Memoirs of a beatnik Read Free

its tables and dancing and Cosa Nostra guardian angels. I always sat where I could watch the door. A habit. We felt safe here, sure enough, but I was prepared for anything.
    Two rather beautiful young men walked in and stood in the doorway. One was somewhat taller than the other, with dark eyes, incredible eyelashes, high cheekbones, and a rather pinched look. He wore a wondrous shirt of some soft material, with a high collar open at the neck and very full sleeves with wide cuffs. His friend looked softer, younger, with light blue eyes and an expensive Italian boat-neck jersey. We had met once before a few days earlier, in David's coffee shop. I had looked up to see the taller one standing in front of my table, looking down at me. "I'm Ivan," he had said, "and this is Robin." "I'm Diane," I had replied, "and this is Susan." We had grinned at each other for a while, and they had left.
    Tonight our eyes met briefly with just a flicker of recognition. Then he turned and spoke a few works to his companion. The easy way he leaned over him and the vague softness with which the younger boy looked up at him made me wonder if they were lovers. I turned to Susan to ask her what she thought, and when I looked for them again they had already gone.
    I had passed my hand over the rough denim that covered Susan's knee and smiled at her. For warmth, for comfort. She squeezed my hand between her legs and smiled back. Her long, slim hand playing with the beads of moisture on her beer glass caught the dim light. Anglo-Saxon innocence, I thought. That's what she has, what she is. Big blue saucer eyes, a soft full mouth, and an uptilted nose. What made St. Augustine say that thing: "Not Anglos, but Angels."
    I turned in bed, thinking about her, and slid my hand under the pillow. Blonde hair cut straight across her forehead in bangs,

    February Continued
    and falling in a soft pageboy on her rather broad, rather slim shoulders. She looked like she sang in a Methodist choir—and she had, until rather recently. Her blouse was made of some really incredible thin stuff through which you could see the pert rosebud tips of her small breasts. Her blue jeans were cut high and hugged her hips closely, and around her waist she had tied a crimson sash. I pulled the sheet up around my shoulders to keep the wind away, and wondered where Susan was at this moment. How she was doing.
    What had she and I been talking about last night? I wondered. I couldn't remember, though I clearly recalled the intensity of our conversation, and the lift and joy her presence always gave me. A lilt at the heart, like sparkling wine.
    I remembered that a young sailor had suddenly sat down beside me in the booth. He was all eyes for Susan. He had been drinking and was very sad. Had we ever been, he wanted to know, to Springfield, Illinois? We had never been out of New York City, except for our brief escapades at college, and Springfield could have been the moon. We told him no. He told us how he had been in love with Peggy Lee all through high school. How he had cried when he discovered she was on junk-heroin, he called it. He nearly cried again, telling us about it. Strawberry blonde hair and pink, too-chubby cheeks. Milk-fed and dumb and on his way to Korea. We were all three playing kneesies casually under the table when Stevie Martini came by and asked Susan to dance. She got up immediately and I was left with Mr. Middle West.
    He looked after Susan sadly. "She likes girls," he announced profoundly, half to himself. Then he turned to me and repeated, "She likes girls." I said nothing about it, having nothing to say.
    "Do you like girls?" he asked, trying to look deep into my eyes without falling over.
    "Sometimes," I answered him.
    "I like girls," he informed me drunkenly, leaning across the table. You could see he was ready to have his heart broken again, the way Peggy Lee had broken it. Then he brightened. "Let's go find three girls." He lurched to his feet and headed toward