Real food could be had at Luigi’s. Real sizzling steaks, real Italian spaghetti, real homemade pies.
Other restaurants might be in the habit of serving papier-mâché pies and steaks of painted plaster, but not Luigi’s.
When the spaghetti came, it was quite real, but it had unrealistic elements, exotic bits of green and shreds of yellow and hard little lumps that might have been meat. It slid around his mouth like soap with slivers of wood in it.
Viva Italia.
I think I’m getting jaundice. Will you excuse me while I go and relieve my jaundice?
He went to the lavatory. Someone with a careless aim had soaked the floor, and the walls were covered with dirty words, pictures, invitations and condemnations.
“Come to Jesus” had been scrawled over “For a b.f. call Harry, Bellflower 23664.” Harry was an artist, it must have taken him hours to carve his message in the plaster. He wondered if b.f. meant boyfriend, or something earthier.
And where was Harry now? In a V.D. ward, with a case of hemorrhoids? Golden lads and girls all must like chimney sweepers come to dust.
Come to Jesus.
Not a bad idea. Must try it.
He went back to the table. Martha was gone. She had finished her spaghetti and vanished.
She’s gone home, back to Charles.
Charley dear, I’ve been thinking. I don’t like that man Ferris. He takes me to the oddest, places, he knows the oddest people, he’s the oddest fellow. It is all very interesting, of course, to observe how the other half lives, but really, one doesn’t care to live like that oneself, does one?
One does not.
She returned with her nose powdered and fresh lipstick on. She had the relaxed, contented air of a healthy young animal with a full belly.
Healthy. No jaundice, no hives, a big appetite.
He picked up his fork and began to push the sickening mass of spaghetti around his plate. It coiled and uncoiled, it slithered like long, white eels. He couldn’t eat eels. He got quite bitter because certain people could eat eels, could eat anything, while he couldn’t.
Pretzels, peanuts and then eels. My God, darling, you’ll get fat.
I won’t.
You will.
I won’t.
You will.
Poor old Charles. It was no life for any man sitting around night after night watching his wife get fat.
He looked around the place. Funny how most women were fat. There was only one really thin one in the whole room. She was sitting at the bar with her back toward him. She had a bony little rump and long skinny legs twined around the bar stool. She was with a boy and from their backs alone you could tell they were both very young and shouldn’t be in a place like this.
The girl disentangled her legs and then tangled them all up again the other way. She laughed a great deal and fingered her drink and shook her floppy hair around. She couldn’t keep still. In contrast, the boy was very quiet, as if he were too scared to move.
A Minor Is a Person Under Twenty-One Years of Age.
Should be a law.
Is a law.
Should be a law to enforce the law.
The girl turned and said something to the boy.
“Come on, Martha,” Steve said. “Let’s go to another place.”
“But why? I like it here.”
“I know a better place.”
He wasn’t drunk anymore. He could spend hours getting drunk and then suddenly something would sober him up, just a little thing like recognizing the young girl. He felt old, jaded, irritable.
He picked up Martha’s coat and helped her put it on, standing directly in front of her so she couldn’t see the bar.
“I know where we can get some more peanuts.”
“I’m not hungry anymore. Besides, you told me I was too fat.”
“No, I didn’t.” For the past few hours a number of thoughts had been pushing around inside his head and he couldn’t quite remember which ones he’d put into words. He was sure he hadn’t told her she was too fat, though, because he hadn’t thought it. “I don’t like thin women, anyway.”
Like the girl.
“Their bones stick out,” he said. “Now, your bones don’t stick out, so let’s go.”
She rose like an obedient child, not sure where she was going or why, but anyway there would be peanuts and anyway there were no bones sticking out on her. When she walked to the door she was steady on her feet, but her eyes had a blurry quality.
“I feel good,” she said. “I’m not used to drinking, except sherry, and I feel good.”
“That’s fine.”
The night air was still hot, as if it couldn’t forget the passion of the sun.
There was a bus bench a few yards away and he led her toward it.
“Wait here for me, will you? I have to go back a minute.”
“You are always saying, ‘Come on, Martha,’ or ‘Let’s go, Martha,’ or ‘Wait here, Martha.’ You’re so — so active.”
But she really didn’t care. Dreamily she closed her eyes. It was nicer when he said, ‘Wait here, Martha.’ Much much, much nicer.
He laughed, hoping his laugh didn’t sound as hollow as it felt.
“I won’t be long. I forgot to leave a tip.”
He returned to the bar. He walked up behind the girl and said, “Hello, Laura.”
She turned with a convulsive jump. Her legs were so tangled up with the bar stool that she nearly lost her balance and fell off.
He didn’t want to frighten her or make her weepy or belligerent, so he said in a calm low voice, “I’ll call you a cab. Martha’s outside. You wouldn’t want her to see you here.”
Laura stuck her chin out. “Well, fancy seeing you! I’d like you to meet Bill. Bill, this is an old family friend.”
She was trembling, but she had a lot more poise than the boy.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Bill said. “Oh, for God’s sake. I didn’t want to come here, you made me, you did so, you made me.”
“Stop blubbering,” Laura said. “Steve won’t tell your father.”
“He’ll never give me the car again, he’ll...”
“I won’t tell a soul,” Steve promised.
Laura turned on him with a vicious little snort. “I’ll say you won’t, not if you’re smart. I could do some talking myself.” She turned up her nose. “So Martha’s outside, is she? Well, what do I care? You don’t suppose she’d have the nerve to say anything to me after what I know about her?”
“It isn’t her,” the boy moaned. “I don’t care about her. It’s my father. He’ll never give me the car again.”
The bartender had been watching them closely. He came over now with quiet deliberation, a heavy, middle aged man with a fastidious little mustache.
“Any trouble here?”
“Oh, not at all,” Steve said. “It’s just that I don’t like to see sixteen-year-old kids lapping up liquor. I’m persuading them to go home.”
The bartender gave a quick look around to see if anyone else had heard. Then he leaned across the counter and said to the boy, “Take your girlfriend and beat it.”
Laura’s self-assurance had infected the boy. “I’m twenty-one,” he said. “You can’t talk like that to me, I’m twenty...”
“And don’t show your nose around here again.”
“I’m twenty-one I tell you!”
“Little liar!” Laura said. “He’s seventeen.”
“Oh, God!”
“While we’re on the subject,” Steve said to the bartender, “don’t you check up on ages in this joint?”
“I asked them how old they were,” the bartender said. “They said twenty-one. It’s not my fault. I asked them.”
“Pretty gullible, aren’t you?”
“Look, I don’t want any trouble. The kids are going home. All they had was a couple of drinks...”
“Three,” Laura said.