnie Colman. But don’t pick Victor Mature if you’re picking a person for their politeness. My God! Victor Mature polite! Anybody as dumb as you I’m surprised you had the sense enough to wear an overcoat if you’re that dumb. You’d be more typical if you came out in a bathing suit.”
“All right,” he said. They turned in at Spellman’s and went straight back to a booth. A bald-headed Irishman came to them before they had sat down.
“Well, here’s a couple of strangers for you,” he said.
“Hello, Eddie,” they said.
“But don’t go start getting ideas,” said Mildred.
“Now I wasn’t getting no ideas, Mrs. Allen. I only made the statement that it was a pleasure to see a couple of old customers.”
“That’s all right, Eddie,” said Allen. To her: “A rye?”
“No,” she said. “Why do I have to have a rye? Because it’s cheaper? I think I’ll have a Ballantine’s and soda and with some lemon peel in it.”
“I’ll have a rye,” said Allen.
“Right,” said Eddie, and went away.
“That Mick will have us in bed by five o’clock,” said Mildred.
“You never liked him,” said Allen.
“He never liked me, so why should I like him?”
“You’re crazy. Eddie likes everybody,” said Allen.
“All right, he likes everybody, then I don’t want to be everybody and be liked by Mr. Spellman.”
“Well, only—you suggested going here,” said Allen.
“Because I assure you only because I ran into you. I assure you I didn’t give him or his lousy joint a thought since the last time we were here together two years ago, and I never would of given it another thought for another two years if it wasn’t that I ran into you.”
“How are conditions at the 21 and the El Morocco?” said Allen.
“If that was intended for sarcasm it just shows how wrong you are. I was at Elmer’s twice last week if you want some information.”
“Who said anything about Elmer’s?”
“See? That’s how much you and your sarcasm. Elmer’s is what they call the El Morocco.”
“Don’t get me wrong. I believe you go to them places. Once in a while I read the papers.”
“When somebody leaves them on a subway train,” she said.
“When somebody leaves them on a table at the Automat,” he said. A waiter, not Eddie, served their drinks. They drank. She drank about half of hers and looked at him, at his face, his hair, his tie, both shoulders.
“Did I ever sleep with you? I can’t believe it,” she said.
“No, it was two other fellows,” he said. “Or twenty.”
“I’ll hit you right across the mouth with this bag, you talk like that to me. You started it, you with that little bum off the streets from Harrisburg.”
“All right, I apologize. Only I don’t know what you expect me to do. Sit here and take it while you look at me like I was a ghost and then come out with ‘Did I ever sleep with you?’”
“I shouldn’t allow myself to even get mad at you.”
“Then why do you?”
“Oh, it isn’t because I’m still in love with you. Don’t think that, for God’s sake. I don’t even get mad at you. I get mad at myself. My God, seventeen years old . . . Say, I voted.”
“Yeah? Who for?”
“None of your business. I don’t have to tell who I voted for. I didn’t tell—anybody else. A lot of people asked me to vote for certain people because they knew it was my first vote and they all said to get started right, then when 1944 came along I’d know which way.”
“I get it,” he said.
“You get what?”
“It’s easy. The gang I see your name in the paper with, they were all for Dewey.”
“Very clever, aren’t you? Well, I’m not admitting anything, see? Oh, what about you?”
“Who did I vote for? Al Smith. That’s the last person I voted for.”
“I didn’t mean that. I mean, where are you in the draft?”
“Where do you think?” he said, sipping his drink.
“I don’t know. You could put your mother down for a dependent, and are you all right again?”
“Go on,” he said.
“That’s right,” she said. “I guess you’re over age too.”
“I’m surprised I didn’t see you in some Waac uniform or something.”
“Is that a crack?”
“No. You mean a corny crack about wacky? Give me credit for better than that.”
“Well, I never can tell with you,” she said. “Do you think I have time for another drink?”
He laughed. “How should I know?”
“My date,” she said. “Oh, that’s right, I didn’t tell you what time I had the date for.” She looked at the bar clock. “No, I guess not. I’m going to a cocktail party but I have to meet somebody before I go.”
“You’re right up there, aren’t you?” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“Cocktail parties. Elmer’s. All that big stuff.”
“Well, why not?”
“Sure. Why not? You’re young, and you’re a dish.”
“You think so, Harry?”
“I still got eyes,” he said.
“Well, thanks for the compliment,” she said. “I apologize for what I said when we came in. About rye being cheap. You were always all right with money when we had it. It wasn’t money that was your trouble—our trouble.”
“Thanks, kid,” he said. “I guess you better blow now or you’ll be late.”
“Don’t you want me to stay for another? We aren’t fighting now.”
“No, but maybe in two minutes we would be,” he said.
“Maybe you’re right,” she said. She stood up. “Well, I guess I better say goodbye. I’d like to see you sometime, Harry.”
“Why?”
“Didn’t we get along all right just now? We had a little scrap but we ended up all right. Here—” She reached in her purse and tore the back off a pack of matches. “That’s where I live. Give me a call.”
“All right,” he said.
“Don’t forget,” she said. “G’bye.” She smiled and left.
From his corner of the booth Allen called out to Eddie, who came back and stood at the table. “Yes, Harry,” he said.
“Could you let me have a quart?”
Eddie rubbed his hand over his smooth bald head. “I don’t know, Harry. That tab is gettin’ pretty big and you oughtn’ta be drinking so’s it is.” He turned his head, looked in the direction in which the girl had gone, then he looked at his diamond ring. “All right, Harry. I’ll wrap it for you.”
(1972)