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Show 218 "Naw. Some vacation. Aaron Miles has got her posing for him." "Who's he? Oh, that painter." Back then he was still poor and lived on the sixth and top floor of a walkup, one big room where he ate, slept and painted. Northern light, but no money for a model, so Kate did it free-though it was Kate he wanted, not just any model, so she'd been going there after work while he did preliminary sketches, and then when he was ready to paint, she took her vacation so she could pose in the best light. "The guy's exploiting her," I said. Ben shrugged. "She says she's never gotten so much rest. Hey, you want to go to a movie with us tonight?" "He coming too?" "Naw, just the four of us." It was a theatre on Lake Park showing a reissue of "City Lights." We howled with laughter, slipping off our seats, helpless to Chaplin, and then suddenly caught up at the end, our throats tightening. Kate had tears in her eyes and I accused her of being a sentimentalist. We walked back up 55th Street to the U.T. for beer and I felt absolutely high on laughter. Ben said he was having a problem with Amelia after rehearsals of Lear. "I don't know who I've got, Amy or Regan. It's like two women." "You complaining, bubeleh?" she asked. "Not me. I like variety, and that Regan is hot stuff." She kicked him under the table. I hadn't felt so great in months. Since I had recently switched my major to anthropology, I said I was going to go to the South Seas and specialize in the sex lives of the Kwicki-Kwicki tribe. I felt tight and silly and I said that I'd pic'-ed up a piece of Arab folklore when I was in the war and flying in the Mediterranean, on how the |