He began to talk. It was his day off. Was it my day off, too? He couldn't decide whether to go to the beach or the desert. Of course, it was a little late now for either.

"You live around here?" he asked.

"Not far," I said. "Do you?"

"Not too far," he said. "Over in Hollywood."

Hollywood. I sighed.

He looked into my eyes and asked softly, "Are you married?" "No," I said, and I was trembling.

He let his knee rest against mine. "You live alone?" he asked.

My hand shook, and I spilled my beer. "There's my landlady," I said, "and other people in the house -

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He took his knee away, and he didn't say any more for a while. I thought he was offended or, worse still, that he'd lost interest. What if he just walked out? What could I do to keep him there?

He finished his drink. I finished mine.

He got up. He was going. I sat there in agony.

Then he said, "My car's outside. Want me to give you a lift home?"

We went out to his car. I was trying to think. Did I dare take him up to my room?

But he didn't even ask where I lived. He turned up the Boulevard and down a side street and stopped in front of an old brick apartment house. "This is my place," he said.

His name was on the mailbox outside his door. Ed W. Goforth.

We went inside, and when I saw his apartment, I was surprised. It wasn't my idea of Hollywood. Really it was more like Nebraska.

There was a flowered rug. There were lace curtains. There were crocheted doilies on the chairs and tables. And there were potted plants. The place was a jungle of them. Even the bathroom.

There were ferns in the bedroom. One of them came almost to the ceiling. I lay there looking up at it and not quite believing it.

Ed kept saying my name, "Dave

Dave!" and "Yes! Yes!"

Once he said, "Dave, what's the matter? I thought you knew

I said, "Oh, Ed, you're the first!"

He didn't believe me, but it was true.

I had my evenings free, and Ed had his, and we were together every night. So it went for almost a month.

One evening I took the bus to Ed's, as usual, and I met a man coming out. He was taller than I was, and older, with a bony, hungry-looking face and a forelock that hung down like a shaving brush. He scowled at me and went on down the

street.

That was my introduction to Jerry. I never saw him again, but I heard of him. I heard of him often.

"Such a lovely boy," said Ed. "From one of the oldest families on the coast. He was away, and he looked me up the very day he got back."

He watered his plants with a rubber-bulb sprinkler and talked about Jerry. Jerry had gone to Stanford one semester. It took a brain to get into Stanford. He had written a novel and burned it because his standards were so high. He loved beautiful things. If he had any fault, it was that he was a little possessive. "But I wouldn't want you to feel jealous," he said.

"I'm not jealous," I said.

"I've told him about you, and he understands," said Ed. "The only thing I

one

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