2 a.m. and somehow I’m lying in the Seagram’s fountain. Strictly, you understand, an act of Christian outreach. This is. Got to save best old drinking buddy gone down third or maybe fourth time in 18 inches of water: certainly most excessive chaser for straight Jack Daniel’s. This is. Remember lifeguard manual: don’t let panicky drowner take you with him. But some trouble now: severe paralysis: no, have knelt on my own thumb again. Wife, meanwhile, has had it up to here with both of us: i.e., has had it (water) only up to her kneecaps. Before we can figure just who is rescuing who-whom, what etiquette will go with it, crazy all-round shoreline, wife’s went and invited an absolute stranger in because the water’s fine. For late November, fine. I feel good, a literary allusion. The Seagram’s fountain doesn’t have as much literary clop as the Plaza fountain, but this is closer than I thought I’d come to being Scott Fitzgerald. Or Zelda.
Now, could be a fault, but I do tend to trust people in fountains. And George, the stranger, well of dress, not intemperately black, comes from Upstate, just-like-us. George has this problem: hit an AD Exacta at OTB, but the office clammed shut before he could collect $138 and change. Broke, no place to dry his shoes. Would I cash the ticket . . . look if you don’t believe— unfolds a page of his Daily Murdoch’. AD, fifth race, $138 plus. Uh-uh, I’m from New York, no matter I can’t hold my water, let’s see his ticket first. And George splashes, just the correct amount of fear, where is it? Yup, in a vest pocket. Sure enough, AD, right date, right race. But, I’m from New York, I insist on some vigorish for my services. I’ll give $120, flat last offer. Poor George with his wet socks, got him strung out on the line.
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