Here we go.

Miller places the tray on a short wooden table at one end of the sofa.

I thought some of you might be tired and I want to talk.

He moves across the room with the maddening ease and comfort of a panther at the zoo. You can see him back there in the shadows but he doesn’t want to come out into the light. He moves back and forth in the dark recesses of his habitat. He’s not hungry and he’s not sleepy and you know he’s conscious of you. He just doesn’t want the humans to look upon him. Miller slowly drags a chair over to the circle, the same chair I was reluctant to move.

I stand by the bar, sipping my gin.

Jude and Molly have moved to crouch beside the tray, whispering and giggling and probably plotting something. I love the way women will become temporary allies, even when they don’t like each other. Jude lights a cigarette. Molly takes it from her fingers and has a puff. Jude pours out four small cups of espresso. Molly gives her back the cigarette, then begins to cut up lines with a small pocketknife that she takes from her pocket. Jude rolls up a bill and gives it to Molly, who bends delicately over the mirror. Her fine blond hair falling over her eyes like silk. Jude moves on her hands and knees to give Miller a cup of espresso. I have never seen her quite like this. Molly does another line, then climbs back onto the sofa with Jude’s cigarette between two fingers.

I stand by the bar, sipping at my gin.

Poe, says Miller. Come and sit down.

I’m okay.

I would rather you sat down, he says. He points at the sofa.

I finish my gin and pour another, smaller shot. I don’t move for two breaths, three. Then I walk across the room. I bend over the tray and touch the coke with the tip of my finger, which I rub slowly over my teeth. Miller points at the sofa and I sit down. Molly sighs and stretches her suede legs. She puts her white feet in my lap, curved and serene as two porcelain doves. I don’t touch them but look at Jude, who kneels on the floor. Her dress has slipped up nearly to her hips and I can see that she wears tiny yellow underpants. She holds a cup of espresso in both hands. I wonder if she’s carrying a gun or anything. She seems to be armed all the time, lately.

I begin to rub Molly’s feet.

Now, says Miller. I want to talk about The Velvet.

Finally.

Jude flashes her eyes at me and I’m not sure if she said this or I did. Miller blows thin blue smoke rings. He drinks his espresso like it’s water but I notice he hasn’t done any coke. I want some, though. I want a nice fat line but I don’t want him to know it.

Morality, he says. It’s a morality play like any other.

My favorite, I say.

Jude stands up and I can tell she’s getting anxious. She thinks I’m fucking with Miller and she doesn’t like it. She walks around to the far side of the sofa. She leans over the red velvet edge and places one hand flat on Molly’s stomach. Molly closes her eyes and begins to rub her feet together in my lap. I pull my hands away and watch Jude’s face, her eyes. She is staring at me, at me. Her eyes are narrow and dark, then slipping away. I know that look. She might be seducing me, she might be threatening me. It’s a familiar and useful look. I begin to touch Molly’s feet again. Molly lies perfectly motionless, as if asleep or dead. But she is obviously not asleep. Her face changes like the ocean at the slightest touch. Jude’s finger trails slowly down to her bellybutton then moves away. She remains standing, though. Jude sways slightly from the hip, staring now at Miller. This pleases me, because she is more menacing when she’s moving. Miller coughs. He is becoming rather pissed off, it seems to me. Jude smiles at me, a secret smile that the others don’t see.

Please continue, she says.

Well, says Miller. My vision of this film is old world. It has just a touch of The Turn of the Screw, very Henry James, but with an edge.

Henry fucking James? I say. With an edge?

Phineas, says Jude. Be nice.

Molly sighs. You still haven’t told us what the film is about, John.

He nods at the stack of papers on the tray. Those rough pages comprise the first act, he says. If anyone wants to have a look.

The room becomes a vacuum and I hold my breath. Everyone wants to have a look at the script, of course. But no one wants to show it. I stroke Molly’s feet and she runs her hand along my thigh in response. I have an erection and I wonder if she notices. I wonder if Jude notices. I wonder if anyone gives a goddamn.

It’s pretty much a Joe Blow story, says Miller.

Joe Blow, says Jude.

That’s right. Joe Blow in a world of shit.

Okay, says Molly.

Think about it, says Miller. The books that really get under your skin and the movies that are worth two hours of your time are always about Joe Blow.

Jude is pacing around as we talk, a nervous beast in strange quarters. She has no doubt heard this Joe Blow theory before and maybe she is less than mesmerized. She stops and does another line and I think maybe we should put that shit away. My hands soon move up Molly’s legs, to her knees. The suede is so soft, it’s like touching her bare flesh.

Give us an example, I say.

Miller shrugs and begins to rattle them off. Odysseus was the original Joe Blow, he says. Then you have Moses and half the poor fuckers in the Bible. If you think about it, pretty much everybody in the Bible was Joe Blow, they were all walking headfirst into a world of shit, except Jesus. He was the only one who had any idea about what he was getting into. After that, the list is endless. Hamlet. Ishmael. Tom Joad. Huck Finn. Philip Marlowe. Nick Carraway and Holden Caulfield and on down the line. Luke Skywalker is probably the Joe Blow to end all because that boy was dumb as a post and it was really a miracle that he survived.

Molly pulls one foot away from me and curls onto her side, fetal. The other foot remains in my crotch, pressing against my dick as if it lives there.

And what about the world of shit? says Jude.

She drifts in the dark somewhere behind me, as if she doesn’t want to be seen.

The world of shit, says Miller, is composed of three acts. And yes I know Shakespeare did most of his work in five acts but he was fucking Shakespeare. He could do whatever he wanted. But the second and fourth acts were transitional anyway. Are you guys even interested in this?

I shrug. Miller seems calm but I notice a muscle jump in his jaw.

I am, says Molly.

Anyway, says Miller. You introduce Joe Blow in act one and casually let it slip that he’s terrified of heights. Then you encourage him to climb a tree from which he cannot get down. In act two, you surround the tree with dogs and maybe set the woods on fire. Then you start throwing rocks at Joe. And in the third act, Joe either falls from the tree and shatters his spine, or he gets over his fear and climbs down. Maybe his girlfriend or his faithful buddy comes along to help him or maybe he just stays in the tree until he dies of exposure.

Jude moves around the couch, sparks flickering from her body. Her legs are long, curved, and yellow. The dusty yellow of flowers, of butterflies, the yellow that disappears when you touch it. I must be high.

And who is Joe Blow in your movie? I say.

Miller smiles. Any of us could be. But I think your odds are best.

I reach for a cigarette. No doubt. I am certainly in a world of shit.

Let’s talk about the characters, says Jude.

Please, says Miller. This is the fun part.

Don’t tell me, I say. I get to play a dwarf?

Miller takes Jude’s knife from the table, lifts it to his mouth and takes his time licking coke from the blade. I am dying for some of that shit. I look at Jude, and she looks away from me.

No, says Miller. Much better. You will be Molly’s husband.