“I remember once in Italy,” David said, “when it snowed in church in the middle of July.”
“Really?” Sandy said. “When was that?”
“The fourteenth century. I don’t remember it personally, of course, I was just a child at the time. But my mother recalled the incident to me. The whole family got caught in the snow, and I ruined my best rompers.”
“It snowed right inside the church?” Sandy said.
“That’s what happened.”
“What church was that?”
“Santa Maria Cosa Nostra,” David said.
“Did it snow hard?”
“Soft,” David said. “Ordinary soft snow. Your regular garden variety snow.”
“These two guys kill me,” Foderman said. “I never know what they’re talking about.”
Mary Margaret waited and said nothing. From downstairs, in the larger lounge, we heard Max and his cronies beginning their nightly musical onslaught. Sandy, impatient to get this over with, anxious to know whether what had shown on Mary Margaret’s face was truly recognition or merely something like anger or petulance, turned to her and said, “Do you speak Italian, Mary Margaret?”
“Nope,” Mary Margaret said, and abruptly stood up. “Anybody feel like dancing?” she asked. “Seymour?”
“Why, yes, I think I’d like to,” Foderman replied.
“See you,” Mary Margaret said, and smiled briefly, and led Foderman out of the room.
I wasn’t quite sure what had happened. We sat in silence, listening to the music from downstairs. Sandy was frowning. I had the feeling we’d been snubbed.
“Well, what do you want to do now?” David asked.
“Let’s get out of here,” Sandy said.
The Tiger Pit was one of the valley’s discotheques, a sawdust saloon serving booze, beer, hamburgers and home fries. We came out of the howling snowstorm into the howling amplification of a four-piece rock group blasting at a mass of humanity packed elbows-to-but-tocks. There was the smell of steamy garments, a huge open hearth blazing, a sign over the inner front door that read “No tiger in The Tiger Pit is hungrier than I” — a bastardization that undoubtedly caused old T. S. to revolve in his grave. The sound of the rock group was only slightly louder than the sound of the drinkers and dancers who, judging from the buttons on sweaters, parkas, and shirts, were all the Snowclad people in the world, assembled here to get Semanee and to get drunk besides. One crowd in particular stood out from the otherwise anonymous milling mass by virtue of its garb and its sheer decibel power. Lined up along the bar, singing and yelling a song that had nothing whatever to do with what the rock group was attempting to play, the men and women were dressed in male-female versions of the same basic uniform. The men were wearing green turtlenecks and ski pants, over which they had pulled on bright red swimming trunks. On the seat of each pair of trunks were the words “Merry Xmas” stitched in green. The women wore tight-fitting green leotards, right breast stitched in red with “Merry,” left breast stitched with “Xmas.” All, men and women alike, had bright Kelly-green plastic derbies on their heads. The song they were bellowing sounded like “God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen.” The “Get Semanee!” button was everywhere in evidence, pinned to trunks, belts, turtleneck collars, leotard tops, even — in the case of a delicious blond girl — one buttock of her ripe little ass.
My initial inclination was to get out of there fast. If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s an “In” group, especially when I’m out of it. But Sandy spotted an empty table, immediately pushed through the crowd (David and I following, numbed by the sound), took off her parka as she bullied her way across the room, and grabbed the table an instant before a couple of starry-eyed teeny-boppers reached it. Tossing her parka onto one of the chairs, she sidled in behind the table with her back to the wall, smiled pleasantly at the two fifteen-year-olds, and then signaled for the waiter. David and I sat. The two little girls looked startled and indignant.
“Yes?” Sandy said.
“That was our table,” one of the girls said.
“You’re too young to drink,” Sandy said flatly.
“We have I.D. cards,” the other girl protested.
The waiter arrived at the table together with one of the Green Derbies, who had apparently spotted Sandy from the bar, and was wasting no time establishing a beachhead. He was a very large person. From where I was sitting, I estimated his height at six feet two inches and his weight at two hundred and forty. It was almost as though a sequoia had grown suddenly out of the sawdust. I have always wanted to be able to face another man and have him realize in an instant that he had better not start up with me unless he is feeling suicidal. The Green Derby standing by the table communicated this message at once. His sheer bulk was menacing, even though he was quite pleasant-looking, with a square, clean-shaven face and blond ringlets spilling from under the plastic derby, which he now removed from his head and held at his waist as he bowed formally and politely to the table. The teeny-boppers were still standing by, deciding whether or not to wet their pants. The waiter held pad and pencil at the ready. We were all anticipating the big fellow’s speech. I was half-hoping a high-pitched squeak would come from his mouth. Grinning, slightly drunk, entirely ludicrous in his muscle-bulging turtleneck, red swimming trunks and green ski pants, he said in a Western drawl, “My name’s Bryan. Wanna dance?”
“Not right now, thanks,” Sandy said. “I’d like a beer,” she said to the waiter.
“They took our table,” one of the little girls said, pleading to Bryan as a higher authority, probably because he was the biggest grown-up around.
“Too bad,” Bryan said. “Whyn’t you go home and watch Sesame Street?” He pulled out the fourth chair, and sat opposite David. I was sitting across from Sandy, and the two little girls were still standing at my elbow.
“They took our table,” one of them said to the waiter.
“I’ve got one beer,” the waiter said impatiently.
“Make it three,” I said.
“Make it four,” Bryan said.
“I’m going to tell the manager,” the girl said.
“Go tell him,” Sandy replied.
“Okay if I join you?” Bryan asked.
“You already have,” Sandy said, and smiled.
“Big shots,” the girl said, and she and her friend flounced away from the table.
“I didn’t get your name,” Bryan said.
“Sandy.”
“Nice to meet you, Sandy. You’re a beautiful girl.”
“I’m Peter,” I said.
“I’m David,” David said.
Bryan greeted this unsolicited and volunteered information without much cheering or clapping. He leaned over the table, turned his back to me and his profile to David and addressed his next question (as he had his last) directly to Sandy, excluding both of us as effectively as if he’d built a wall of solid muscle.
“You staying here in the valley?” he asked her.
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“At the Lodge,” David said.
Bryan glanced at him briefly, and then turned back to Sandy. “Where?” he said again.
“At the Lodge,” Sandy said.
“Must be an echo in this place,” David said, and Bryan glanced at him again, and again turned away.
“Where are you from?” he asked Sandy.
“New York,” I answered.
“New York,” David said.
“And you?” Sandy asked.
“Arizona,” Bryan said.
“Nice down there in Arizona,” David said.