We bought a big supply from Harold for the special night. He figured it was something different and tried to jack up the price another quarter, but Arnie conned him into selling the cigarettes at the usual rate on the condition that Harold could attend the party. When this was mentioned, his eyes got wide behind his glasses, and his lips spread in a thick smile, and you could see that’s what he was hoping for all along.
The party was held on the last Saturday in June — a cool, blue night with stars and a moon and black clouds. The crowd started showing up at eight-thirty — about fifteen people were invited, but about twenty-three shoved their way in. Nobody minded.
Harold came a half-hour later, carrying the goofers in a brief-case. He got a cheer as he came through the door. He grinned the big grin, took off the tweed coat and stood around in a blue jacket that was worn at the sleeves and elbows. Nobody paid any attention to him after the first minute.
Arnie started playing his jazz records to get the party off on the right beat. Some guys brought bottles, and we were drinking cokes with shots in them, but everybody was waiting for the main event. The windows were closed off in the living room, to prevent too much smoke from getting out, and, after we were settled in our places, Arnie started handing out the butts.
The lights were down low to create a mood, and, slowly, the loud talk dwindled away, and the smoke drifted through the room. First one cigarette got lit, then another, then another. It was a beautiful sight — the people sitting quietly with the smoke blue and white against the darkness rising up to the ceiling, and the small dots of red spaced evenly across the floor.
Almost everyone was coupled off, each waiting for the butt to click, waiting for the grey happiness to take over. The smoke got heavier, and, in the background the jazz music cried out its sad lament, and Harold sat alone on the piano bench, looking toward the moment when his creations would make magic within us all.
I guess everybody caught the gold ring at the same time. If there was a first, no one could claim it separately. It belonged to all of us — the music reached a climax, and someone started to laugh, and soon the whole room was a carrousel of movement, colours and noise. Boys reached for girls, and girls reached for boys.
We necked — only it was on a temporary basis. That had been agreed on before hand. It was too good an evening to spend in one particular pair of arms. Everyone had the restless feeling. We were going to make the most of the opportunity.
After a couple of minutes, the lights came on again, and singing began, and most everyone was reaching for a second helping of heaven. The smoke was curling against the ceiling, and the apartment was warm, and nothing was real except the knowledge that everyone was feeling the same joy. That’s when we started playing the game.
It was called “Truth.” One of the girls got it going, and all the other girls started squealing their approval. You know how girls become comrades when they think something’s cute as hell. Before you can say King Farouk, we’re sitting in a circle, and a cigarette is being passed from one person to another, and everyone had to take a puff and pass it on. The one dropping the ash has to get up and tell some intimate detail about his life.
It was a crazy game, but it passed time, and it made the girls happy, and it meant another cigarette. Harold was sitting on the piano bench, and nobody had eyes for him anymore, except maybe me, because I usually notice lots of things, no matter how high I am. He was still grinning and watching the girls, and then one of them made the ash fall.
She stood up in the centre of the circle, screaming that she couldn’t think of any truth to tell, but she was wobbling and giggling so you could tell she’d eventually come around. She walked and screamed in the circle, pretending she was real gone, but her eyes were alive, and, pretty soon, she remembered a truth.
She told about catching her father one night with his private secretary down at his office, and how, ever since, her father gives her plenty of clothes whenever she asks him. The way she told it, she was screaming and wailing that he’d never forgive her if he was found out. But you could see she was enjoying the limelight, and was proud of her achievement.
Another girl dropped the ash, and she told how she hated piano lessons as a kid, so she told her family her teacher was always caressing her when she practised. The women was fired and driven out of the community, and the girl didn’t have to practise ever again.
The game got so good they were passing around two cigarettes in opposite directions, and the ashes started falling much more often. One guy told about his mother being an alcoholic, and another guy told how he walks in his sleep. Still another guy told...
That’s when Arnie stood up and shouted, “You’re the one!” in a falsetto voice and got a terrific laugh.
After that, all the confessions were anti-climatic and soon we were passing the fumes again. Arnie and a girl rolled up a rug and began doing a wild Lindy, while the rest of us sat around cheering and holding our women. I looked up, and there’s a girl making a pass at Harold. Just for a gag, of course, but it was a riot. She started talking to him, and, moving on to the piano bench, she circled his head with her arm and began patting his face.
The goofy guy stammered and turned all colours and tried to answer back. We, in the know, ah most died, trying to keep back the laughter. She continued to stroke his face and told him how handsome he was. He sat there, taking it all in, sweating and trying to draw away, but looking into her eyes through the thick glasses like he was a lovesick cow that never had a chance.
It was the greatest. She was another Theda Bara, and the way she vamped him, telling him he ought to be in movies. The rest of us were bursting at the seams, watching him squirm. It was the greatest, the greatest, and then the doorbell rang, and it was the doorman and there was a cop with him, and some fool had thrown an alarm clock out the window. They came in before we could ditch the smokes, and the air was heavy with the smell, and that’s how they found out about us.
Then it was like a rain spoiling a big picnic. They drove us all down in a wagon fifteen minutes later. Everybody was sore at everybody else, and all the girls were crying and sniffing, and the butts were wearing off fast. About six cops surrounded us, and the people of West End Avenue must have gotten big charges sticking their heads out the windows and seeing us taken away in the caboose.
It was like the ending of a crime picture, only there was no fade-out, and no lights coming up reminding you of the illusion. This was real, this was the Law. No rough stuff or handcuffs, just the fright, just the blue uniforms staring at you like you’re a convict.
They lined us up in night court, the girls weeping and blowing into wet hankies, and the rest of us trying to act tough and nonchalant and angry at the bum rap. The court was full of drunks and seedy-looking characters, and the judge looked the toughest of all.
He sat on his bench, drinking a white medicine from a bottle near his side and giving us the once-over as we marched in. One of the cops went forward and discussed our case, and soon a woman cop was taking all our names and phone numbers, and the girls are crying louder because it means their parents have to come and get them.
Harold was dragged to the front of the court, and the judge looked down on him like he was a disease and yelled at him in language real suave. Harold whimpered and began shaking, and it took the two policemen holding him to carry him back to his place. They seated him and took his address, and one cop left to pick up more evidence in his room.