In your car?"

"I don't have one. Lois drove me."

"Where is she now, then?"

"Gone home, I guess."

George senses something not quite in order. But, whatever it is,

Kenny doesn't seem worried about it. He adds vaguely, "I thought I'd walk

around for a while."

"But how'll you get back?"

"Oh, I'll manage."

(A voice inside George says, You could invite him to stay the night at

your place. Tell him you'll drive him back in the morning. What in hell do

you think I am? George asks it. It was merely a suggestion, says the voice.)

The drinks arrive. George says to Kenny, "Look, why don't we sit

over there, at the table in the corner? That damned television keeps catching

my eye."

"All right."

It would be fun, George thinks, if the young were just a little less

passive. But that's too much to ask. You have to play it their way, or not at

all. As they take their chairs, facing each other, George says, "I've still got

my pencil sharpener," and, bringing it out of his pocket, he tosses it down on

the table, as though shooting craps.

Kenny laughs. "I already lost mine!"

80

AND now an hour, maybe, has passed. And they are both drunk: Kenny

fairly, George very. But George is drunk in a good way, and one that he

seldom achieves. He tries to describe to himself what this kind of

drunkenness is like. Well — to put it very crudely — it's like Plato; it's a

dialogue. A dialogue between two people. Yes, but not a Platonic dialogue

in the hair-splitting, word-twisting, one-up-to-me sense; not a mock-humble

bitching match; not a debate on some dreary set theme. You can talk about

anything and change the subject as often as you like. In fact, what really

matters is not what you talk about, but the being together in this particular

relationship. George can't imagine having a dialogue of this kind with a

woman, because women can only talk in terms of the personal. A man of his

own age would do, if there was some sort of polarity; for instance, if he was

a Negro. You and your dialogue-partner have to be somehow opposites.

Why? Because you have to be symbolic figures — like, in this case, Youth and

Age. Why do you have to be symbolic? Because the dialogue is by its nature

Impersonal. It's a symbolic encounter. It doesn't involve either party

personally. That's why, in a dialogue, you can say absolutely anything. Even

the closest confidence, the deadliest secret, comes out objectively as a mere

metaphor or illustration which could never be used against you.

George would like to explain all of this to Kenny. But it is so

complicated, and he doesn't want to run the risk of finding that Kenny can't

understand him. More than anything, he wants Kenny to understand, wants

to be able to believe that Kenny knows what this dialogue is all about. And

really, at this moment, it seems possible that Kenny does know. George can

almost feel the electric field of the dialogue surrounding and irradiating

them. He certainly feels irradiated. As for Kenny, he looks quite beautiful.

Radiant with rapport is the phrase which George finds to describe him. For

what shines out of Kenny isn't mere intelligence or any kind of switched-on

charm. There the two of them sit, smiling at each other — oh, far more than

that — fairly beaming with mutual insight.

"Say something," he commands Kenny.

"Do I have to?"

"Yes."

"What'll I say?"

"Anything. Anything that seems to be important, right now."

"That's the trouble. I don't know what is important and what isn't. I

feel like my head is stopped up with stuff that doesn't matter — I mean, matter

to me."

"Such as — "

81

"Look, I don't mean to be personal, sir — but — well, the stuff our classes

are about — " But, whatever it is,

Kenny doesn't seem worried about it. He adds vaguely, "I thought I'd walk

around for a while."

"But how'll you get back?"

"Oh, I'll manage."

(A voice inside George says, You could invite him to stay the night at

your place. Tell him you'll drive him back in the morning. What in hell do

you think I am? George asks it. It was merely a suggestion, says the voice.)

The drinks arrive. George says to Kenny, "Look, why don't we sit

over there, at the table in the corner? That damned television keeps catching

my eye."

"All right."

It would be fun, George thinks, if the young were just a little less

passive. But that's too much to ask. You have to play it their way, or not at

all. As they take their chairs, facing each other, George says, "I've still got

my pencil sharpener," and, bringing it out of his pocket, he tosses it down on

the table, as though shooting craps.

Kenny laughs. "I already lost mine!"

80

AND now an hour, maybe, has passed. And they are both drunk: Kenny

fairly, George very. But George is drunk in a good way, and one that he

seldom achieves. He tries to describe to himself what this kind of

drunkenness is like. Well — to put it very crudely — it's like Plato; it's a

dialogue. A dialogue between two people. Yes, but not a Platonic dialogue

in the hair-splitting, word-twisting, one-up-to-me sense; not a mock-humble

bitching match; not a debate on some dreary set theme. You can talk about

anything and change the subject as often as you like. In fact, what really

matters is not what you talk about, but the being together in this particular

relationship. George can't imagine having a dialogue of this kind with a

woman, because women can only talk in terms of the personal. A man of his

own age would do, if there was some sort of polarity; for instance, if he was

a Negro. You and your dialogue-partner have to be somehow opposites.

Why? Because you have to be symbolic figures — like, in this case, Youth and

Age. Why do you have to be symbolic? Because the dialogue is by its nature