The girl under the table

We were sitting in Tony's (Danny's) (Mike's) (Julius') brooding over our martinis (oldfashioneds) (side-cars) (whiskey sours). It was early (late), the place was quiet (gay). Our waiter brought us another drink. We smiled and told him he was a stout fella, a good guy, and we'd see that he had a couple of smart lines in our next story. "And it may be our last story, you know." Janet said ruefully.

Janet and I turn out short stories filled with the love and rue. the glamor and frustration that we find in speakeasies. The smarter places, of course. You don't see well-dressed people being gay and hardboiled and sentimental in the neighborhood speaks. Our trade demands white ties, orchids and chromium. There are enough two-pants suits in the world without writing about them.

We sipped our brandy and considered the threat of Repeal. It was sad. Repeal would be our ruin. Alcohol would be drained of romance. Romance would be drained of alcohol. Editors would cross to the other side of the street. Checks would be memories. Loneliness. Bitterness. Advertising again!

"It will be a sad picture, Tod, when the speakeasy is gone," Janet said, finishing her drink.

"You're not very clever about your companions these days. Marcia," I said coldly. I was thinking of a story about a girl named Marcia who goes to bell in a speakeasy.

"Yes, a sad picture," she sighed, "like Whistler's mother."

"Men are sometimes unkind, Phyllis," I said moodily, toying with my empty glass.

"Let's be mad and bright and brittle!" she cried. She was a pretty girl with restless, haunted eyes. You know the type.

The waiter brought us another round of drinks and rejections. Well, the hell with it, you can't sell everything. That's the way we are, hard and tender and awful. It's a half-shot life but a merry one!

"The speakeasy is passing, baby, and we're passing with it." I said.

"We can always go back to turning out fuzz for the advertising columns," she said simply. There was a gallantry about this girl with the vague, moody eyes. I thought of a lily in a bucket of beer. . . .

"You're a good girl." I said. I was tall and dark. There was a smell of tweeds and tobacco about me.

"You're a good guy." she smiled her twisted little wistful smile.

"Let's not go Mothers' Day on each other." I said gruffly, swallowing a lump in my throat. The olive from my martini, no doubt.

"We have bad good times together, haven't we. Reg?" she whispered tenderly.

"It will be different after Repeal," I said, "something will be gone from us, something fine and good."

"Yes," she sobbed, "those checks. We'll miss those checks."

"We can always remember." I said, trying to cheer her, "we can remember that we were young and weary together."

"Why, darling, bow clever!" she clapped her hands with glee, "that's what we'll do, of course. We'll remember. We can remember forever, at so much a word, can't we?"

"The Good Old Days, first serial rights and all," I said merrily, for I am something of a wag. "Repeal can't touch us."

"We'll never forget the dear, glamorous speakeasies, will we, dear?" she asked, leaning across the table to kiss me lightly, blithely. It was good to be blithe again.

"Let's have another drink," 1 shouted. "let's have a lot of drinks!" We were our gay, desperate selves again, thank God.

"Let's get stinko." she laughed her madcap laugh. Those eyes. I thought of Mona Lisa . . .

TERENCE FORD