A friend called up saying he was in a pre-suicidal mood.
I told him to come over.
I'd pay for the taxi.
"Will you go back with me to my apartment if I start to panic?"
I told him I would.
He arrived feeling chipper.
He wanted some wine.
I gave him a little cold sauterne that had been sitting
around in the icebox three weeks.
He said it tasted sour.
He looked at all my photographs.
He said he was feeling better.
We went out to dinner,
But it had to be on Madison Avenue.
For some reason he trusted Madison Avenue whereas Lexington, Third, Second and
York were out to get him.
We sat in the last table far away from any draught.
I had my eyes on the delicatessen floor.
The radio was full of George Wallace being shot.
"Just like Huey Long,' said my friend.
"Nixon did it
Now the gangsters are in the White House!"
I didn't argue.
My eyes were on my plate, Stuffed Derma and french fries.
Suddenly he asked: "Are you feeling closer to me...?"
Of course I was,
I loved him.
But I used different words so as not to frighten him.