Four Hours in Glasgow - Part 4

Down the block there was a sign for a three-course lunch—-"only four Pounds ninety-five"-—and a picture of a fish pointing up the stairs. “Best Fish Tea in Britain” it said. It took me a moment to clear the idea of a tea bag full of guppies and I started climbing. I waited at the landing while old lady to stumbled down the long staircase and then for an old man to stumble up them. These did not seem like good omens but I entered anyway, possessed by the strange “who cares” courage that can take me without warning. Actually I think the main source of the courage was a desire to relieve myself of the weight on my back. Despite Glasgow being a big, bustling city I couldn’t find anywhere on the streets to sit down. There was nowhere to stop and pull out the “Let’s Go” which was much bulkier and more embarrassing than the London A-Z which, I discovered, was carried by pretty much everyone and not just tourists.

Someone else's photo of Fish Tea with Mushy Peas.

Either way I entered “The Tree’s Family Restaurant” and sat in the no-smoking section because the table was smaller.

A young, sort of tough looking, blonde waitress was at my table almost immediately. She asked what I wanted to order in a startling thick brogue. I wondered if there was a physical border you could cross and hear one dialect on one side and one on the other.

I asked how the three-course lunch worked and, like most people who have been asked a question by me, she answered by saying “What?”

I asked again, paying more attention to my lips and teeth. I ordered the soup (scotch broth of course) and fish and chips. While I waited for the soup I slipped the “Let’s Go” out of the bag and quickly memorized the path to Glasgow Cathedral. The soup came. Having not eaten since the night before, the soup felt like life in my stomach. It was warm and thick and salty and I scraped the bowl of its last bits. I thought about, but decided against, holding my fork in the right hand.

I felt very American and I was sure everyone in the restaurant (all fifteen senior citizens) would notice if I did it wrong. I think I cleaned that plate cleaner that I have ever left a plate before, and it was time to choose dessert. I asked for the trifle and she said, “Aye.” My heart leapt. I had left London after all.

When the trifle was gone I suffered a small panic attack about the acceptability of my English money. I knew that English and Scottish bills are interchangeable but there was still that fear. The bill came on a plate and I covered it with a ten-pound note. Just as I was about to worry about whether I was supposed to carry it to the cash register, a waiter snatched it up and replaced it with a Scottish fiver. I put the purple bank note into the secret compartment of my wallet with my leftover American money, re-strapped my backpack and bounced down the stairs.

I was temporarily elated as I started towards the cathedral. It had been a long time since I had eaten such a complete meal and the feeling of peas in my stomach warmed against the rain.

St. Anthony and the Keys - Part 4

She slid the key chain across the scanner, just like she had done with tens of thousands of groceries, coupons and key chains before. The motion sensor turned on the laser. The laser was absorbed by the thin black lines and reflected by the white plastic between them. The computer translated that pulse into a number that, in turn, it translated into an address in a database. Ten kilobytes of information traveled just less than six miles at three hundred million meters per second and, upon arrival produced the brief high-pitched beep that still satisfied her each time she heard it.

She switched off the light at her station before picking up the phone and dialing the number at the top of the screen. A very tired woman answered. It was the emergency number of a veterinary hospital. The number must have been changed or faked. She checked the name again and realized that it was fake too. Sandy Klaus. The address section said just "North Pole". He or she must have applied for the card around Christmas time.

This fascinated her. Who would be so paranoid as to give a fake name to the grocery store? Had the store been busier she would have thrown away the keys right there, but she was curious and so she went deeper into the customer’s record.

In a few seconds, she was analyzing a list of all the groceries the customer had bought over the last two years. Having been a check-out girl since high school, she thought she could tell a lot about a person by the groceries he or she bought.

She knew it was a man by his brand of shaving cream. Always the same kind too, even when it was not on sale. He was not as loyal to his deodorant, however. He bought whatever was new or improved.

Further in, she noticed that he had recently moved to the city. Up until one month ago, he shopped at a grocery store on the other side of the state; the country, she thought. She began to create a picture of him in her mind.
He was alone in the city, shy probably. He was single; she was sure of it. Half gallons of milk always gave that away. But he could cook. He bought a lot of spices and oils and strange produce like leeks and artichokes. He ate meat but in moderation. He bought steaks and lamb chops, but no pork. He took vitamins.

On Friday nights, he often bought a slab of fancy cheese and a bottle of wine. But he had not done so in the last two months. She imagined him showing up at her door, setting the bottle on the kitchen counter while she set the table with a plate for the cheese and two wine glasses.

She continued to imagine him long after she was finished looking at his record. She gave him a name and a college degree, tropical fish and a newspaper to read in the mornings and before bed. She gave him a face. She made him a little funny looking but with beautiful dark eyes. She stared at him in her mind and thought she felt a bit warmer inside.

She imagined him waking up in the morning in blue and white striped pajamas. As she balanced her drawer, he was shaving off the moustache she had told him she didn’t like. She rang up one last figure, added a crinkled dollar bill to her drawer before locking it, and picked up a box of Crackerjacks for the ride home.

She put the key chain into her purse when she left, pretending he had given her the spare keys to his apartment. She played with the keys on her lap during the ride home. She imagined him getting onto the train and sitting next to her. He would see the keys out of the corner of his eye and ask her how she got them. She would tell him, and, full of surprise and gratitude, he would ask to buy her coffee, and that is where it ended.

Her stop had arrived. Through the window she could see a man standing on the platform. He was looking at a train schedule and she thought he looked troubled or confused. He had a moustache. She approached him as she stepped off of the train.

“Are you lost?”

School Play - A Short Screenplay

Sir Andrew begs for forgiveness.

INT. THIRD GRADE CLASSROOM - DAY
About fifteen third graders sit in a circle on a large area rug in an enormous experimental class room. The room has three different levels. A pentagonal section in the back of the room is raised above the floor on three step like tiers. It has a piano on it and rolling carts filled with musical instruments. The middle of the room is a pit of sorts sunken three steps below the floor. The rug is here the rest is empty and can be used for games and running around. The ground-level portion of the room has different configurations of work tables some with computers some with art supplies, etc.

CELICE, the teacher, is a twenty three year old woman with shoulder length brown hair. She wears navy blue corduroy overalls over a plain long sleeved raspberry top is also in the circle.

ESTELLA: We could... I don't know.

CELICE: It's ok Estella, speak up, I'm sure it's a good idea.
ESTELLA: Could we do a play?
CELICE: That's an interesting idea. Does anyone else want to do a play?

The class assents.
CELICE: What play should we do?
LUCY: Let's do Cats.
CELICE : I don't think that's possible. In order to do a play you have to get permission. And Cats is currently playing on Broadway and usually they won't give permission if the play is still running. There are lots of plays that we could get permission for, or if we do a play that was written long enough ago, we can do it without permission and it won't cost us any money. For instance we could do a play by William Shakespeare.
LUCY: Or could we write it ourselves.
CELICE: That's a very creative idea Lucy.
What would we want to write a play about?
LUCY: No, I mean we could write our own play of Cats.
CELICE: Does anyone else want to do a play about cats?
LUCY: Not a play about cats, we could write Cats ourselves.
CELICE: I don't think I understand.
LUCY: I'll get some paper and we'll start writing it you'll see what I mean.
CELICE: Um ok.

Lucy runs and gets a pad of paper.

LUCY: Ok let's start the play in a junkyard with lots of cats in it.
What should their names be?
ESTELLA: Gerizzabella.

Lucy writes it down.

DAVID: Rum Tum Tugger
TINA: Mr. Mistopholes
LUCY: and how about Old Deutoronomy
CELICE: Wait, aren't those the names of the cats in Cats.
LUCY: Exactly. We can think of the rest of the names later.
MEGAN: Oh, Jennyanydots.
LUCY: Ok got her, now what should happen? I think it should start with an opening number.
CELICE: Wait wait, are we sure we want to use the same names as the cats in the play?
ESTELLA: We came up with those names ourselves.
CELICE: No you---
SAM: Let's call the opening number, um "Jelly" cats.
LUCY: It's good but maybe something longer than "jelly" a funnier word.
TINA: How about "jellicle?"
LUCY: Good! The first song will be called Jellicle Cats.
MEGAN: We need a show stopper. I'm thinking maybe something called "Memory"
LUCY: Ooh, good idea, I like the way that sounds.I have some ideas for the words already but let's come up with a plot first.
CELICE: No, no, no. I know that there is a song called Memory in the real play Cats.
DAVID: We're writing a real play!

Celice does not know what to do.

INT. CLASSROOM - NIGHT
Rows of chairs are set up around the raised stage area of the classroom and are filled with parents. On the stage the kids are dressed in costumes exactly like the ones in the Broadway production of Cats. Lucy is standing on a giant tire that is lifted up toward the ceiling a fog machine spills clouds of smoke across the classroom. A real theatre orchestra plays the Cats' ending music from.

EXT. FRONT OF SCHOOL - NIGHT
A couple of dads stand outside smoking as excited kids in cat costumes are led out to the parking lot.

DAD ONE: (discreetly) So, what did you think?
DAD TWO: Well, not bad for something written by third graders.

Four Hours in Glasgow - Part 3

It was 12:15pm when I arrived. I was shivering in Glasgow Central Station. I sat down and extracted my jacket from my backpack.

I stepped onto Union Street and into shock. I can’t say exactly what I expected but I can say what I wanted. I wanted a vacation from London. A small, friendly place--somewhere to eat and sleep and wander. What I got, on first glance, was still London. But it was Glasgow as well--much colder and sadder and cockier than London. And it was drizzling.

Buchanan Street in the rain. Again, not my photo.

I stepped into a crowd and tried to direct myself to the tourist’s office by memory. I ended up in the shopping district. Crowds of activists and socialists and shopping bags. Something in me panicked. I felt like everyone could see that I didn’t belong there; that I was some snotty rude American kid and who the hell did I think I was trying to visit their city. Almost automatically I headed back to the station. The next train back to London wasn’t until four.

So I stepped back out. It was spooky. In the drizzle I kept looking into faces for pieces of myself. Logically, I knew there was little chance, but this place, at least in my head, was full of my ancestors.

Four Hours in Glasgow - Part 2

The magazine stand opened and I joined the stampede inside to buy a Coke for breakfast and some water just in case. I spent Ben’s Change. While I was in line for the cashier, the arrival my train to Glasgow was announced so I picked up my bag and made for my seat.

I shoved my bag under the seat and drank my breakfast. Suddenly the train was off. I was going to Glasgow.

I was facing the back of the train. I hate that. Things disappear before you can figure out what they are. The ride was a long, absent six hours. People got on and off. I wrote a bit, read even less, and slept not at all.

It had been sunny in London that morning. Well sunny for London, but as we left the clouds ganged up in layers. For hours I stared out the window watching the dull hazy scenery run away from me, reading about each town in the guide book as I passed it.

I had read earlier about the Lake District, how it had been an inspiration to the Romantic poets. I was excited to see it, even though I never really appreciated the Romantic poets. I wondered if I’d be able to tell when we passed it. Then suddenly the flat pastoral scenery broke into hills unlike any I had seen before. They were green and grooved a flowing.

The Lake District (photo from wikipedia)

I was mesmerized. Then just as suddenly the Lake District ran away form me the clouds returned and the land changed to scraggy grass and heather. I had crossed into Scotland.

St. Anthony and the Keys - Part 3

The beer cans were moving toward him. He chuckled. The beer comes to me all by itself, how can I resist? The six-pack stopped moving when it reached the end of the conveyor belt. He looked at it and wondered if the check-out girl had a foot pedal or something that made the conveyor belt stop. At the end of the thought, he realized that the beer had been sitting still a lot longer than usual. Normally, a pair of hands would have appeared and lifted the six-pack out of view, but these cans just sat there, static, looking happy to be plastic-bound into a little family of six. He looked up and met the expectant eyes of the cashier.
"What?" he said. "Believe me. I’m old enough to buy those."
"I’m sure you are," she replied. "Do you have a fresh values card?"

He had not expected this. His hands explored the pockets of his jacket and found the key chain his wife had given him. He tried to think of a way to explain everything to the girl, but she had already snatched the keys from his hand. She ran the keys over the gadget at the end of the conveyor belt, and something beeped. He took the keys back, deciding it was better to just pretend they were his.

She picked up the six-pack and turned it over to find the barcode. He did not like the way she was looking at the beer. When did it become wrong for a forty-eight year old man to like beer? The thing that beeps, beeped once more, telling him it was time to pay.

"You kind of look like my wife, but younger," he said, setting a wad of bills and change on the platform. She did not react; she just counted the money, twice, and then held crinkliest of the bills over the little platform.

"It’s a dollar," he said. "It might be wrinkled but it’s worth the same as the others." She gave him a look that made him feel old.

"They’re on sale," she said. He was not sure if was smiling. "One dollar off ‘cause you used your card."

"Oh," he replied, looking at the green paper like it was a writhing wasp. "Why don’t you keep it?" She put the dollar into the pocket of her apron, and he left.

It felt good to pull the can from its plastic choke-chain. It felt even better to crack the seal and to hear the bubbles popping as the gas escaped. He drank it slowly, just like he did every Friday, thankful that his wife had insisted on getting the minivan with the tinted windows. Then, before he felt he had even tasted it, the can was empty.

The five full cans swung back and forth limply when he picked them up by the empty ring. He put them back into the paper bag along with the empty and scrunched it shut. He went over, as always, to leave the leftovers in the empty shopping cart, but a car full of teenagers had pulled into the spot next him. Their windows were rolled down and the kids were singing along enthusiastically to a song that he had once owned as a forty-five. He threw the cans in the dumpster.

On the way back to the van, he felt the intrusive weight of an extra set of keys in his pocket. He changed course and walked back into the grocery store, reliving the time he had lost his keys and sprained his ankle trying to break into the house.

"My wife found these on the train," he said, passing the key chain over the platform for the second time that evening. For the second time the girl snatched the keys, but didn't say anything. She didn't notice him slipping the pack of gum into his pocket either.

Four Hours in Glasgow - Part 1

Saturday August 5, 2000

I woke up at 5 am after a night of staring out my window at the students across the courtyard. I only hit the for minute snooze button once, waking before the second alarm would sound.

I must have been the first person to wake up because I did not have to jump over a slimy puddle in front of the shower. I didn’t even have to bother draping my towel over my chest while I shaved because there was no possibility of anyone seeing.

I put on the same dirty clothes as yesterday and packed my bag with the following:
One outfit of dirty clothes:
One t-shirt
One pair of jeans
One polo shirt
One pair of underwear
My jacket.
Downriver by Iain Sinclair
Let’s Go Britain and Ireland
This journal
Two Maps
Pens
My Britrail Pass
A towel
A bathing suit
And a hat.
I did not pack socks.

I poured all of the change from my dresser drawer into my pocket including the 20p piece I had been saving for laundry. I hoisted the backpack high and walked straight out the door.

Euston station was a block away and I arrived for my 6:16 departure at 6:00. A man with a hand full of change blocked my view of the train arrival board. “I lost forty pounds and my visa card,” he said. I stared into his palm, displaying about five one-pound coins and an assortment of other change. Beneath the coins his hands were greasy and black. “I just need about nine pounds forty to get home,” he said and looked at me expectantly. I reached in and pulled the top four coins from the hoard in my pocket.

“This is all I have.” If he was going to lie to me I was going to lie back.
He looked at the sixty pence with desperate disappointment. “Can you give me a few pounds?” He looked at me and changed his approach. “Perhaps you could give me a fiver for this.” He arranged for one-pound coins in his other filthy hand.

“I don’t have a five.” I lied again.

“Well how about a ten for this?” He started to rearrange his change in an attractive pattern.

“Wait!” I said. “Maybe I do have a five.” And with great care I took out my wallet. He watched it a little too closely as I extracted the five pound note.

“How about you give me the five for this and I’ll have enough to get home.” He handed me a pound and a half.

“I guess.” I said revealing my exasperations. We exchanged money.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Ben,” he said and smiled. They always seem so surprised when you ask that.

“I’m Ian. Good luck.”

“Thanks,” he said and disappeared. I patted my pocket to make sure my wallet was still there.

Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday Born I was

In honor of David Bowie's 59th birthday today I will forgo my usual laziness tactic of raiding my back catalog for blog entries I will compose a short impromptu stream of conciousness essay on the man, his music and how it affects my life.

I think I grew up always knowing that I would be a David Bowie fan but didn't actually get around to it until around my nineteenth birthday. I was reminded of the prophecy by a track on the Lost Highway Soundtrack entitled "I'm Deranged," a song which begins:

"Funny how secrets travel
I'd start to believe if I were to bleed"

It's a spooky song, sung with a voice full of diaphragm and mystery. It always makes me stop and listen. It aches.

David Became something I could claim as my own. I would never say I like him better than U2 or that he has had anywhere near the influence that that band has had on me but loving them was joining a group of the obsessed, people who evangelize and meditate on their music. David Bowie is like my private chapel.

Todd Hayne's movie Velvet Goldmine, which is based on Bowie's life and manages to grasp the spirit of the style without any of the spirit of the man does have one brilliant insight in a scene where a UFO comes down and bestws an emerald ring upon Oscar Wilde and that ring is later passed on to the David Bowie character. There's a lot of truth in that connection. Both Bowie and Wilde are aesthetes but not superficial. Makeup and theatrics for Bowie are what velvet suits and witticisms were for Wilde. Both men play characters as a way living out a truth. Both men seem to be amoral bacchanals but if you look deeper both display a great understanding of God. Wilde wrote "happy they whose hearts can break and peace of pardon win, how else man man make straight his plan and cleanse his soul from Sin, how else but through a broken heart may Lord Christ enter in." David Bowie wrote "Lord, I kneel and offer you my word on a wing And I'm trying hard to fit among your scheme of things It's safer than a strange land, but I still care for myself And I don't stand in my own light." The legend is he wrote that during several months of living entirely on whole milk and cocaine.

God is an American.

St. Anthony and the Keys - Part 2

She was sitting on something, and she did not know what it was. This was precisely the type of thing that she hated about taking the trains. Next time, she advised herself, she would use this experience as an argument when her husband was too busy to give her a ride down to the church. The idea of having an unfamiliar object pressed into her bottom was unsettling, but she could not stand up now; not with so many people on the train. Someone could sneak up and steal her seat, and then she would be stuck standing next to God knows what unpleasantness.

She tried to determine the shape of the object using her sense of touch, but there was too much flesh getting in the way. It was best to try and think of something else.

The train at rush hour should have provided enough distractions, but she could not find a place on which to fix her gaze. If she looked straight ahead, she would be looking at that young man’s crotch; down and she had to stare at the garbage on the floor. To her right, someone had written a swear word on the window, and to the left, well, she did not like the look of that man.

She remembered reading about a young woman who contracted AIDS from a hypodermic needle that someone had left in a vending machine. Whatever it was she was sitting on she was sure that it was sharp.

Her mind wandered from there. Around the time she was imagining the color of the lining of her casket, the train wobbled out of the subway tunnel, and her weight pushed the mysterious object deeper into her substantial thigh. Startled, she stood up.

The back of her thigh was hurt--that she was sure of--but she could not quite tell if it was serious. She was still too afraid to look, and, now that she was standing, she had no free hand to feel the wound. One hand was squeezing the pole, and the other hand was keeping her purse close to her kidneys. Next time she would take a taxi; she would even use her own money if necessary.

A black man, an old black man, squeezed his way through the crowd at the doors and grabbed on to the pole across from hers. She looked at him and thought maybe she should smile, but she was worried about her leg; to smile would be like lying. She turned her head away.

There were so many people on the train, girls with too much makeup, children who needed bathing, that rude man on his cell phone. A beer bottle rolled from under one of the front seats and smacked against a partition before rolling back. Maybe she had sat on a piece of glass. The man with the phone might be a doctor; she could turn, and he would notice if her leg was bleeding; maybe he had some antiseptic in that briefcase. A little bit of antiseptic would keep the germs out until she could get off of the train. She hoped that she would not have to go to the hospital.

The black man was looking at her. She looked at his wrinkled clothes. He was probably homeless. She looked at his eyes looking at her; even the whites of his eyes seemed to have some brown to them. He slid his eyes deliberately, pointing with them to the empty seat and then back up to her face. What did he see? Was he trying to warn her about something? No. His expression was tired and pleading. Maybe he wanted his needle back. She squeezed her purse more tightly and tried to look stern.

The pain in her leg was almost gone, she decided. The object, whatever it was, had most likely not broken the skin. Still, it was best to be safe. Besides she was so tired of standing. She rearranged her hands on the pole and looked over her shoulder. There was something there but it was not glass or a needle. It was not even all that sharp, just an ordinary looking set of keys. She could not imagine anyone getting sick from a set of keys and so she picked them up and reclaimed her seat.

She put the keys into the crevice between her legs and consulted the map above the door. There were still thirteen stops left, and so she passed the time by looking at each key and trying to guess what it opened. Most of the keys were ordinary, but one small key stood out; it looked like the key to the liquor cabinet where she now kept christmas decorations. Along with the keys there was a plastic bottle opener that advertised Southern Comfort. The name brought on memories of nausea and she let it fall.

The last thing on the key chain was a small plastic tab with a picture of a tomato and the name of a grocery store chain. There was one just like it on the key chain in her purse. Her fingers slid across the raised ink as she read the tiny print on the back:

"If found, drop into any mail box. Postage guaranteed."

She dropped them into her purse instead.

London - Part 6

6. Russell Square

I sat outside at the back of the museum and looked through the TimeOut to find a movie. There was one playing near Russell Square so I went there. I though that if I sat in Russell Square I might be able to see the theater and there was plenty of time, so I took out a cigarette. I looked around. This, I thought, is what London is like. I t was quite different from Central Park. Russell Square is tiny by comparison but somehow wilder. Maybe it’s the overcast sky or maybe it’s because I’m not used to British gardening techniques. Whatever it is I think the strange panic that I had been carrying in the small of my back lifted. “I’m here,” I thought. “I survived.”

I pulled the lighter from my pocket and flicked it. Two puffs and inhale.

“Pardon me,” a voice cam from over my shoulder. I turned to see a man wearing a gray T-Shirt that barely covered his protruding stomach. He was holding out a 20p piece with one hand and making the international sign for smoking with the other. “Do you Mind?” he asked as he sat down beside me. “You see I don’t usually smoke. It’s just that I’ve just had a bottle of wine.”

“Not at all.” I replied, and fished out a cigarette from my bag. I motioned away the coin but he insisted. I handed him the tiny lighter. It was running low and he was having trouble.

“It seems to be spent.” He said. “ Could I…” and he pointed to my cigarette hots.

“Oh, of course,” I said and I pressed my cigarette’s end against his awkwardly until smoke was bellowing satisfactorily from both.

“Thank you very much, you see, as I said before, I don’t usually smoke except when I’m drinking and I just had this bottle of wine. I get so terribly depressed you see.”

“Not a problem,” I said. “What was your name?”

“Oh, I’m Paul.”

“Nice to meet you Paul you, I’m Ian.” I reached out and shook his stubby hand.

“Likewise and thank you. I get so depressed you see. All the mistakes. The memories of all the mistakes.” I nodded with half understanding and half behavior copied from characters in movies. I wanted to say something encouraging, to give him advice that would solve his problems. But I was scared and in a foreign country and talking, I suddenly realized, to another human being. Really talking, for the first time since getting on the plane. I just nodded.

“Did you grow up here?” I eventually asked. “…In London?”

“Oh, no. The midlands. Nottinghamshire.” I nodded some more.

“Oh really. Is that a good place to go visit?”

“Erm… yes. There’s lots of historical things and the forest is nice. You know Robin Hood?”

“Yes, I know a bit about him.”

“Well that’s there, Sherwood Forest, Nottingham. You know. Well legend a lot of it, but there’s history to it as well.” I wanted to tell him that I thought legend is more important than fact when history is concerned. Instead I nodded.

“Yes, then you know Richard, King Richard the first. They called him Richard the Lionhearted.

“Yes”

“Richard… King Richard was off on the crusades you see, and his brother erm… what’s his name?

“John, Prince John,” I offered

“Oh yes, John--Prince John they called him, took over and he was not very good. Sheriff of Nottingham and taxes and all that.”

I almost brought up the Magna Carta but decided against it.

He asked where I was from and everything to him was “amazing”. Detroit is the “car place”—Amazing.
Washington is a state and Washington D.C. is a city—Amazing. D.C stands for District of Columbia? —Amazing.

He mentioned being in a pop band in the sixties. He played bass. The conversation turned to a detailed biography of Eric Clapton who was a guitar player who was amazing.

And then by chance, Paul asked: “Do you like the movies then?” And I told him I was in London to study film.

“That’s Amazing!” Do you know Alfred Hitchcock?” I explained that I did. I had recently taken a class on his films.

“I like some of his films.” And we proceeded to go though the Hitchcock cannon. He liked Psycho but not North by Northwest or Rear Window. He didn’t remember Strangers on a Train and I couldn’t remember that it was Farley Granger who played Guy.

He then thoroughly questioned me about Psycho and for the next hour, I kept passing him cigarettes and he kept giving me change. (I ended up with about one pound twenty). And he and I recalled every detail of Psycho—the motivation for every action in more or less chronological order. When we got to the end he said, “Yes. ‘I wouldn’t hurt a fly.’ He says that, doesn’t he?”

Paul Stood up and said. “I don’t know about you but my bladder is full. Wait here and I know a place around the corner where we can get a bottle of…”

“Oh, I have an appointment at 6:00,” I lied.

“All right then. Sorry to be keeping you.”

“Not at all. I had fun.”

“Well then, let me just tell you that I can tell you are very smart and I can tell you are going to go far.”

“Wow, thanks.”

“So, you’ll just wait here and I’ll go…”

“Sorry, but I’ve…”

“Oh right. You’ve got to go. Good luck then.”

“Good luck.” I said and he was gone.

St.Anthony and the Keys - Part 1

"Doors Closing." The words echoed through the subway tunnel, but no one was listening. A compressed knot of people squeezed between the sliding doors and, hitting the cool underground air, exploded into a swarm. The human cloud wafted up the escalators and through the streets to settle into offices and to begin the day's work. But they had left one man behind. He stood stiffly, his back to the departing train, patting his pockets in a slow panic. Wallet, change, lighter, cigarettes. Receipt, change, lighter, cigarettes. No keys. He turned and watched the red eyes of the train disappear into the black subway tunnel.