speak a dozen words, but they were life-changers. Life- savers.
The first five (that’s me, sitting on the edge of the bed): Yow, call in sick, y’all! The next seven (that’s me, plodding toward the shower and scratching my left buttock as I
go): Yow, spend the day in Central Park! There was no premonition involved. It was
clearly Mr. Yow, Git Down, not the voice of God. It was just a version of my very
own voice (as they all are), in other words, telling me to play hooky. Do a little suffin
fo’ yo’self, Gre’t God! The last time I could recall hearing this version of my voice,
the subject had been a karaoke contest at a bar on Amsterdam Avenue: Yow, sing
along wit’ Neil Diamond, fool— git up on stage and git ya bad self down!
“I guess I know what you mean,” she said, smiling a little.
“Do you?”
“Well…I once took off my shirt in a Key West bar and won ten dollars dancing to
‘Honky Tonk Women.’” She paused. “Edward doesn’t know, and if you ever tell him,
I’ll be forced to stab you in the eye with one of his tie tacks.”
“Yow, you go, girl,” I said, and her smile became a rather wistful grin. It made her
look younger. I thought this had a chance of working.
We walked into Donald’s. There was a cardboard turkey on the door, cardboard
Pilgrims on the green tile wall above the steam table.
“I listened to Mr. Yow, Git Down and I’m here,” I said. “But some other things are
here, too, and he can’t help with them. They’re things I can’t seem to get rid of. Those
are what I want to talk to you about.”
“Let me repeat that I’m no shrink,” she said, and with more than a trace of uneasiness.
The grin was gone. “I majored in German and minored in European history.”
You and your husband must have a lot to talk about, I thought. What I said out loud
was that it didn’t have to be her, necessarily, just someone.
“All right. Just as long as you know.”
A waiter took our drink orders, decaf for her, regular for me. Once he went away she
asked me what things I was talking about.
“This is one of them.” From my pocket I withdrew the Lucite cube with the steel
penny suspended inside it and put it on the table. Then I told her about the other
things, and to whom they had belonged. Cleve “Besboll been bery-bery good to me”
Farrell. Maureen Hannon, who wore her hair long to her waist as a sign of her
corporate indispensability. Jimmy Eagleton, who had a divine nose for phony accident
claims, a son with learning disabilities, and a Farting Cushion he kept safely tucked away in his desk until the Christmas party rolled around each year. Sonja D’Amico,
Light and Bell’s best accountant, who had gotten the Lolita sunglasses as a bitter
divorce present from her first husband. Bruce “Lord of the Flies” Mason, who would
always stand shirtless in my mind’s eye, blowing his conch on Jones Beach while the
waves rolled up and expired around his bare feet. Last of all, Misha Bryzinski, with
whom I’d gone to at least a dozen Mets games. I told her about putting everything but
Misha’s Punch doll in a trash basket on the corner of Park and 75th, and how they had
beaten me back to my apartment, possibly because I had stopped for a second order of
General Tso’s chicken. During all of this, the Lucite cube stood on the table between
us. We managed to eat at least some of our meal in spite of his stern profile.
When I was finished talking, I felt better than I’d dared to hope. But there was a
silence from her side of the table that felt terribly heavy.
“So,” I said, to break it. “What do you think?”
She took a moment to consider that, and I didn’t blame her. “I think that we’re not the
strangers we were,” she said finally, “and making a new friend is never a bad thing. I