Woman Aroused | Page 6

all in perfect
form. Then some blond nance got up and did a tremendous jete, really a
mad leap. I tried a few tap routines and then this joker broke out into a
tap dance that would have put Fred Astaire to shame. I quietly took off
my dance shoes, put on my coat and hat and walked out.
That was the end of my "career," but I still dance, mainly for the
exercise and self-enjoyment, and of course I attend all the various
dance recitals.
I put ten records on the phonograph, a collection of classical, jazz,
some Afro-Cuban, and even one be-bop. Then turned down the lights
and began to dance--watching myself in the mirror. I did whatever I felt
in the mood for; an odd mixture of ballet, tap, rumba, and a great deal

of arm and body movements.
It took a half hour for the records to play and then I rested for a few
minutes, put on another ten records and danced again. By this time I
was wet with sweat and so tired I could hardly move. I put the records
away, went upstairs. Outside, it was turning light and I drank a glass of
milk, spilled some in Slob's saucer--he was my cat and on the town for
the night--and threw myself across the bed. I intended to get up in a few
minutes, take a shower and dry off under the sun lamp. The next thing I
new, the shrill sound of the doorbell cut into my sleep, seemed to drill
through my head. I sat up, saw it was nearly nine.
For a moment I sat there, listening to the bell, wondering who it was,
my mind still full of sleep. Then I jumped out of bed, ran to the door.
Of course it had to be Flo and I felt like a louse for not calling her.
There was a great heavy wooden door, ceiling high, across the front of
the living room. It had once been the garage doors, and in this a smaller
door had been cut. I flung this open and stared pop-eyed at a plump
man in an army uniform, gold major leafs on his shoulders, several
bright ribbons on his chest. For a moment we stared at each other, he
ran his eyes over my smelly sweat suit and then he suddenly laughed.
He said, "Well by Christ I'm glad to see something that hasn't changed.
Knew I could count on you, George, to be an institution."
"Well for--Hank Conroy!" I said as if I didn't believe my own voice.
"Where did you drop from?"
"From Frankfort. Landed at 4 a.m. Going to let me in?"
"Sorry," I said as he walked by me and I closed the door. I'd last seen
Hank in 1942 when he came in on a ten-day leave after graduating
officer school. Now he stood in the center of my living room, looking
about slowly, as if seeing it for the first time, and I thought he was
going to cry.
He said, "Ah, George, you don't know how good it is to see you, this
room. New York's frightened the pants off me, but you--this room--the
house--you're all a wonderful reminder that some things in this world

of confusion are still the same. George, you're the goddam backbone of
something or other."
"Hank, carrying a load?"
He took off his hat, opened his jacket and sat down. His hair was still
thick and heavy. "Drinking doesn't do me any good anymore, George.
Odd, I killed time at LaGuardia, then wandered around downtown, not
wanting to wake you. And here you are, up and dancing. Same old
George."
"That's me, the pillar of 74th Street. Come in the bathroom while I take
a shower."
I showered and he sat on the clothes hamper and talked. He'd been in
Africa, Italy, and France. Hank had returned to the States once in '45,
then back to Italy and Germany. We'd been friends since high-school
and I looked at his lined and worried face, his graying hair (and he was
five years younger than I--and such important five years when you
reach my age), and I wished to hell I hadn't been exempt. No matter
what they beefed about, the raw deals they got, the guys in the service
had been places, seen things--their life had been shaken... while I had
been 41 years old at the start of the war and oh, so necessary to the war
effort (whatever that was) because I was editing the house organ of an
oil company, doing a job that meant nothing except buttering the
conceit of my bosses and the stockholders.
As I dried myself, wondering what Italy and Africa was like, I asked,
"Out of the