For a time he was able to laugh at
himself, and he made pleasant pictures--Charley Carpenter
telling him a story at Drubel's; Morton companionably smoking on
the top deck; Lee Theresa flattering him during an evening walk.
Most of all he pictured the brown-eyed sweetheart he was going
to meet somewhere, sometime. He thought with sophomoric shame
of his futile affair with the waitress, then forgot her as he
seemed almost to touch the comforting hand of the brown-eyed girl.
"Friends, that's what I want. You bet!" That was the work
he was going to do--make acquaintances. A girl who would
understand him, with whom he could trot about, seeing
department-store windows and moving-picture shows.
It was then, probably, hunched up in the dowdy chair of faded
upholstery, that he created the two phrases which became his
formula for happiness. He desired "somebody to go home to evenings";
still more, "some one to work with and work for."
It seemed to him that he had mapped out his whole life. He sat
back, satisfied, and caught the sound of emptiness in his room,
emphasized by the stilly tick of his watch.
Pages:
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138