The Starbucks that Victor prefers is very small, and to get there you have to make several right turns in a row, in relatively rapid succession; even when you arrive, you walk in the front door and you have to turn a corner to the right before you even get to the front register. The seat Victor prefers is beyond that, around another corner to the right, tucked back into a little nook at the far back right corner of the room. You don't really see it when you walk in, because of the dark wood surrounding it. The way the room is shaped, you notice the hallway to the restrooms on the left, but not the dark nook tucked back away on the right. It's almost always empty, and when it's not, Victor is usually the sole occupant. He calls it his office, and getting there feels rather a bit like a journey to the center of the Labyrinth.
When I arrive, he gestures for me to sit down, an enthusiastic yet curt gesture which seems to imply that we are slightly behind schedule for the running of Planet Earth. It's immediately energizing. Sans preamble, Victor speaks:
Victor: A tearful phone call from Fat Sister after I left. You are, if I remember rightly, a Tyrant, a Neophyte, a Parasite, Judas Iscariot and Adolph Hitler rolled into one. Surprised?
Edward: No.
Victor: So. How'd it go?
Edward: She stomped out to the lobby after you left.
Victor (laughing): She had the courtesy to call me from the office phone.
Edward (a chuckle): A point in her favor.
Victor: I'm sure Charles will appreciate funding her rant.
Edward: There's got to be a discretionary Dissonant Diva fund in every theatre's budget.
Victor: Amen, my brother. Amen.
Edward: How was your first company meeting?
Victor picks up his coffee and sips it, tilting his head to the side and tasting it like wine. A thoughtful but brief pause.
Victor: Well, it's cold now. But when I arrived it was hot and dark and steaming.
Victor takes a second sip of his coffee.
Edward: Steaming like the Christmas Pudding you've ignited between Fat Sister's legs.
Victor spit-takes to his left, misting the wall perfectly with a fragrant spray of coffee. I'm telling you, his command of physical comedy is unparalleled. I'm laughing, possibly howling, at this; I take a look over my left shoulder to see if anyone else in the room is disturbed by our presence. The room is fairly full, nearing packed. The music, whatever it is, sounds like Louis Armstrong playing Saint-Saens' The Aquarium. Some of the other patrons are looking around, confused, trying to figure out who is laughing so loudly. It feels like we're invisible in the center of this labyrinth.
Victor: What are you going to do at the next rehearsal?
Edward: Run the show. Backwards.
Victor: Vagina my through poop I.
This slays me. I have this braying wounded-asthmatic-hyena laugh, sometimes. It can be a little off-putting. A lady two tables down slams her book of Feminist Thought Form Poetry closed, grabs her woven hemp bag and stomps her Birkenstocky feet right out of that Starbucks. Perhaps she is in search of a pumice stone and some toenail clippers. For the sake of the other riders on local public transport, let us pray.
Victor leads the way through an alarmed back exit that isn't terribly alarmed at all. We're on West 47th. I have no idea how. We walk over to 8th Avenue and down many several blocks until we reach the bar at which we had agreed to get a drink. Just as we cross the street, Victor's cell phone rings.
Victor: This is Victor. Yes. ... Yes. ... Yes. ... Yes. ... Yes. ... I see. ... No.
Victor ends the call.
Edward: Am I drinking alone?
Victor leads the way into the bar. Late afternoon light angles around buildings to flash from passing cars.
Victor: Heaven forfend. As I remember it, you are partial to Manhattans, no?
We are inside, heaving ourselves onto backed bar stools.
Edward: O indeed, Mighty Mister Maog.
Victor: You've penetrated my alliterative anus.
Edward: Mercy me.
Victor: ... Perplexed playwright purloins purpose.
Edward: Derelict director ditches duty.
Victor: Ha! Yes. ... effervescent Edward eases egress.
Edward: That was particularly well done.
Victor: Thank you.
Bartender: Order a drink, fancy fucks.
Slight pause.
Edward: Manhattan, up, Jack is fine.
Victor: Lemon Drop.
I turn to look at him, but he's regarding the bartender with calm, even eyes.
Bartender: You got it.
The bartender turns and makes our drinks in what feels like three seconds.
Edward: Lemon Drop?
Victor: I'll explain later.
Just as our drinks hit the bar, Charles appears next to us.
Charles: Scotch, cheap, neat.
Charles turns to us.
Charles: Fat Sister is crazier than a gay Republican.
Victor: Charles. What a coincidence. Tell us, we're all agog.
Charles: She is at a pay phone near my apartment, calling the office and calling my answering machine, waiting for me to get home.
Edward: How did you avoid her?
Charles: Iain saw her as he left to walk Stockard. He's sipping espresso at the cafe down the street --
Victor [sim.]: The one with the chocolate eclairs?
Charles [sim.]: The one with the chocolate eclairs -- pretending to read Proust.
Edward: Does anyone ever actually read Proust, anyway?
Charles turns to look at me, I can't tell if he's offended or thoughtful.
Victor: A gay man in a sidewalk cafe with espresso and a Pomeranian, pretending to read Proust. It would be better if he were eating madeleines.
Charles: They're baking a fresh batch. He's having the time of his life. Meanwhile, I'm being stalked by this crazy bitch -- all because of your little stunt, Victor.
Victor: Sadly, I think that the one most likely to be affected by this turn of events is Edward.
They are looking at me; I raise my glass to them. We clink, and the music in the background resolves itself into Louis Armstrong, A Kiss To Build A Dream On. We leave after one drink, scattering to three winds on the corner outside the bar.
When I get home, my girlfriend is complaining that she did the dishes. I try to make her laugh. It does not work. We have nothing to do, very little money to spend. Well, she has money: wealthy upstate family, a full-time job at Godiva on 5th Ave., but I don't make as much. So I don't propose what I would have back in Boston: rent a movie, see a film, do something fun. We live in Corona, Queens: there is nothing to do when the Lemon Ice King of Corona is closed. I retreat to my room, where, when I hear her footsteps outside and the door quietly open, I pretend to be asleep.
