“Mind you, I don’t say they’re wrong but, Jesus, we got our livin’s to make.”
“Al’s on the World. They’re pretty liberal down there.”
“Out our way a man can’t open his face without stirrin’ up a hornetsnest,” said Charley, laughing. “They don’t know the war’s over.”
When the dishes were done they went back to the front room. Don Stevens strode up to Charley. “Eveline says you are an aviator,” he said, frowning. “Tell us what aviators think about. Are they for the exploiting class or the workingclass?”
“That’s a pretty big order,” drawled Charley. “Most of the fellers I know are tryin’ to get into the workin’class.”
The doorbell rang. Eveline looked up smiling. “That’s probably Charles Edward Holden,” said Al. Paul opened the door. “Hello, Dick,” said Eveline. “Everybody thought you were Charles Edward Holden.”
“Well, maybe I am,” said a nattilydressed young man with slightly-bulging blue eyes who appeared in the doorway. “I’ve been feeling a little odd all day.”
Eveline introduced the new guy by his military handle: “Captain Savage, Lieutenant Anderson.” “Humph,” said Stevens in the back of the room. Charley noticed that Stevens and the young man who had just come in stared at each other without speaking. It was all getting very confusing. Eveline and the bobbedhaired girl began to make polite remarks to each other in chilly voices. Charley guessed it was about time for him to butt out. “I’ve got to alley along, Mrs. Johnson,” he said.
“Say, Anderson, wait for me a minute. I’ll walk along the street with you,” Al Johnson called across the room at him.
Charley suddenly found himself looking right in Eveline’s eyes. “I sure enjoyed it,” he said. “Come in to tea some afternoon,” she said. “All right, I’ll do that.” He squeezed her hand hard. While he was saying goodby to the others he heard Captain Savage and Eveline gig gling together. “I just came in to see how the other half lives,” he was saying. “Eveline, you look too beautiful tonight.”
Charley felt good standing on the stoop in the spring evening. The city air had a cool rinsed smell after the rain. He was wondering if she… Well, you never can tell till you try. Al Johnson came out behind him and took his arm. “Say, Paul says you come from out home.”
“Sure,” said Charley. “Don’t you see the hayseed in my ears?”
“Gosh, when Eveline has two or more of her old beaux calling on her at once it’s a bit heavy… And she like to froze that poor little girl of Don’s to death… Say, how about you and me go have a drink of whiskey to take the taste of that damn red ink out of our mouths?”
“That’ud be great,” said Charley.
They walked across Fifth Avenue and down the street until they got to a narrow black door. Al Johnson rang the bell and a man in shirtsleeves let them into a passage that smelt of toilets. They walked through that into a barroom. “Well, that’s more like it,” said Al Johnson. “After all I only have one night off a week.”
“It’s like the good old days that never were,” said Charley.
They sat down at a small round table opposite the bar and ordered rye. Al Johnson suddenly waved his long forefinger across the table. “I remember when it was I met you. It was the day war was declared. We were all drunk as coots down at Little Hungary.” Charley said jeez, he’d met a lot of people that night. “Sure that’s when it was,” said Al Johnson. “I never forget a face,” and he called to the waiter to make it beer chasers.
They had several more ryes with beer chasers on the strength of old times. “Why, New York’s like any other dump,” Charley was saying, “it’s just a village.” “Greenwich Village,” said Al Johnson.
They had a flock of whiskeys on the strength of the good old times they’d had at Little Hungary. They didn’t like it at the table any more so they stood up at the bar. There were two pallid young men at the bar and a plump girl with stringy hair in a Bulgarian embroidered blouse. They were old friends of Al Johnson’s. “An old newspaperman,” Al Johnson was saying, “never forgets faces… or names.” He turned to Charley. “Colonel, meet my very dear friends… Colonel… er…” Charley had put out his hand and was just about to say Anderson when Al Johnson came out with “Charles Edward Holden, meet my artistical friends…”
Charley never got a chance to put a word in. The two young men started to explain the play they’d been to at the Washington Square Players. The girl had a turnedup nose and blue eyes with dark rings under them. The eyes looked up at him effusively while she shook his hand. “Not really… Oh, I’ve so wanted to meet you, Mr. Holden. I read all your articles.” “But I’m not really…” started Charley. “Not really a colonel,” said the girl. “Just a colonel for a night,” said Al with a wave of his hand and ordered some more whiskies.
“Oh, Mr. Holden,” said the girl, who put her whiskey away like a trooper, “isn’t it wonderful that we should meet like this?… I thought you were much older and not so good-looking. Now, Mr. Holden, I want you to tell me all about everything.”
“Better call me Charley.”
“My name’s Bobbie… you call me Bobbie, won’t you?” “Check,” said Charley. She drew him away down the bar a little. “I was having a rotten time… They are dear boys, but they won’t talk about anything except how Philip drank iodine because Edward didn’t love him any more. I hate personalities, don’t you? I like to talk, don’t you? Oh, I hate people who don’t do things. I mean books and world conditions and things like that, don’t you?” “Sure,” said Charley.
They found themselves at the end of the bar. Al Johnson seemed to have found a number of other very dear friends to celebrate old times with. The girl plucked at Charley’s sleeve: “Suppose we go somewhere quiet and talk. I can’t hear myself think in here.” “Do you know someplace we can dance?” asked Charley. The girl nodded.
On the street she took his arm. The wind had gone into the north, cold and gusty. “Let’s skip,” said the girl, “or are you too dignified, Mr. Holden?” “Better call me Charley.” They walked east and down a street full of tenements and crowded little Italian stores. The girl rang at a basement door. While they were waiting she put her hand on his arm. “I got some money… let this be my party.” “But I wouldn’t like that.” “All right, we’ll make it fifty-fifty. I believe in sexual equality, don’t you?” Charley leaned over and kissed her. “Oh, this is a wonderful evening for me… You are the nicest celebrity I ever met… Most of them are pretty stuffy, don’t you think so? No joie de vivre.” “But,” stammered Charley, “I’m not…”
As he spoke the door opened. “Hello, Jimmy,” said the girl to a slicklooking young man in a brown suit who opened the door. “Meet the boyfriend… Mr. Grady… Mr. Holden.” The young man’s eyes flashed. “Not Charles Edward…” The girl nodded her head excitedly so that a big lock of her hair flopped over one eye. “Well, sir, I’m very happy to meet you… I’m a constant reader, sir.”
Bowing and blushing Jimmy found them a table next to the dancefloor in the stuffy little cabaret hot from the spotlights and the cigarettesmoke and the crowded dancers. They ordered more whiskey and welshrabbits. Then she grabbed Charley’s hand and pulled him to his feet. They danced. The girl rubbed close to him till he could feel her little round breasts through the Bulgarian blouse.
“My… the boy can dance,” she whispered. “Let’s forget everything, who we are, the day of the week…”
“Me… I forgot two hours ago,” said Charley, giving her a squeeze.
“You’re just a plain farmerlad and I’m a barefoot girl.”
“More truth than poetry to that,” said Charley through his teeth.