“Please, let's not talk about him. I liked your pictures for the perfume article.”
Burges held up his palm and scratched his little beard on it. “I don't know if that's a compliment or an insult. Pose a doll-faced model against a white screen, without having to consider composition, or getting any character into the shot—for the model has the intellect of a backward moron. Really, Ruth, a child with a Brownie could do as well. Still, to be trite...”
“I know, it's a living,” Ruth cut in as the waiter brought the food. They were both hungry and for a few minutes ate in silence, Ruth forcing herself to stay with only one bread-stick. Over coffee, she lit two cigarettes, handed Burges one. “Are we going to take in the Steichen exhibit at the Modem Arts tonight?”
“I've seen enough photographs for one day.”
“Jose Limon is dancing at...”
“Honey, the ballet bores me. I have something else in mind for us this evening.”
“What?”
“Well, I've actually cleaned up my studio for the occasion. I think it's about time we went to bed,” Burges said, enjoying the slight, quick shock on her face.
Ruth's reaction was a combination thrill and slight feeling of fear. Although she had been expecting this from Burgie, even a bit disappointed he hadn't propositioned her sooner, she wasn't certain what her answer would be. Outside of one bungled attempt at sex in college, prompted mostly by curiosity, Ruth hadn't slept with any man except Walt. But she'd given it much thought, sometime wondering if sleeping around might mature her as a writer. It was like the time someone suggested she smoke a stick of “tea” for kicks. Ruth had wanted to but was afraid.
Now Burges blew a cloud of smoke at her and grinned. “Well, well, has anybody seen my sophisticated Ruth, the dirty joke queen? You're reacting like Sal-from-Carrot-Cross-roads.”
“I'm merely thinking it over. Or did you expect me to jump to attention with sheer joy? It was an abrupt offer.”
“Nonsense, we're not kids. We've been seeing a good deal of each other, and it's time we tried it in the hay. Simple as that, really.”
“Really?” Ruth mimicked, trying to keep fear and doubt from her voice. “Burgie, I don't think you quite understand the type of female I am.”
“But I do, I do the most. You're the type female I want to sleep with. I trust I'm your boy-type.”
“Stop making this sound like a blood test,” Ruth said, lighting a fresh cigarette, to stall for time. “I'm very serious, Burgie. I'm not saying no. The truth is I may want to say yes. But there's one thing about me you first have to understand. I'm a...”
Flynn held up a tobacco-stained hand. “Ruth, stop making with all the talk. And I do understand you—perfectly. My darling, you're a bum. Wait, wait, wait, and get the anger from your eyes. I don't mean a bed tramp, but an intellectual bum. You gas and moan about that great book within you—as you find a million excuses for not writing it. Undoubtedly you're afraid you'll learn you lack the talent. So you play it safe, never try to find if you have it or not. Next year, the year after, ten years from now, you'll be sitting at this same table, or in some other bar, playing the same record, 'If only I had the time to work on my book.' That's pure baloney, Ruthie dearest, and very stale baloney, at that.”
Her face was pale as she said, “Flattery will get you no place. You... !”
Burges reached across the table, squeezed her hand. “Honey, I understand you because we are alike. I'm a bum, too, so I know. We try to crucify ourselves on the cross of talent because we may be strictly no-talent characters. We are flagellants, beating ourselves with the success of others— and enjoying the pain. We...”
“I don't know what you are trying...”
“Come on, Ruthie, you know it's true This is the voice of experience talking. I've told my sad tale in Nice, in Hollywood, over cocktails in Chicago, Greenwich Village, did my song and dance as far south as Mexico City and north in Montreal, the pitiful tale of what an artist I am with the camera, the photo masterpieces and portraits I will shoot— some day. Those snatches of life I will stop and capture with my lens. Honeybunch, it isn't so much can I do it, but will I ever do it. I'm a guy who's been around and around, so I don't kid myself; it's far more comfortable to talk about it, than give it the old college try. Frankly, I've had my chances. In the navy I had the best equipment possible, loads of time. And once I married a wealthy biddy who set me up with everything I needed. As you have your opportunity now. You don't have to work, hide behind your job. You could devote all your time to your writing. Let's put it on the line, honey, we're both phonies, in our own little way. 'Art' will always be a word in quotes to us, the impossible carrot dangling before our noses.”
“Burgie, you have hidden talents! You're wasting your time behind a camera. You should be sitting beside the couch, taking notes. Or maybe on the couch!”
“One thing at a time,” he said, pressing her hand again. “At the moment all I desire to be on is you.”
“Oh, how sweetly you put it!”
“Come on, Ruthie, we're at least above the corny seduction lies and drinks. You're a hell of an attractive woman. I want you. That's my story; what's yours?”
“Now you sound like a lawyer, asking for a yes or no answer. Since we're being oh-so-frank, there's one thing you don't know about me, wise old owl. If I sleep with you it can't be any one-night stand. I'm a throwback to... something. Are you asking me to leave my husband and live with you?”
Burges took his hands from hers, rested his face on his palms and played with his beard. After staring at Ruth for a long second, he said, “Really, you're beginning to sound like one of my empty-faced models, completely simple.”
“Burgie, I'm not a prissy puritan, I trust. Nor am I a wanton, an easy...”
“Wanton? Oh please! Please! You say live with me, those just words or do you actually mean it?”
“I mean it, of course.”
“But what does 'live with me' mean? Tonight we'll be living together. If we hit it off okay, we might live together tomorrow, the following day, for a year, or until we're ready for Social Security. But even if we set up house tonight and tomorrow turned out to be dull—that would be the end of it for me. Even if we were married, legal, and what-not. In short, no guarantee comes with my bed.”
“Under all those words, how is this different from a one-night stand?”
“I don't know. As I said, if the one night turns out interesting, we keep going. My dear, one of the occupational diseases of our day is trying to stretch something good until it turns sour. In this lousy world I believe in finding happiness where you can. The food was fine here tonight, but that hardly means I'll be eating breakfast and lunch here tomorrow. Don't try to push your luck is my motto.”
“I see. I'll have to think about it.”
“Really, Ruth?”
“Yes, really!”
Flynn motioned for the check. They didn't talk again until they stood outside, when he said, “I'll put you in a cab. When you've thought it over, give me a ring.”