“You know what I do? You know what I do? I’m ashameda tell ya, but you know what I very nearly goddam do every night? When I get home? You want to know?”
“Arthur, listen, this isn’t–”
“Wait a second—I’ll tell ya, God damn it. I practically have to keep myself from opening every goddam closet door in the apartment—I swear to God. Every night I come home, I half expect to find a bunch of bastards hiding all over the place. Elevator boys. Delivery boys. Cops—”
“All right. All right. Let’s try to take it a little easy, Arthur,” the gray-haired man said. He glanced abruptly to his right, where a cigarette, lighted some time earlier in the evening, was balanced on an ashtray. It obviously had gone out, though, and he didn’t pick it up. “In the first place,” he said into the phone, “I’ve told you many, many times, Arthur, that’s exactly where you make your biggest mistake. You know what you do? Would you like me to tell you what you do? You go out of your way—I mean this, now—you actually go out of your way to torture yourself. As a matter of fact, you actually inspire Joanie-” He broke off. “You’re bloody lucky she’s a wonderful kid. I mean it. You give that kid absolutely no credit for having any good taste—or brains, for Chrissake, for that matter—”
“Brains! Are you kidding? She hasn’t got any goddam brains! She’s an animal!”
The gray-haired man, his nostrils dilating, appeared to take a fairly deep breath. “We’re all animals,” he said. “Basically, we’re all animals.”
“Like hell we are. I’m no goddam animal. I may be a stupid, fouled-up twentieth-century son of a bitch, but I’m no animal. Don’t gimme that. I’m no animal.”
“Look, Arthur. This isn’t getting us—”
“Brains. Jesus, if you knew how funny that was. She thinks she’s a goddam intellectual. That’s the funny part, that’s the hilarious part. She reads the theatrical page, and she watches television till she’s practically blind—so she’s an intellectual. You know who I’m married to? You want to know who I’m married to? I’m married to the greatest living undeveloped, undiscovered actress, novelist, psychoanalyst, and all-around goddam unappreciated celebrity-genius in New York. You didn’t know that, didja? Christ, it’s so funny I could cut my throat. Madame Bovary at Columbia Extension School. Madame—”
“Who?” asked the gray-haired man, sounding annoyed.