"I AM my own worst critic," the writer said to himself as he sat back and re-read the paragraph he had just finished typing. Behind his gold-rimmed glasses, his eyes were smiling at that bit of self-indulgence, and he already knew that he would not go back to change a single word. He was at an age where a sedentary life was beginning to replace the slimness of youth with a thicker waist and his hair was starting to thin at the front. Whenever he looked at a person or a thing, his eyelids were lowered in the slightest degree and his head tilted back just a little. Whether this was taken as a physical manifestation of self-confidence or arrogance, it successfully disguised the strong strain of farmer blood that gave him a tendency to stockiness and a rather nondescript face, neither bad looking nor handsome. His name was Kevvin. He had deliberately added the extra letter in his late twenties in order to make an otherwise common name stand out.
At the same time, a twenty minute walk to the west, a young man named Mike closed his eyes and lifted his face up to the sun when it came out from behind the late afternoon clouds.
"How come the sun feels so hot when it's so friggin' cold out?" he wondered.
He opened his eyes again and lowered his gaze to the toes of his shoes. He was sitting with his back up against the wall of a building on a piece of cardboard to keep his backside dry. His legs were stretched out in front of him past the edge of the cardboard and the backs of his pant legs below the knees were wet from the slush. His outstretched legs were a minor inconvenience to the pedestrians, but then, that was the point.
Kevvin reached for the glass of wine beside his typewriter and took a sip while turning up the next index card in the pile on the other side of the machine. He was an artist and he knew that writing was not the simple mechanical process of putting thoughts and feelings down on paper. He therefore prided himself on his ability to craft a story very well. From a note jotted down in his leather-bound notebook, he would gradually organise his ideas and plot his stories until he had a stack of neatly typed cards from which to begin the actual writing. He would sometimes set them out, almost as if he were dealing a hand of solitaire, and shuffle them around in order to arrive at a better flow or to discover a way to heighten tension or sustain reader interest.
Kevvin settled back in his chair and read the information on the card. He stretched his legs out under the table holding the tools of his trade and took another sip of wine. He considered his costume appropriate to his work. Over slacks and a white shirt, he wore a short cotton housecoat in lieu of a proper smoking jacket, although he had his eye on a real one. He wore a silk scarf loosely knotted around his neck and tucked into the open collar of his shirt. He had given his look considerable thought, and in the end had settled on something that was the antithesis of the author photograph on the back cover of a Mickey Spillane novel he had read in his teens. A t-shirt, jeans and sneakers might be suitable for a writer of popular fiction, but it would convey the wrong impression of Kevvin as the author of serious and intelligent literature.
The story he was working on was his twenty-fourth. Although he esteemed all of his short stories, he was especially proud of the two that had been published. Both had appeared, two years apart, in a reputable literary magazine of limited circulation. He replaced the index card back on the others and picked up the glass again. There was no doubt in his mind that the short story he was now working on would certainly be their equal.
Kevvin had felt the same certainty about the calibre of the first story that had been published. As soon as that story had been finished, he knew that it had a quality to it that would demand publication. The story was rejected twice before it was accepted by a third magazine. Within the following twelve months, he submitted two more stories to the same magazine. One was newly written and intended as a thematic sequel to the published short story, and the second was one of his earlier stories, completed years before. Both were rejected, but his next submission, what he regarded as his first professional short story and written more than ten years before, was accepted and had required only what he had deemed to be minor editorial changes.
The rate per word paid for his two published stories was rather low, but that was a secondary consideration. As with any writer, what mattered most was getting his work in front of the public. With two stories published in a review read by other authors, critics and professors of literature, he quietly entertained the hope that one or both of the stories would be selected for inclusion in an anthology. That hope had not yet been realised, but something more lucrative and completely unforeseen did happen. The rights to dramatise his second published story were bought by a small production company and the story had appeared as a radio play several years after its appearance in print. He had originally been offered a small stipend and a credit as co-writer in addition to the payment for the rights to the story. The additional remuneration was not high, but still respectable; nonetheless, he had walked away from the project after two weeks. In his mind, the reason was simple: he could not participate in the butchery of his own work at the hands of the staff writers employed by the production company. He had tried to cancel the sale of the rights, but found he could not do so.
After the story that Kevvin was now writing was published, he would offer it, along with his two other published stories and two or three similar ones from his files, for publication as an anthology of his own work. He was confident that the fact that he would be offering three proven successes would be sufficient reason to interest any of several publishers.
The vanguard story and the logical selling point would naturally be the short story that had been adapted for radio. When he submitted his proposal to the publisher, he would take care to point out the story's success in two media and the opportunity to reprint the original as a sort of contrast to the broadcast version. People were always interested in the differences between well-known books and their adaptations as films and plays. There was no doubt in his mind that a publisher would jump at the chance to print the work of an established author and to showcase his unpublished work as well.
Mike was tired of repeating his request for spare change. He was tired of looking up at people trying to force eye contact and coax a few cents out of their pockets. A paper cup sat on the edge of the cardboard between his knees. He usually kept four or five coins in the cup. It was enough to encourage someone to drop in a couple more on top, but it wasn't enough to cover the bottom and make it look like he was actually making much money. He wasn't superstitious, but he always kept two cents showing in the cup. It didn't matter what other coins were in there with the two pennies, but as long as people saw them, they thought 'broke' and dropped in some silver. He didn't really care right now anyway. All he wanted was another buck or two so he could buy a coffee and a package of cigarettes. Then he'd be set for work later on, and that's when he'd make some real money.
Mike didn't have a watch anymore. He didn't know what had happened to it. It had just been gone one day, and he didn't remember missing it until he went to look at the time. It didn't matter. The sun was almost touching the roofs of the buildings on the opposite side of the street. It had to be at least five. He had another hour to kill before the drop-in centre opened. The lower the sun sank, the colder it got. Mike shivered. He knew where his winter jacket had gone. It had been stolen a couple of weeks before when he managed to get into a shelter for the night. It wasn't that cold anymore, though. It was the end of March. It was spring. It would be getting warm again soon. He shivered again and pulled his legs up and hugged them. He hadn't got a single donation in at least half an hour. He wanted a cigarette. Forget the coffee—he could get coffee for free at the drop-in centre later.
He crossed his legs and checked the cup as he moved it closer to his feet. He folded his hands in his lap and settled himself as comfortably as he could on the piece of cardboard. Staring down at the cup, he appeared to be either deep in meditation or the image of abject poverty, beyond caring. Either way, he might get some change. In some ways, this tactic could be more effective than asking. People were heading home to a hot supper after an afternoon spent shopping downtown; he'd be the last thing they saw as they reached into their pockets or purses to look for money for the subway. Some of that money would end up in his cup.
The sun fell behind the buildings across the street. After hours sitting on the pavement, Mike was seriously cold now. The coins dropped into his cup one or two at a time. When the pedestrians thinned out, he'd empty the excess and put it in his pocket. He guessed he needed about another dollar. He started to pass the time by playing a game with his customers. You could tell a lot about people by their hands. When the right kind of hand hovered over his cup, he would look up and say "Thank you" in a very quiet voice and with a sad look on his face. If he guessed right, he'd be looking right into the eyes of a well-dressed middle-aged woman, and the money held back in her palm for the subway might follow a quarter into his cup. One or two strikes like that and he could take a break.
Mike didn't know the word 'forlorn,' but he knew what it meant and his whole livelihood was based on playing games using his innate grasp of marketing. You needed to size someone up fast, give them what they wanted with the least amount of effort, and take what you had coming. Mike was good at all three. If someone wanted to feel sorry for him, he'd do his best to look sad and pitiable and give them their money's worth. If they wanted cute, he had a way of smiling that made him look very sweet. If they wanted sexy, that was no problem either, but that never came into play when he was panhandling.
He checked the change in his pocket while a red light kept his next customers immobilised across the street. Another fifty cents and he could get some gum too. Everyone said that the peppermint kind made it easier when you needed coke, but he had never found it helped much. He didn't need coke anyway; that was just a sometimes thing when he partied. The light changed and he resumed his game. His backside was numb.
He smiled a little into his cup when he remembered the biggest score he had ever made panhandling, even though all the cash he got was a quarter. It had been five or six months before. It was starting to get colder, but it hadn't snowed yet. Maybe it was October or November. He'd been playing his game and misjudged. He had looked up and given his thanks to a young woman not ten years older than himself. She was dressed in jeans, a heavy sweater with patches on the elbows, and a long scarf around her neck. She didn't drop anything extra into his cup after the first coin, but she didn't go away either. She talked to him. After a moment or two, she squatted down in front of him and asked him if he was hungry. A few moments later he was walking down the street with her. He had been very surprised to find out that the offered meal was home-cooked. He understood her meaning when she mentioned that she was just coming back from her kung-fu class. She didn't have to say that, though. He didn't beat on chicks because you just didn't; he wasn't a pimp. And anyways, if he ever tried it with any of the girls he knew, he'd get the crap beaten out of him by her friends at least once, if not several times, within twenty-four hours. At any rate, after some vegetable lasagna and a couple of hours in the sack (he hadn't even tried to suggest that—it had been her idea) and a shower, he was back on the street by ten and still made a few bucks before crashing that night at a friend's place.
Kevvin stood up and walked across the room to retrieve his cigarettes. They never sat on the table where he worked because that was something Spillane had done. He considered pouring himself another glass of wine, but decided to have a bite to eat instead. He usually ate out on weekends, but he did not want to interrupt the creative process. After lighting a cigarette, he looked around his small apartment, a living room, a bedroom, and a tiny kitchenette. The toilet and shower were down the hall and shared with other tenants, but the location of the apartment, and more importantly its character, made up for that. In his own mind, he explained the inconvenient location of the plumbing as a sort of eccentricity appropriate to the apartment, a delightful quirk required by the architecture of a large old Victorian house.
The original character of the rooms that had recommended the apartment to Kevvin was still apparent. In the living room there was a large bay window with a built-in bench. It was ideal for reading when the sun was shining, although the seat was not quite wide enough to allow you sit comfortably for too long. A small fireplace with a simple wooden mantelpiece stood in the middle of one wall. Kevvin had ensured that the fireplace indeed worked before signing the lease. A light hung from the ceiling over the centre of the room and was matched by another in the middle of the bedroom. Dark wood skirted both rooms at the bottom of the walls, and ornate mouldings traced the edges of the ceiling. Both mouldings and skirting boards were interrupted by the drywall used to divide the bedroom from the living room when one larger room had been split into two to make the apartment. The kitchenette was in a tiny alcove off one corner of the living room. Kevvin imagined that it had once been part of a small ante-room to the larger room. More drywall divided the kitchenette from the adjacent toilet that opened onto the end of the hallway.
Kevvin had furnished the apartment to match its character as best he could. He had a comfortable salary, but his watchword when buying anything to add to the rooms was always quality. Quality pieces were expensive and finding suitable additions that he could afford was a time-consuming process. He was especially pleased with his writing table—it was more than just a utilitarian desk to him. It had originally been a small work table in a farmhouse, but the workmanship on the turned legs was enchanting, and the small cutlery drawer on one side was ideal for holding pens and pencils. A small wooden cabinet sat on top of the table at the back. It was originally a miniature library card catalogue. It had a dozen small drawers with brass pulls and cardholders on them. The size of the drawers limited their usefulness.
Files and typing paper occupied the bottom shelf of a custom-built bookcase. One of Kevvin's brothers was a carpenter by trade and had agreed to build the piece of furniture to Kevvin's specifications for only the cost of material. Kevvin had written out clear instructions and made several sketches to guide his brother's work. When the finished bookcase had finally been delivered, Kevvin was disappointed. Gone were the elaborate scrollwork floral motif along the top and the individual glass panels that were to have slid up and back to reveal each shelf. His brother had explained that he lacked both the tools and the skill to carve the wood as Kevvin had directed. The individual panels in front of each shelf had been replaced by a set of four glass doors. Even though Kevvin was not happy with his brother's alterations, and especially with not having been told of them beforehand, he still wrote out a cheque to cover the cost of the material and took his brother out to dinner to thank him. It was the only gracious thing to do, and even if the bookcase was not very elegant in an old-fashioned sort of way, it was still custom-built, and that must count for something.
The decoration of the room was completed with a worn wing chair in cracked green leather and a tea table, both picked up in used furniture stores and awaiting refurbishment when Kevvin could afford the expense. The only piece in the room that did not fit the décor was the couch. It was a relic from Kevvin's earlier life. It had started in his parents' living room, moved to their basement while he was still in high school, then migrated to his first apartment in the city after he had finished university. An expensive alpaca throw and some cushions did much to disguise its humble origins.
The purpose of the the throw was clear in Kevvin's mind. His adult life had been deliberately shaped by covering up the plain and ordinary aspects of his upbringing. He was not ashamed of his origins or of his family, but they did not fit in with who he had become. He was the last of six children and had three brothers and two sisters. Each of the older brothers had followed their father in learning a trade, and both of his sisters had followed their mother in marrying young and raising children. Kevvin had been the only one to show any promise of rising above that, and he had become aware of his potential quite young. He was the first in his family to attend university and the first to work as a salaried employee—for the civil service, no less. His parents and brothers and sisters were proud of him and his intelligence, and even though they had never really understood him, they had never stood in his way either. Kevvin himself was proud because he had lifted himself out of his former life in a small town in rural Ontario and created a whole new life that was utterly separate from his grandparents' farm and his parents' split level ranch-style house on a country road on the outskirts of a mediocre town.
When Mike finally bought his cigarettes, he looked at the clock on the wall behind the cash register in the store and saw that it was a quarter past six. He walked the couple of blocks to the drop-in centre slowly, enjoying his first cigarette in hours. You weren't allowed to smoke inside the centre and he wasn't going to waste it. He was starting to get hungry and most days the drop-in centre had bagels, sandwiches, buns or something like that on the table beside the coffee urn. Most of the food was donated by local bakeries and coffee shops. That meant that when all else failed, at least you could get a stale doughnut.
The centre was literally a storefront operation. It had been a convenience store and then the campaign headquarters for a city councillor's election bid before the drop-in centre had opened a year and half before. Mike remembered the signs in the place when the election was going on, but he had no recollection of the store that had been there before that. The front third of the long narrow space was filled with chairs. There had been a couch or two at one time, but too many clients had tried to use them to sleep. The back of the space held showers, toilets and storage rooms, and in between were several cubicles that were used for private counselling, interviews and other business. Mike didn't know where they got their money; if you had pressed him about it, he would have guessed that it was from the government. In any event, it was free to him and he visited most days, even if it was only just for the coffee or to get warm.
Besides the food and coffee, the centre offered many other services. It had been set up with two very different aims in mind. Unlike most other similar establishments, it had met some success with this two-pronged approach. The first prong of their work was to meet the practical needs of homeless youth (Mike knew that that just meant street kids) and their open door policy offered a place to rest, get warm, eat, wash and maybe find a change of clothes. Everyone was welcome and there were only three rules: no weapons, no violence, and no drugs or alcohol either in you or on you.
The second area of service they offered was geared toward getting young people off the street. This was their money maker—that is, it was the range and type of programmes they offered that got them their funding from the government, churches and private donors. They ran or recommended programmes for drug and alcohol recovery, job skills programmes, life skills programmes and even one programme to get street kids involved in the arts.
Mike just went there to eat and hang out. On cold nights, it was also a place he often headed back to between customers. On slow nights, he might spend a lot of time there. When there just wasn't any work on, you had a lot of time on your hands and you could get really bored. Just a month or two before, he'd returned at midnight because he didn't have anywhere else to go. There were about a half-dozen other kids already there and four staff. They were all bored. All the staff were volunteers except for two paid workers who split the eight hour shift. The paid worker on duty that night finally brought out a couple of board games and a big bag of chocolate hearts wrapped in red foil and they all ended up playing Monopoly, Parcheesi and Snakes and Ladders till closing time at two in the morning. It had been fun.
That night though, Mike had to access more than the food and showers. He had gone in high a couple of weeks before and been kicked out within five minutes. He hadn't been wasted, but he'd been high enough that he had been pretty sure no one would notice. He was now on probation. He had to meet one of the volunteers for counselling at least once a week and be clean each time. After a month, he started again with a clean slate, but if he came in high or drunk a second time, he would be banned permanently. That would really suck and Mike was going to make sure it didn't happen. It was a safe place and he depended on it for a lot of things.
Tonight was his second interview. He hoped it wouldn't take too long because it was Saturday night and he planned to make some money. He went over and took a number. He was number 2. He would have guessed it anyway because it was still early and he could hear voices coming from behind the wall of the cubicle where you took your number. He stuffed the plastic card into his pocket and went over to the coffee urn and made himself a cup. He took a couple of bagels to eat while he waited. There was some cottage cheese tonight. He liked that stuff. It was hard slicing the bagels with the little plastic knives on the table, but he managed to half-cut and and half-rip his bagels apart and smear them with a thick layer of cheese.
There were four other people waiting in the lounge area. Two girls were busy talking to each other, and even though their faces were barely a foot apart, he was sure their voices could be heard clear down the block. The two other boys were both by themselves. One was unpacking a knapsack; he was probably going to do his laundry at the back of the centre. The other was nodding off in the corner and looked in bad shape. Maybe he'd get taken to the hospital to dry out or whatever.
That was another service the centre provided. They could arrange medical treatment for those of their clients who did not have a health card. Mike didn't have a health card. He'd needed help bad once when his ribs had been kicked in. One of the volunteers took him to emergency and then the doctor just said there wasn't anything to do for cracked ribs and told Mike to take aspirin for the pain.
Mike was called in for his interview just as he finished his second bagel. It was all so easy. All you had to do was give them the right answers about being clean and staying clean, then tell them you were still thinking about it when they tried to get you into a programme for recovering druggies. He was out of the cubicle in ten minutes, found some new socks and underwear in the 'clothing exchange' and had a shower. He was heading out and ready to get to work for the night by 8:00.
Just as he opened the door, one of his friends came in. He didn't know her that well, but they hung out off and on and had partied a couple of times. They talked for a few minutes. Neither one had to be anywhere soon. In the end, she half-invited him to party and he half-accepted. The time and place were vague, and he might still be working if he was lucky and not too tired.
Kevvin regarded his apartment and his whole lifestyle as artifice, as though both were different ways to demonstrate his creativity as a writer. They were deliberate artful creations in the same sense as his writing was and were no less real to him than the worlds he created in his stories. They were even necessary because his career, his surroundings and his personality were equally integral to his life and mutually dependent. Although his view of himself as a writer was fundamental in guiding the way he shaped his environment and his self-perception, both of those aspects of his life nourished and sustained his creativity. This interconnection was vital for him, and if any one element were absent, he would not be the man he showed to the world and he would not be able to write.
There was little in the small apartment that connected Kevvin to the outside world, but he did not regard this as a lack. He had a small circle of acquaintances who shared similar artistic interests, he read the papers, and he had an enriching social life that consisted of sitting in coffee houses, visiting bookstores and attending art shows in local galleries. He was also particularly fond of European cinema. He had a nodding acquaintance with the neighbours on his floor but did not know the name of either one. Kevvin had lived in the building for six years, but none of his neighbours seemed to stay for more than a year or two. He couldn't imagine why; it was such a charming place in a very stimulating neighbourhood.
There were no photographs of family or friends on his mantel, nor any cheap souvenirs from his trip to Europe scattered around. After paying off his student loans as quickly as possible, he continued to live very frugally for another year to save up for three weeks in France and Spain. His only souvenir had been quite expensive, but very tasteful. It was a small silver ring set with his birthstone that he had purchased in Barcelona. His family had been satisfied with his postcards and the small gifts he had sent. He had taken a great deal of trouble to select presents that would be intellectually accessible to them but still convey the richness of European culture.
The only signs of his life outside his apartment and away from his neighbourhood were the good quality suits, immaculately laundered white shirts and the silk ties hanging in his closet and the leather briefcase under his writing table. These were the necessary accoutrements of his job, and it was just that: a job. In this he was very similar to many of the people he lived among. Working in a government ministry was just a way to pay his bills until he established himself as an author and could support himself solely through his writing. This attitude he shared with many waiters and waitresses, store clerks and delivery drivers. It was simply what you did as an artist or performer until you got your first big break and your career took off.
Kevvin had found his apartment shortly after his return from Europe. His self-transformation had been long underway by then, but he returned with a renewed determination to take control of his life and become a success. He had known of the neighbourhood since his student days and still remembered his first visit. While still an undergraduate, he had come across an advertisement for a poetry reading in a small coffee shop. He was aware of the reputation of the neighbourhood, or at least of some of its inhabitants, however, and was careful to invite a classmate to attend the event with him. He had had no reason for inviting that girl in particular, but he regarded her as quite bright and likely to be interested in such cultural pursuits.
Over the course of a year, they went to one or two events a month in the Village, as it was called. These might be for readings, book signings, art shows or to listen to local bands. On a few occasions, the young woman had actually invited him out, but usually just for walks or to sit and talk over coffee. He thought it was quite natural and fitting when she took his arm as they walked, but he found it off-putting when she tried to take his hand. He was able to control that by the expedient of walking with his hands in his pockets. He was quite relieved after the summer break when she became romantically involved with another young man.
In his last year at university, he had developed the confidence to visit the Village on his own more often. It became a spiritual home that sustained him during his life in residence. He refused to be part of the puerile antics of his floor-mates, and his apparent lack of interest in having a girlfriend alienated him from them still further. His reputation had been tentatively redeemed in the other boys' eyes when a drunken co-ed had followed him to his room after a party and refused to leave until the next morning. In some ways, it was his life in residence that caused him to create a new persona for himself. With his carefully studied manners and his willingness to talk and listen, he found that he could quite easily cultivate the company of young women. At the same time, the fact that he had no ulterior motives ensured his popularity with them.
With some degree of security re-established among his acquaintances with regard to his normality, he felt able to visit the Village alone more often, and began to visit the bars there once in a while on the weekends. The experiences that he had then were eye-opening and revealed to him a world that he had not known existed. His overnight absences were noted by the other boys and commented on; Kevvin found that could fuel flattering rumours by refusing to deny them, and he soon developed quite a reputation as a man-about-town. He only had to be careful that no one knew where he was going.
Kevvin made two very important discoveries about himself in his last year at university. First, he was very adept at creating stories; this confirmed in him his destiny as a writer. Second, but no less importantly, Kevvin discovered that it was not in him to be the protégé or junior partner in any relationship; he would always be the one in control.
Mike walked to the corner trying to decide where to head. It was Saturday night and the Village was only a few blocks away. It was still a bit early, but he could turn three or four tricks by midnight with no problem and get $30 or 40 for his trouble. He might even be asked somewhere, and then he would make half again as much in just an hour or two, but it was still early and any potential customers would just be heading to the bars to try their luck there first. Even though it wasn't that cold, he wouldn't mind sitting in a bar, but he didn't have the money for a beer to pay for the privilege.
He turned up Yonge Street instead. He was glad he'd been able to shower and find a change of underwear and socks. The ladies might like him rough and dangerous looking, but they also wanted him clean. All the lonely single women in their thirties and forties out for dinner and drinks with their girlfriends would start heading home soon, and one of them might like some company. If he played his cards right, he might get something to eat or at least a drink before. That bothered him a little, but women were like that. No matter how much they wanted him, and no matter how soon they knew it, it wasn't as simple as just finding a place and getting it on. Some wanted it to be more romantic, like they were on a date. Some just wanted a few more minutes to check him out before doing something so outrageous, or so Mike imagined. That was usually the excuse for a quick drink—they had to work up the nerve even though Mike might be the only action they'd had in a couple of years. It still took up a lot of his time.
Mike took half an hour to walk three blocks. He could take even longer if he wanted to, stopping to look in windows or standing on the corner to look around. There was nothing else for him to do. When he saw someone, he would make eye contact. Most of these older chicks liked him to look cute and bashful, so he'd sort of turn his face down and smile up at them from under his eyebrows. If there was any response, he'd pull out his cigarettes and move in to ask for a light. If she turned out to be a non-smoker, he'd ask for directions to someplace in the same direction she was headed. He'd pretty much say anything to get them talking. He might be new to the city, he might talk with a noticeable French accent, and in both cases he might test the waters by observing how many beautiful women there were in Toronto.
Once they started asking him questions, he knew it was almost in the bag. If they asked him to join them for a drink or something to eat, it was a done deal. A little flirting, a hand on her thigh under the table, and all he had to do was to let them know he was available for company, but that he needed some money because he'd lost his wallet or he just needed a little cash to get on a bus for Montreal. All that took a lot of time before you could finally get down to business, and the business itself might take a couple more hours. At least with guys the whole deal might be over in as little as twenty minutes from eye contact to 'See you around,' even if a lot less money changed hands. In the end, it worked out and he made the same per hour, more or less, with either sex. Maybe the difference was just that men wanted sex and women wanted relationships, even temporary ones.
Mike walked up another block and crossed the street. He headed back down the block and stopped to lean against a fire hydrant. It was dead tonight. He considered moving to the infamous track and trying his luck along with the other boys waiting for a car to slow down and lower a window, but he was starting to get cold, and he didn't feel like spending another hour standing around on the street. He'd head for the Village. Maybe he'd try a couple of bars until he found someone to buy him a drink. At least he'd be warmer while he looked for work.
He stood up and lit another cigarette. The package was already almost half-empty. If he didn't make any money tonight, he wouldn't have any cigarettes tomorrow. He started walking south. Just as he passed the door of small restaurant, a woman stumbled out. From the looks of her, she had had a couple of drinks. She wasn't beautiful or even pretty, but the make-up she wore was more to appear younger than to improve a plain face. She was very well dressed, though. Her trajectory took her across the sidewalk where she stopped at the curb to pull a cigarette out of her purse and light it. Mike dropped his own cigarette to the ground and pulled another one out of the pack in his pocket.
He walked up and asked for a light before she could return the lighter to her purse. He thanked her. She still didn't speak. Mike was suddenly from out of town. In short order, he suggested a drink; coincidentally, that seemed to be where she was headed anyway. He'd discover that he'd lost his wallet later, if the matter came up. He could do worse. It would be an easy fifty bucks. He probably wouldn't get breakfast, but he'd likely spend the night. He'd miss partying, but so what?
As it turned out, she pressed a twenty into his hand under the bar when their drinks came and he paid the tab. She wasn't wasting any time; she knew what she was doing. She came right out and asked if Mike might like to keep her company. He told her it could be arranged and gave his bashful smile. After finishing her drink, she stood up and left the bar on Mike's arm.