"One flying cuspidor," he says, his face serious. "I see it hanging out
there by the _Saturn_ and then suddenly it is gone. Whoosh."
"Hallucination," I tell him. But I look out hard and try to see one too.
I don't, so I figure maybe I am right, after all.
I do not know about this "men from space" gimmick the science-fiction
people try to peddle, but lots of good substantial citizens see flying
cuspidors and I think to myself that maybe there is something to it. So
I keep looking back at the _Saturn_, but nothing unusual is going on
that I can see. My logic and super-salesmanship evidently convinces
Hotlips, for he does not say anything more about it.
Anyway, in a few minutes we joggle to a stop at Earthport, pile out,
wave our identification papers at the doorman with the lieutenant's
bars, and then take off for the _Atomic Cafe_ a block away.
Entering this gem of a drinking establishment, we make our way through
the smoke and noise to a quiet little corner table and give Mamie the
high-sign for two beers. A few minutes later she comes bouncing over
with the order and a cheery word about how invigorating it is to see us
high-class gentlemen instead of the bums that usually hang around a
joint like this trying to make time with a nice girl like her.
"That is all very nice," I say to her politely, "and we are overjoyed
beyond words to see you too, Mamie, but Hotlips and I have got strange
and mysterious things to discuss, so I would appreciate it if you would
see us later instead of now." With this, I give her arm a playful pat,
and she blushes and takes the hint.
When we are alone, I ask Hotlips, now what is the trouble which he has.
"Like I tell you before," Hotlips says, "I have a problem. So here it
is." He takes a deep breath and lets fly all at once. "I am in love of
the thrush, Stella Starlight."
I am drinking my beer when he says this, and suddenly I get a snootful
and start coughing, and he whams me on the back with his big paw so I
stop, more in self-defense than in his curing me. Somehow, the idea of a
big bruiser like Hotlips Grogan in love of a sweet fluffy thing like
Stella Starlight seems funny.
"So?" I say.
"So that is why I play so bad tonight," he says. Seeing I do not quite
catch on to the full intent of his remarks, he continues. "I am a happy
man, Eddie. I got my trumpet, a paid-for suit of clothes, a one-room
apartment with green wallpaper. Could a man ask for much more?"
"Not unless he is greedy," I agree.
Hotlips Grogan is staring at his beer as though he sees a worm in it and
looking sadder than ever. "It is a strange and funny thing," he says,
dreamy-like. "There she is singing, and there I am giving with the
trumpet, and all of a great big sudden--whammo!--it hits me, and I feel
a funny feeling in my stomach, like maybe it is full of supersuds or
something, and my mouth is dry just like cotton candy."
"Indigestion," I suggest.
He shakes his big head. "No," he says, "it is worse than indigestion."
He points to his stomach and sighs. "It is love."
"Fine," I say, happy it is not worse. "All you got to do is tell her,
get married and have lots and lots of kids."
Hotlips Grogan's big eyebrows play hopscotch around his button nose, so
I can tell he does not think I solve all his troubles with my
suggestion.
"You are a good man, Eddie," he tells me, "but you are too intellectual.
This is an affair of the heart." He sighs again. "I am never in love of
a girl before," he goes on, more worried, "and I do not know how to act.
Besides, the thrush is with us only a day, and Frankie already is making
with the eyes."
"So what should I do, give you lessons?" The idea is so laughable I
laugh at it. "Anyway, Frankie always makes with the eyes at thrushes."
"Yes," Hotlips Grogan admits, "but never before have I been in love of
any of the thrushes Frankie has made with the eyes at. Frankly, Eddie, I
am worried like all get out about this."
"Sometimes I do not even understand the way you play even before the
thrush comes, Hotlips," I admit. "Like for instance yesterday when we
play 'A Spaceship Built for Two.' This is a song, as you know, that does
not have in it many high notes, but even when you play the low notes
they sound somewhat like they maybe are trying to be high notes. It is a
matter which is perplexing to one of my curious nature."
Hotlips looks sheepish for a minute and then he says, "It is a physical
disability with me, Eddie. When I am young and practicing with my
trumpet one day, I have an accident and get my tongue caught in the
mouthpiece, and it is necessary for the doctor to operate on my tongue
and cut into it like maybe it is chopped liver."
"I am sorry to hear this, Hotlips," I say.
"I do not tell anyone this before, Eddie," Hotlips confesses. "But
afterward when I play the trumpet, I play two notes at one time, which
at first is pretty embarrassing."
"This is great, Hotlips," I proclaim as a big idea hits me; "you can
play your own harmony. With talent like that, and my brain--"
But Hotlips is shaking his head. "No, Eddie," he says. "The other note
is way off in the stratosphere someplace and no one can hear it, even
when the melody note is low. And the higher the note is you can hear,
the higher the other note is you cannot hear. Besides, now I cannot even
play what I am supposed to play, what with the thrush around."
I sit there with my beer in my hand and think about it for a while,
while Hotlips looks at me like a lost sheepdog. I scratch my head but I
do not even come up with dandruff.
Finally, I say, "Well, thrush or not, if you play no better than you do
this afternoon, Frankie will make you walk back home without a
spacesuit."
"That is for positive," Hotlips agrees sadly. "So what can I do?"
I am forced to admit that I do not know just what Hotlips can do.
"However," I say, "I have an idea." And I call Mamie over and tell her
the problem. "So you are a woman and maybe you know what my musician
friend can do," I suggest.
Mamie sighs. "I am at a loss for words concerning what your friend can
do, but I know just how he feels, for it is like that with me, too. I am
in love of a handsome young musician who comes in here, but he does not
take notice of me, except to order some beer for him and his friend."