The Moviegoer

mine: her boy friend, the Faubourg Marigny character. The fellow has no better sense than to make demands on her and she has no use for him. Thank God for the macaroni.
    Indeed as we pass through the burning swamps of Chef Menteur, it seems to me that I catch a whiff of the malaise. A little tongue of hellfire licks at our heels and the MG jumps ahead, roaring like a bomber through the sandy pine barrens and across Bay St Louis. Sharon sits smiling and silent, her eyes all but closed against the wind, her big golden knees doubled up against the dashboard. “I swear, this is the cutest little car I ever saw!” she yelled at me a minute ago.
    By some schedule of proprieties known to her, she did not become my date until she left her rooming house where she put on a boy’s shirt and black knee britches. Her roommate watched us from an upper window. “Wave to Joyce,” Sharon commands me. Joyce is leaning on the sill, a brown-haired girl in a leather jacket. She has the voluptuous look of roommates left alone. It becomes necessary to look a third time. Joyce shifts her weight and beyond any doubt a noble young ham hikes up under the buckskin. A sadness overtakes me. If only—If only what? If only I could send Sharon on her way and go straight upstairs and see Joyce, a total stranger? Yes. But not quite. If only I could be with both of them, with a house full of them, an old Esplanade rooming house full of strapping American girls with their silly turned heads and their fine big bottoms. In the last split second I could swear Joyce knows what I am thinking, for she gives me a laughing naughty-you look and her mouth forms oh -ho! Sharon comes piling into the car and up against me. Now she can touch me.
    â€œWhere is Joyce from?”
    â€œIllinois.”
    â€œIs she nice?”
    â€œJoyce is a good old girl.”
    â€œShe seems to be. Are you all good friends?”
    â€œAre you kidding?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œLordy lord, the crazy talks we have. If people could hear us, they would carry us straight to Tuscaloosa.”
    â€œWhat do you talk about?”
    â€œEverybody.”
    â€œMe?”
    â€œWhy sure.”
    â€œWhat do you say?”
    â€œDo you really want to know?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWell I can tell you one thing, son.”
    â€œWhat’s that?”
    â€œYou’re surely not gon find out from me.”
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œLarroes catch medloes.”
    Out Elysian Fields we go, her warm arm lying over mine. All at once she is free with herself, flouncing around on the seat, bumping knee, hip, elbow against me. She is my date (she reminds me a little of a student nurse I once knew: she is not so starchy now but rather jolly and horsy). The MG jumps away from the stop signs like a young colt. I feel fine.
    Yes, she is on to the magic of the little car: we are earth-bound as a worm, yet we rush along at a tremendous clip between earth and sky. The heavy fragrant air pushes against us, a square hedge of pyrocantha looms dead ahead, we flash past and all of a sudden there is the Gulf, flat and sparkling away to the south.
    We are bowling along below Pass Christian when the accident happens. Just ahead of us a westbound green Ford begins a U-turn, thinks it sees nothing, creeps out and rams me square amidships. Not really hard—it makes a hollow metal bang b-rramp! and the MG shies like a spooked steer, jumps into the neutral ground, careens into a drain hole and stops, hissing. My bad shoulder has caught it. I think I pass out for a few seconds, but not before I see two things: Sharon, she is all right; and the people who hit me. It is an old couple. Ohio plates. I swear I almost recognize them. I’ve seen them in the motels by the hundreds. He is old and lean and fit, with a turkey throat and a baseball cap; she is featureless. They are on their way to Florida. He gives me a single terrified look as we buck over the grass, appeals to his wife for help, hesitates, bolts. Off he goes, bent over his wheel like a jockey.
    Sharon hovers over me. She touches my chin as if to get my attention. “Jack?”
    The pain in my shoulder was past all imagining but is already better.
    â€œHow did you know my name was Jack?”
    â€œMr Daigle and Mr Hebert call you Jack.”
    â€œAre you all right?”
    â€œI think so.”
    â€œYou look scared.”
    â€œWhy that crazy fool could have killed us.”
    The traffic has