«Where do you find three hundred women, all talented, all good enough, to win prizes?»
«They weren't talented or all good,» said Bug, glancing around at his collection. «They were just ordinary, good, every-night dancers. I won the prizes. I made them good. And when we got Out there dancing, we cleared the floor.
Everyone else stopped, to watch us there out in the middle of nowhere, and we never stopped.»
He paused, blushed, and shook his head. «Sorry about that. Didn't mean to brag.»
But he wasn't bragging. I could see. He was just telling the truth.
«You want to know how this all started?» said Bug, handing over a hot dog and a Coke.
«Don't tell me,» I said. «I know.»
«How could you?» said Bug, looking me over.
«The last aud-call at L.A. High, I think they played 'Thanks for the Memory,' but just before that-«
» 'Roll Out the Barrel'-«
»-'the Barrel,' yes, and there you were in front of God and everyone, jumping.»
«I never stopped,» said Bug, eyes shut, back in those
years. «Never,» he said, «stopped.»
«You got your life all made,» I said.
«Unless,» said Bug, «something happens.»
What happened was, of course, the war.
Looking back, I remember that in that last year in school, sap that I was, I made up a list of my one hundred and sixty-five best friends. Can you imagine that? One hundred and sixty-five, count 'em, best friends! It's a good thing I never showed that list to anyone. I would have been hooted out of school.
Anyway, the war came and went and took with it a couple dozen of those listed friends and the rest just disappeared into holes in the ground or went east or wound up in Malibu or Fort Lauderdale. Bug was on that list, but I didn't figure out I didn't really know him until half a lifetime later. By that time I was down to half a dozen pals or women I might turn to if I needed, and it was then, walking down Hollywood Boulevard one Saturday afternoon, I heard someone call:
«How about a hot dog and a Coke?»
Bug, I thought without turning. And that's who it was, standing on the Walk of Stars with his feet planted on Mary Pickford and Ricardo Cortez just behind and Jimmy Stewart just ahead. Bug had taken off some hair and put on some weight, but it was Bug and I was overjoyed, perhaps too much, and showed it, for he seemed embarrassed at my enthusiasm. I saw then that his suit was not half new enough and his shirt frayed, but his tie was neatly tied and he shook my hand off and we popped into a place where we stood and had that hot dog and that Coke.
«Still going to be the world's greatest writer?» said Bug.
«Working at it,» I said.
«You'll get there,» said Bug and smiled, meaning it. «You were always good.»
«So were you,» I said.
That seemed to pain him slightly, for he stopped chewing for a moment and took a swig of Coke. «Yes, sir,» he said. «I surely was.»
«God,» I said, «I can still remember the day I saw all those trophies for the first time. What a family! Whatever-?»
Before I could finish asking, he gave the answer.
«Put 'em in storage, some. Some wound up with my first wife. Goodwill got the rest.»
«I'm sorry,» I said, and truly was.
Bug looked at me steadily. «How come you're sorry?»
«Hell, I dunno,» I said. «It's just, they seemed such a part of you. I haven't thought of you often the last few years or so, to be honest, but when I do, there you are knee-deep in all those cups and mugs in your front room, out in the kitchen, hell, in your garage!»
«I'll be damned,» said Bug. «What a memory you got.»
We finished our Cokes and it was almost time to go. I couldn't help myself, even seeing that Bug had fleshed himself out over the years.
«When-« I started to say, and stopped.
«When what?» said Bug.
«When,» I said with difficulty, «when was the last time you danced?»
«Years,» said Bug.
«But how long ago?»
«Ten years. Fifteen. Maybe twenty. Yeah, twenty. I don't dance anymore.»
«I don't believe that. Bug not dance? Nuts.»
«Truth. Gave my fancy night-out shoes to the Goodwill, too. Can't dance in your socks.»
«Can, and barefoot, too!»
Bug had to laugh at that. «You're really something. Well, it's been nice.» He started edging toward the door. «Take care, genius-«
«Not so fast.» I walked him out into the light and he was looking both ways as if there were heavy traffic. «You know one thing I never saw and wanted to see? You bragged about it, said you took three hundred ordinary girls out on the dance floor and turned them into Ginger Rogers inside three minutes. But I only saw you once at that aud-call in '38, so I don't believe you.»
«What?» said Bug. «You saw the trophies!»
«You could have had those made up,» I pursued, looking at his wrinkled suit and frayed shirt cuffs. «Anyone can go in a trophy shop and buy a cup and have his name put on it!»
«You think I did that?» cried Bug.
«I think that, yes!»
Bug glanced out in the street and back at me and back in the street and back to me, trying to decide which way to run or push or shout.
«What's got into you?» said Bug. «Why're you talking like that?»
«God, I don't know,» I admitted. «It's just, we might not meet again and I'll never have the chance, or you to prove it. I'd like, after all this time, to see what you talked about. I'd love to see you dance again, Bug.»
«Naw,» said Bug. «I've forgotten how.»
«Don't hand me that. You may have forgotten, but the rest of you knows how. Bet you could go down to the Ambassador Hotel this afternoon, they still have tea dances there, and clear the floor, just like you said. After you're out there nobody else dances, they all stop and look at you and her just like thirty years ago.»
«No,» said Bug, backing away but coming back. «No, no.»
«Pick a stranger, any girl, any woman, out of the crowd, lead her out, hold her in your arms and just skim her around as if you were on ice and dream her to Paradise.»
«If you write like that, you'll never sell,» said Bug.
«Bet you, Bug.»
«I don't bet.»
«All right, then. Bet you you can't. Bet you, By God, that you've lost your stuff!»
«Now, hold on,» said Bug.
«I mean it. Lost your stuff forever, for good. Bet you. Wanna bet?»
Bug's eyes took on a peculiar shine and his face was flushed. «How much?»
«Fifty bucks!»
«I don't have-«
«Thirty bucks, then. Twenty! You can afford to lose that, can't you?»
«Who says I'd lose, dammit?»
«I say. Twenty. Is it a deal?»
«You're throwing your money away.»
«No, I'm a sure winner, because you can't dance worth shoats and shinola!»
«Where's your money?» cried Bug, incensed now.
«Here!»
«Where's your car!?»
«I don't own a car. Never learned to drive. Where's yours?»
«Sold it! Jesus, no cars. How do we get to the tea dance!?» We got. We grabbed a cab and I paid and, before Bug could relent, dragged him through the hotel lobby and into the ballroom. It was a nice summer afternoon, so nice that the room was filled with mostly middle-aged men and their wives, a few younger ones with their girlfriends, and some kids out of college who looked out of place, embarrassed by the mostly old-folks music out of another time. We got the last table and when Bug opened his mouth for one last protest, I put a straw in it and helped him nurse a marguerita.
«Why are you doing this?» he protested again.
«Because you were just one of one hundred sixty-five close friends!» I said.
«We were never friends,» said Bug.
«Well, today, anyway. There's 'Moonlight Serenade.' Always liked that, never danced myself, clumsy fool. On your feet, Bug!»
He was on his feet, swaying.