THE GIRL WITH

THE RED GOLD HAIR

by Harry Otis

As I was walking up and down to the evening airThe fruit-cart and clam-carts were ribald as a fair-Macdougal Street

Half way up the block Myron occupied a cold, north-light studio, and Edna existed in an equally cold cubicle in nearby Waverly Place.

Edna wrote to her publisher, "Spring is here and I could be very happy, except that I'm broke I'm awfully broke." So was Myron, and to keep the wolfish landlord from his door he threw rent parties. Edna helped by corralling villagers with jobs. Most of them she'd met in The Playhouse across the street from Myron's: baby of an adventurous group of actors, The Provincetown Players, it gave her a chance to act-her reason for coming to New York. And it was following a performance that Gene, a towering, mean looking longshoreman came back stage and introduce himself to her. This happened on rent party night so she took him to Myron's.

Entering Myron's studio you dropped your contributions into a brass spittoon just inside the door. You also contributed to the refreshments with food and drinks.

The scanty assortment of thin sandwiches, cookies and pickles appalled Gene. He loved to eat. He suggested that Edna go with him to his room on Bleeker Street and get a Mulligan stew. He'd cooked enough of it to last for a week. With it they brought back two loaves of bread, three bottles of Dago Red and a pail of apple butter Gene's mother had sent him from New Jersey.

Near midnight Myron, following his usual custom of reminding his guests it was time they left, emptied the contents of the spittoon onto the floor counted the cash. He groaned. He was ten dollars short.

Gene pulled out his purse and handed him fifteen, the extra for incidentals. Myron's eyes watered. He glanced shyly at Gene. "I could kiss you for that." Edna laughed. She shoved him toward Gene. "What's stopping you?"

Nor did bitter March winds stop her walks thru the waking dawn along the waterfront. Bundled in a mackinaw, a scarf tied over her head, she walked for miles.

All men are lonely now.

This is the hour when no man has a friend.

Memory and faith suspend

From their spread wings above a cool abyssAll friendships end.

Edna remembering "the wind in the ash-it sounds like the surf on the shore" loved the East River; a welcome horizon just beyond the misery of the slums.

one

10