Get Started.’ Then where would we be?”
“You’re right.”
“No, you’re right,” I said. “You’re right when you say that I’m right. You know what that means, don’t you?
“We’re both right.”
“We’re both right,” I said. “God, what a world. What an absolutely incredible world.”
She laid a hand on top of mine. “Bern,” she said gently, “I think we should think about getting something to eat.”
“Here? At the Bum Rap?”
“No, of course not. I thought—”
“Good, because we tried that once, remember? Maxine popped a couple of burritos in the microwave for us. It took forever before they were cool enough to eat, and by then they were stale.”
“I remember.”
“For days,” I said, “all I did was fart.” I frowned. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize now, Bern. That was a year and a half ago.”
“I’m not sorry I farted. I’m sorry I mentioned it. It’s not terribly elegant, is it? Talking about farting. Damn, I just did it again.”
“Bern.”
“I don’t mean I farted again. I mentioned it again, that’s all. Isn’t it amazing that I’ll ordinarily go weeks on end without using the word ‘fart,’ and all of a sudden I can’t seem to get through a sentence without it?”
“Bern, what I was thinking—”
“So I’d better not have any burritos tonight. I mean, if I can’t even handle the whole concept verbally—”
“I thought Indian food.”
“Hmmm.”
“Or maybe Italian.”
“Maybe.”
“Or Thai.”
“Always a possibility,” I said. A thought started to slip past me on the right, and I extended a mental foot and sent it sprawling. “But I’m afraid tonight’s out of the question,” I said. “I must plead a previous engagement.”
“You were going to cancel the Gilmartins,” she said. “Remember?”
“Not the Gilmartins. My date’s with Patience. Isn’t that a great name?”
“It is, Bern.”
“Deliriously old-fashioned, you might say.”
“You might,” she agreed. “She’s the poet, right?”
“She’s a poetry therapist,” I said. “She has an MSW from NYU. Or is it an MSU from NYW?”
“I think you were right the first time.”
“Maybe it’s a BMW,” I said, “from PDQ. Anyway, what she does is work with emotionally disturbed people, teaching them to express their innermost feelings through poetry. That way nobody will realize they’re crazy. They’ll just think they’re poets.”
“Does it work?”
“I guess so. Of course Patience is a poet, too, besides being a poetry therapist.”
“Do people realize she’s crazy?”
“Crazy? Who said she was crazy?”
“Never mind,” she said. “Look, Bern, I think I’d better call her.”
“What for?”
“To break the date.”
“To break the date?” I stared at her. “Wait a goddam minute here,” I said. “You mean to say you’ve got a date with her? I thought I was the one who had a date with her.”
“You do.”
“This isn’t gonna be another Denise Raphaelson affair, is it?”
“No, of course not.”
“Remember Denise Raphaelson?”
“Of course I remember her.”
“She was my girlfriend,” I said, “and then one day she was your girlfriend.”
“Bern—”
“Just like that,” I said. “Poof. Just like that.”
“Bern, focus for a minute, okay? Pull yourself together.”
“Okay.”
“I want to call Patience to break your date because you’re drunk and it wouldn’t be a great idea for you to see her tonight. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve just started seeing her, it’s still early in the relationship, and you’d be making the wrong impression.”
“I might fart,” I said.
“Well—”
“Or mention farting, or something. So I’d better not see her.” I took a deep breath. “You’re absolutely right, Carolyn. I’ll call her right now.”
“No, I’ll call.”
“Would you do that? Would you really do that for me?”
“Sure.”
“You’re a wonderful person, Carolyn. You’re the best friend any man ever had. Or any woman. You’re an equal-opportunity friend, Carolyn.”
“Just let me have her number, Bern.”
“Oh,” I said. “Right.”
She went away, and a few minutes later she was back again. “All taken care of,” she said. “I told her you had a nasty case of stomach flu and the doctor thought it was probably food poisoning. I said it looked as though you got a bad burrito at lunch.”
“And we know what that’ll do, don’t we?”
“She was very sympathetic, Bern. She seems like a nice person.”
“They all seem nice,” I said darkly. “And then you get to know them.”
“I guess that’s one way to look at it. Bernie, where did these drinks come from? We never ordered them.”
“It must be a miracle.”
“You ordered them,” she said. “You ordered them while I was on the phone.”
“It’s still a miracle.”
“Bern—”
“Don’t worry about a thing,” I said. “If you can’t handle yours, I’ll drink ’em both.”
“Oh, God,” she said. “I don’t think…Bern, what’s that music?”
I cocked an ear. “Galway Bay,” I said. “That’s The Late Great Bing