“And just what is this particular luncheon for?” asked the man of his enthusiastic companion, the girl, as they entered a restaurant crowded with people who were holding glasses filled with liquids and ice and standing among tables already set up for dining.
“This is a luncheon for people who have been in a movie,” said the girl. “There is Bruce Dern, there is Robert Mitchum, there is Martin Sheen, there is Paul Sorvino,” she said in one breath and pointing with her chin.
“There is Stacy Keach,” said the man, pointing with a finger.
“There is your finger falling off and lying on the floor,” said the girl. “You mustn’t point.”
“I like the waitresses,” said the man. “They favor bangs and short, blunt-cut hair; dresses above their knees; and boots that fall down to their ankles.”
“Martin Sheen has just beamed at me,” said the girl.
“Martin Sheen has just beamed at that nice woman standing a step or two behind you,” said the man.
“Martin Sheen is not as tall as I had expected, and yet he’s not short enough to be devastatingly appealing,” said the girl.
“I see that we are being asked to sit down now,” said the man.
“There are rolls on the table,” said the girl.
“There are always rolls on the table,” said the man, “and nobody seems to eat them. When I find food just sitting on the top of a table somewhere, I won’t eat it before washing it.”
“Have you spoken to the man who has taken a large amount of his hair from the right side of his head and brushed it all the way over to the left side, only it won’t quite lie still and so as you speak to him you are constantly tempted to put it back as it was originally and at the same time straighten his tie?” asked the girl.
“I have spoken to a man who writes exclusively about tennis and who grew up in Wilkes-Barre,” said the man.
“A woman has mentioned interviewing Robert Mitchum,” said the girl, “and now I see him sitting over there, his lunch untouched in front of him.”
“What are we eating?” asked the man.
“Chicken in lemon sauce with French fries and boiled beans,” said the girl.
“I know, but what are we really eating?” asked the man.
“Bruce Dern takes each of his French fries, butters it thoroughly, and then eats it,” said the girl.
“Bruce Dern has said he is the only man who has killed John Wayne,” said the man.
“From where I am sitting, in my view is Stacy Keach,” said the girl. “I always feel that I should like what is in my view, so I make a great effort to sit facing attractive people.”
“I wish the room were aglow,” said the man. “I wish I had a feeling of expansiveness and fulfillment and delight in small, unimportant things. I cannot finish my chicken.”
“I have noticed,” said the girl, “that whenever people want you to eat a strange sort of animal they immediately tell you that it tastes just like chicken. This chicken that you cannot finish tastes just like chicken.”
—January 17, 1983