I still remember the Saturday night when I ran into Tommy when he was alone. He and I had had no chance, no inclination, to become friends, as had been the case with Joe and myself. I was a little surprised to see Tommy by himself. I don't believe that I had ever seen him drinking in a bar without being well chaperoned by Louie. I remember asking about Louie, out of expediency chiefly, because I didn't want him tearing out of the john, furious at me for even speaking to Tommy, wondering what in hell I might say to Tommy. Tommy, I remember, was evasive. He didn't really say where Louie was. There was no suggestion of what was happening with them.

So I asked Tommy to go down the Avenue to another bar with me, which we did. There was little difference between the bars; simply a geographic move. I asked about Louie, asked what had happened to the kittens, and paid for our beers, wondering why I felt it necessary to do so. I remember asking Tommy how he was coming with a new job. I remember standing in the crowded bar with him and thinking what a dull-tool he was, about as colorful as a sheet of typing-paper. I wondered if it took a quiet and unobtrusive person like Tommy for Louie to get along with, dominate, run. I wondered what their relationship was like. I wondered if Tommy were happy. I realized that I was thinking about my own unhappiness, my own quarrels, with Louie.

Somewhere along the way, in the process of having a private tizzy, it occurred to me that Tommy had a rather quizzical expression on his face, a question-asking look. I found myself remembering my old attempts at conversation with Joe, when I was trying to understand my relationship, my quarrels, my differences with Louie, when Joe did nothing except freeze politely and politely make it evident that he wasn't going to help. I remember the odd wall that I've already complained about. I suddenly found myself understanding the need that Joe had for the wall. It was a means of protecting whatever was left over from his relationship with Louie.

I suddenly knew that no matter how things were going with Louie and Tommy, whether they had quarrelled on this evening, whatever need Tommy might have to quiz me, that I could never be a Dorothy Dix, could never do anything except build another wall, one that would make it impossible for me ever to discuss Louie with Tommy. It suddenly became quite vital for me not just to build the wall, but protect it. I found myself understanding Joe for the first time.

The funny thing about that Saturday night, which I cut short about the time I realized this, was that I didn't even try to tell Tommy what I was thinking, didn't try to encourage him to talk, if he felt like talking. Solve your own problems, buster, I thought. Slam your own doors. I just bought another round of beers, tried to talk some more about Louie's cat and kittens, and then rather abruptly told Tommy that I was meeting someone and had to be going along. It was a damned lie, of course. I must have scribbled the note to myself about the wall later that Saturday night in the process of hanging one on. I did hang one on, which may explain why it took me a while to be able to remember what a wall meant to me in the first place. Glad now that I found the buck, the three books of matches. and the note to myself.

CARL MASTERS

2.E