The regular park man got sunstroke or something, so I earned fourteendollars raking and mowing in Gramercy Park in the middle of August.Gramercy Park is a private park. You have to own a key to get in, so thecity doesn't take care of it.
Real paper money, at this time of year especially, is very cheering. Ihead up to Sam Goody's to see what records he's got on sale and whatcharacters are buying them. Maybe I'll buy something, maybe not, but aslong as I've got money in my pocket, I don't feel like the guy is glaringat me for taking up floor space.
Along the way I walk through the library, the big one at Forty-secondStreet. You go in by the lions on Fifth Avenue, and there's all kinds ofpictures and books on exhibit in the halls, and you walk through to theback, where you can take out books. It's nice and cool, and nobody glaresat you unless you either make a lot of noise or go to sleep. I can takebooks out of here and return them at the Twenty-third Street branch, whichis handy.
Sam Goody's is air-conditioned, so it's cool too. There are always severalthings playing on different machines you can listen to. Almost the mostfun is watching the people: little, fat, bald guys buying long-hairedclassical music, and thin, shaggy beatniks listening to the jazz.
I go to check if there are any bargains in the Kingston or Belafontedivision. There's a girl standing there reading the backs of records, butI don't really catch a look at more than her shoes--little red flats theyare. After a bit she reaches for a record over my head and says, "Excuseme."
"Sure." Then we catch each other's eye and both say, "Oh. Gee, hello."
Well, we're both pretty surprised, because this is the girl I met out atConey Island that day with Nick when I had Cat with me, and now we're botha long way from Coney Island. This girl isn't one of the two giggly ones.It's the third, the one that liked Cat.
We've both forgotten each other's names, so we begin over with that. I askher what she's been doing, and she's been at Girl Scout camp a few weeks,and then she earned some money baby-sitting. So she came to think aboutrecords, like me. I tell her I've been at Coney once this summer, and Ilooked around for her, which is true, because I did.
"It's a big place," she says, smiling.
"Say, you live out there, don't you? How come you get all the way in hereby yourself? Doesn't your mom get in a flap? Mine would, if she knew I wasgoing to Coney alone."
Mary says, "I came in with Mom. Some friend of hers has a small artexhibition opening. She said I could go home alone. After all, she knowsI'm not going to get lost."
I say, "Gee, it'd be great to have a mother that didn't worry about youall the time."
"Oh, Mom worries." Mary giggles. "You should have heard her when I said Iliked _Gone With the Wind_ and I didn't like _Anna Karenina_. I prettynearly got disowned."
"What does she think about science fiction?" I ask, and Mary makes a face,and we both laugh.
I go on. "Well, my mom doesn't care what I read. She worries about what Ieat and whether my feet are wet, and she always seems to think I'm aboutto kill myself. It's a nuisance, really."
Mary looks solemn all of a sudden. She says slowly, "I think maybe it'd benice. I mean to have someone worrying about whether you're comfortable andall. Instead of just picking your brains all the time."
This seems to exhaust the subject of our respective mothers, and Marypicks up the record of _West Side Story_ and says, "Gee, I'd like to seethat. Did you?"
I say No, and to tell the truth I hadn't hardly heard of it.
"I read a book about him. It was wonderful," she says.
"Who?"
"Bernstein. The man who wrote it."
"What's _West Side Story_ about, him?" I ask cautiously.
"No, no--he wrote the music. It's about some kids in two gangs, and there'sa lot of dancing, and then there's a fight and this kid gets--well, itisn't a thing you can tell the story of very well. You have to see it."
This gives me a very simple idea.
"Why don't we?" I say.
"Huh?"
"Go see it. Why not? We got money."
"So we do," she says slowly. "You think they'll let us in, I mean beingunder sixteen?"
You know, this is the first girl I really ever talked to that talks like aperson, not trying to be cute or something.
We walk around to the theater, and being it's Wednesday, there's a matineeabout to start. The man doesn't seem to be one bit worried about takingour money. No wonder. It's two dollars and ninety cents each. So we'reinside with our tickets before we've hardly stopped to think.
Suddenly Mary says, "Oops! I better call Mom! Let's find out what time theshow is over."
We do, and Mary phones. She says to me, "I just told her I was walkingpast _West Side Story_ and found I could get a ticket. I didn't sayanything about you."
"Why, would she mind?"
Mary squints and looks puzzled. "I don't know. I just really don't know.It never happened before."
We go in to the show, and she is right, it's terrific. I hardly ever wentto a live show before, except a couple of children's things and somethingby Shakespeare Pop took me to that was very confusing. But this _West SideStory_ is clear as a bell.
We have an orangeade during intermission, and I make the big gesture andpay for both of them. Mary says, "Isn't it wonderful! I just happened tomeet you at the beach, and then I meet you at Goody's, and we get to seethis show that I've wanted to go to for ages. None of my friends at schoolwant to spend this much money on a show."
"It's wonderful," I say. "After it's over, I'm going back to buy therecord."
So after the show we buy it, and then we walk along together to thesubway. I'll have to get off at the first stop, Fourteenth Street, andshe'll go on to Coney, the end of the line.
It's hard to talk on the subway. There's so much noise you have to shout,which is hard if you don't know what to say. Anyway, you can't ask a girlfor her phone number shouting on the subway. At least I can't.
I'm not so sure about the phone-number business either. I sort of can'timagine calling up and saying, "Oh, uh, Mary, this is Dave. You want to goto a movie or something, huh?" It sounds stupid, and I'd be embarrassed.What she said, it's true--it's sort of wonderful the way we just ran intoeach other twice and had so much fun.
So I'm wondering how I can happen to run into her again. Maybe the beach,in the fall. Let's see, a school holiday--Columbus Day.
The train is pulling into Fourteenth Street. I shout, "Hey, how about wego to the beach again this fall? Maybe Columbus Day?"
"O.K.!" she shouts. "Columbus Day in the morning."
"Columbus Day in the morning" sounds loud and clear because by then thesubway has stopped. People snicker, and Mary blushes.
"So long," I say, and we both wave, and the train goes.
9
Dave and Tom sitting on front steps with Cat.]
FATHERS