LEONARD MICHAELS
377
Tell somebody who loves a movie that you didn't like it. See the
shock and hatred in his face. "Hey, man," you say, "it's only a
movie." For an instant, he could have killed you. How odd that peo–
ple can be so taken, yet even those most deeply steeped in movies
hardly ever quote lines exactly or remember accurately what hap–
pens in a single scene, unless they've watched a movie twice, deter–
mined really to know it. The most powerful art form of our day
depends on passionate incoherence, in our memory, for its effects.
The eye is glazed. The mouth hangs in a slack, flat face. They
trudge, zombies of post-movie-triste, back into the world. It isn't
fair. A movie is big, a human head is small.
One night, during a trip to L.A., we went to the Polo Lounge
and sat with an aquaintance of Howard who owned "a hundred
screens," or movie theaters. As we talked, a young woman came to
our table and pressed her thighs against the edge, fusing herself to it
as she stared at us. A minute passed without a word. Faintly ex–
asperated, as if we should have guessed what she wanted, she said,
"My girlfriend Samantha Turetzky is late."
"Want to join us while you're waiting?" I asked. The way she
pressed the table (daddy's leg?) was original.
"I thought you'd never ask," she said, then sat with us and was
soon chatting happily. When Samantha arrived, neither said hello to
the other. Samantha took the seat beside me and began talking
mechanically, as though she'd been doing it all evening and become
oblivious to her company. She was very thin and pale, with long,
luxurious, black, romantic hair. She called herself a "working girl." I
was moved; reminded of myself, maybe. She took a brush out of her
purse and, in the middle of the Polo Lounge, began brushing her
long hair.
"I'd never do this in public," she said, and then, "I'm boring.
I'm so boring. I never even finished high school."
She talked like that, apparently, to rid herself of anxiety. Her
heart wasn't in her work. I'd met others who were semiprofes–
sionals - straight jobs on the side - whoring only for clothes, a rent–
free condominium, cocaine, a man, or just attention. Samantha
brushed her hair, talking every minute, and didn't seem the least
calculating of her effects.
Howard's acquaintance encouraged the working girls to order
dinner, then signaled a waiter and told him to put everything on his
bill. A very sweet man, I thought, since two dinners at the Polo
Lounge probably cost more than they could ask for their bodies; and
