"Sure."
"What's it like?" He asked it eagerly, and yet academically, as if there were a formula for the reply.
"Changes from minute to minute."
"I suppose so." He seemed disappointed.
That was when we started for Longchamps.
He took the bag along. He always does....
He ordered one Tom Collins. The tall glass was sweating even before the waiter could bring it from the bar.
"How are you—fixed?"
I told him that.
He peered at the room, the other diners, the gaudy colors. "Funny. I remember back in high school in Montclair when you were the class poet. Everybody thought you'd be a writer, sure. The last will and testament of our class left your pen to the juniors. Remember that?"