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Show 11, Jeffries, Islamorada Under the blue dome of Tangier Restaurant. Of an early Friday evening. The singles scene. Maybe he's in a rut. If you work it out he's been here over thirty Fridays evenings consecutive. For the infernal repetitive quality of the conversation. This particular social circle--everybody that comes here is either a schoolteacher or works at one of the rubber companies: "Students! Drive me up a wall." Or an engineer, leaking a boast of his widget: "Polymer chemistry! Build a better rubber" rubber something? "--and the world will beat a path to your door." Well here he is alone, Row is driving that Bronco in the metropolitan parks and Diamond is selling Florida real estate and the marginal girls, looking weaker than the fillies in the fall sales come nosing up to him like horses after a sugar cube, that's right, practically in his pockets, repeating "So loud in here, and I didn't catch your name. . .?" "Yrod," he began, "solitary inhabitant of the airless planetoid Geographos. . ." "Really?" she asked, louder. "I can't hear you. Is that a neighborhood up toward Cleveland? Where do you work?" |