“Sure,” I said. “Sure — you told me.” I turned around and walked back to the room.
But I didn’t feel like writing. I got as far as the pint bottle in the desk, got the seal off and was ready to twist the cap with my fingers when I realized that I had to write, that I had to get started then and there or chuck the whole thing and head for the Bowery.
I opened the ream of typewriter paper and set it on one side of the typewriter. I put a stack of copy paper on the other side and I stuck a sheet of paper in the machine. I didn’t have the slightest idea what I was going to write, but I had to get words on paper. Once you get words on paper, once the opening sentence is written you have a start. You can find a plot and characters from there. If you’re going good, the rest of the book will work itself out.
I put the paper in the machine and typed at the top:
Then I left space for the title and tried to write the first word. And the damnedest thing happened.
I couldn’t think of a word.
That’s how blocked up I was, how knotted up inside. I couldn’t think of a goddamned word!
So I wrote:
I sat there looking at it and no word followed it. I ripped the sheet out of the typewriter and put another one in and typed the same four-lined head and solemnly wrote:
Again I looked at it and again nothing happened. So I pulled the damned sheet out and crumpled it up into a ball and flipped it in the vague direction of the waste-basket and went through the same ridiculous routine with two more sheets of paper.
On the fifth sheet I typed:
And I looked at it.
And I added:
And then I reached for the rye.
It was close to midnight when I woke up with my head in a sling again and the familiar purple fuzz between my scalp and my skull. It was almost a welcome sensation — like going home, or having burnt toast and cold coffee or that sort of thing.
But I felt like hell. Not just the hangover — that was bad enough, but the knowledge that I got drunk without writing the first word of the novel was a bit worse. I wanted Marcia, wanted her near me even if I didn’t get to touch her all night. It was crazy, the way I was wanting her. She was just another little piece, just a girl I didn’t know from a hole in the wall who crawled into my bed one night and made me happy.
But I wanted her.
Tomorrow, I thought. Later for you, Marcia. There was still time to start the book, still time to get something written. First of all I had to start feeling human again.
Fortunately there was enough rye in the bottle to unhang the hangover. Next came a bath — I stripped down and wrapped myself up in my one towel and headed for the john.
When I opened the door there was a stark naked blonde in the shower singing Roll Me Over at the top of her lungs. And it wasn’t the hangover — so help me.
Chapter Four
I honestly don’t remember how I got back to my room. I wound up sitting on my bed with the towel modestly covering me and my head in my hands. My fingers were gently massaging my temples and my mind seemed more numb than usual, hangover or no.
Yes, a stark naked blonde in the bathtub.
Yes, singing Roll Me Over. Yes, it goes Roll me over, In the clover, Roll me over, lay me down and do it again.
Yes, I would have loved to.
But don’t ask me how I got from the bathroom to my own room, because that is something I do not remember and probably never will remember. It happened, thank God. It happened, but I was too deeply immersed in a state of shock to take note of the process.
At this point I was ready to give up the idea of writing the novel that night, or for that matter of ever writing a novel or a story or anything for the rest of my life. I was wishing for another pint of rye, or even a pint of Sneaky Pete, or even a good slug of wood alcohol.
Then the door opened and the blonde came in. This time she was wearing a bathrobe, and I grabbed instinctively for the towel and tried to cover myself with it from head to toe.
“That’s not particularly fair,” she said. “After all, you saw just about all there is to see of me and I didn’t even get a peek of you.”
“I... I’m sorry,” I started to stammer. “I mean, I... the door wasn’t locked and I just walked in and...”
“Did you like my singing?” she interrupted.
“Why...”
“I sing best in the shower,” she said. “Maybe everybody sings best in the shower. That’s what they say. It’s the resonance or something, with the water pouring down on you and all. Whenever I take a shower with somebody they sound good too, so I guess that must be it. But did you like my singing?”
“Look,” I said. “I mean...”
“I’ll admit it’s not an especially good tune,” she went on lazily. “The words are trite and the melody lacks harmonic complexity, but I thought you might like it. It isn’t every day...”
“I’m sorry,” I broke in. “If I had known you were in there— I mean, how was I to— The door was open and I—”
“Walked in,” she finished for me. “Of course you did. Did I blame you? Goodness, I didn’t mean to blame you. By the way, don’t you ever finish a sentence?”
“Sometimes,” I said. “I mean— What do you—”
“I guess you don’t,” she said. “That’s too bad. What on earth do you do for a living?”
“I— Well—”
“Come on,” she said, shaking her head provocatively. Her hair was long and swung like a pendulum with the motion. “Let me guess — you’re a stuttering comedian?”
“I— Look—” It was getting silly.
“A radio announcer?”
“I’m a writer,” I finally managed to say. It sounded soridiculous that I wasn’t surprised when she started laughing.
It was a good laugh, a laugh damned few women have. It was a head-back-and-shoulders-shaking kind of laugh, a throaty, hearty laugh that a person can enjoy laughing.
While she laughed I could see her big breasts moving within her bathrobe. That might have had something to do with my appreciation of the laugh.
“Okay,” she said. “Okay, you’re a writer and I believe you and you don’t have to explain it. If you weren’t a writer you never would have said it, not the way I had you all balled up. You were all balled up, you know. Confused, bewildered, like that. I like to ball men up.”
I said, “I’ll bet you do.” It wasn’t an especially brilliant remark. But then I wasn’t feeling particularly brilliant at the moment.
“I do,” she said. “It’s fun. It’s not that I don’t like men. I love them, sometimes. But they’re so funny when they’re confused.”
“I’ll bet they are,” I said. Honestly, I was actually talking like that. If I wrote dialogue like that in a book I’d throw the typewriter out of the window, but I was honest-to-God saying those stupid words.
She took a step back and looked at me for a long moment without saying anything. “Goodness,” she said at last, “you’re rather good-looking. I noticed that when you walked into the bathroom, sort of. But I wasn’t sure. It’s not easy to be sure under conditions like that. But you are good-looking, don’t you think?”
I shrugged and struggled to keep the towel in place.
“Big,” she said positively. “I like big men. Muscles and bones and all that. And I like black hair that goes every which way, I really do. How did you break your nose?”