Ambient 06 - Going, Going, Gone

until both Trish and I were ready to go home. I don’t drink more than one or two at a sitting; better to save the liver for more essential effort in my own professional field. »You going east?« she asked, recapturing her coat from the check girl.
    I nodded. »Catching the El.«
    »I’ll walk with you far as Lexington.«
    Trish lived uptown, on East 77th near York. Farther east than Newfoundland and almost as frosty and windswept come winter, but when anybody asked where she cooped her chickens she could put on the big light and say, Upper East Side. Among some in her sewing circles, that was de rigeured.
    »Sure you didn’t want to make the scene with Bart?«
    »Burt. Please.«
    »You know him from where?«
    She stared out at the statue in front of the Plaza for a second or two, pulling her coat tight around her. »I can’t remember. Poor pup. Sounds like he’s found a good home with those Dynamos, though.«
    »He said it was a weekend thing.«
    »Every weekend. He’s into it. Next thing you know he’ll be selling flowers at the airport, probably. Preps are such pigeons.«
    It was after midnight, and a weekday besides, so only a few taxis cruised along with the cops, and we were the only ones taking a stroll. All the used book stores along 59th had rolled their tables inside and pulled down the grates. Neither of us said much as we perambulated on our merry way; when you’re close as we were there’s not always a need to chitchat. Besides, it was so tedious being constantly interrupted by Boohoo that we were both happiest to be hearing nothing, just then. The flakes eased off before we reached Madison. By the time we crossed Park the wind had started blowing the clouds away. A full moon, silver-dollar size, hung over the Waldorf like an Evacuation Day ornament.
    »You know the Indians had a different name for the moon every month?« she asked. »I forget what it’s called this month. I remember September through December, that’s all. Hunter’s moon, Harvest moon, Beaver moon, Cold moon. Wish I could remember the rest.«
    »You’re doing all right to remember Indians,« I said.
    »They’re really going to land on it next year?« she asked. »It’s go with mission control?« I gave her a nod. »When are they leaving?«
    »Next summer sometime. June, July. Depends on the weather.«
    »You’re so scientific, knowing these things. And once they land on it, what do they do?«
    »Anything,« I said. »Anything at all. Main thing’s landing there. That’s as ultima groovitudina as it gets.« She hooked her hands tighter around my arm. »You know I’d love to go there someday.«
    »I thought you’d already been,« she said, smiling.
    »You know what I mean,« I said. »Wouldn’t you want to go there, somebody gave you half a chance?«
    »I’d just figure I’d do no better there than here,« she said. »You’re such a junior birdman, Walter.«
    »Always had a soft spot in my heart for science fiction.«
    »Heart, or head?« she asked. »Think I’ll start calling you Buck.«
    I shook my head. »Flash.«
    Listening – don’t know for what – I heard nothing but the sound of tyres shusshing over wet pavement and the tap tap tap of our heels. »Aren’t half the ones working on Apollo ex-Nazis?« Trish asked. » They probably have some ideas what to do, once they get there.«
    Sad but true – it was another one of those things that leave you feeling drawn and quartered if you think about them too long. Thanks to Nazi science, man would walk on the moon. We had to destroy the village in order to save it – that kind of logic wears away the stone real fast. While under the influence of something, a little while back, I’d been reading the Saturday Review when I read what they called that numbness that sinks into your head like a bad cold when you start trying to keep two realities in the same place, and pharmaceuticals aren’t involved. Cognitive dissonance; catchy. Seemed like something I suffered from more often than not.
    The entrance to the East Side IRT yawned before us. »Don’t let the bedbugs bite, snookums,« she said, planting a wet one on me. »Or Jersey girls.«
    »You know me.«
    »Too well,« she said, and skipped down the stairs.
     
    A freelance existence has its advantages but stability isn’t one of them. February is always the quietest month, but this year it was going way past dead and deep into embalmed. When I’d heard no word from my usual employers by the first week of