Balls in the Air
“It’s almost over,” I said, motioning to Hamburger Haven, the eatery down the block whose
second floor dining room the sober drunks rented weekday nights for our recovery meeting. I had just come from there, my eyes now tearing from the January cold and my breath visible.“I got stuck on the subway,” Jenny said, sounding winded, as a commotion of wailing
police cars wove their way through traffic down the avenue.“Can you shut up, please? I’m talking here,” I shouted at the vehicles. “So inconsiderate.”
My Rico Ratzo impersonation gained from her a smile, even if, as I guessed, she had never seen Midnight Cowboy. She had her arms wrapped around her, shivering, in spite of the raspberry-colored wool coat she wore.
A lean young man in a spotless white T-shirt stared out through the window of the pizza
parlor while stretching a mound of dough into a wider and wider circle. On his grizzled,
appraising face was an expression of unsmiling appreciation of her power.She didn’t look like a drunk. Not that I could tell you what a drunk looks like, not after
all of them I have seen in those rooms. Young and old. Fat and thin. Plain and beautiful. Jenny? Jenny was a room changer. She turned men into swivel heads. She was just that way.“Look. Let’s get together tomorrow night. See that restaurant across the street? I’ll meet
you there. How’s seven o’clock?”“Sure,” she said. She looked startled.
“Great.” I gave her a light pat on the shoulder, and took off before she could change her
mind.Not bad, Mark, not bad, I thought, given that I had never spoken to her before.
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