THE "SHANE" COMPLEX

by

Eugene Squire

Hello... hello... hello... hello.

So often, for no imaginable reason, he found himself practicing hellos. He'd laugh at himself for being so stupid, but nevertheless he'd go on whispering... hello... hello. And that wasn't all; he'd also walk over to the phone, turn the instrument under-side-up, and with his thin fingers flip and flip again the knob controlling the bell sound. He'd then dial the weather number, saying it aloud as he did... WE 6-1212 ... and listen to the recorded answer.

United States Weather Bureau forecast for New York City and vicinity. .. 8 o'clock Central Park reading temp-er-a-ture . 50 degrees, south to southwest winds . . . rain tonight.

.

.

He'd have the voice repeat its story several times. Yet, how he hated the automatic, impersonal, New York sound of her. He'd laugh at himself then too. It's because the phone is so new. . .

Three days new; the latest addition to his little apartment . . . his fifth-floor-rear apartment the place holding the few things he owned. . . his home. There was a second-hand sofa covered with a noisy plaid blanket-bought for football games and kept with him ever since. There were books, mostly textbooks-these too from college days in a bookcase built of planks resting on bricks; a portable phonograph, some L.P.'s-Judy Garland well represented sketches arranged, thumbtacked to the walls.

It's still transient looking, but great-just great.

In a little while he'd get ready to walk to a movie, one on 42nd Street. He loved movies . . . some of the stars he considered best friends. But right now, he just lay back on the sofa-cracking his knuckles, one finger at a time and watched the clothesline, outside the window, jerking abruptly and repeatedly in the wind. Movie night . . . every Sunday since he arrived in New York. God... things are tough.

The agents and casting directors all said the same thing.

one

18