One can pick patterns in one's life--rhythms, cadences, aggregates,
cross sections, events that occur in pairs and threes--and the
phenomenon is undoubtedly the result of chance. But one notices, one
superimposes the pattern subjectively--and decides it is not chance but
some obscure order, because one likes to feel that obscure orders occur
in life. It is difficult to keep the ego perpetually lined up with
statistical reality.
In twenty-four hours I'd looked at, talked to, explored, and somewhat
learned three different, very handsome young women. Mrs. Yvonne
Prentiss. Gwen Taylor--at Hattie's. And Marcia.
They come in threes, I thought. I thought it had been a long time since
I'd met even one girl so pretty as all these. I reminded myself not to
be an ass--to keep the view that grouping and variation in no way warp
mathematical principle. The obsessive quality of all such ideas weighed
on me. I hardly heard her account of their junket, on the preceding
Saturday, to Jones' Beach.
I began to invent an excuse for present departure--to think ahead about
apologizing--my work--the check, please--
Then the busboy dropped the tray.
He had tripped, it proved, on a napkin.
There were heavy stacks of plates and side dishes on the tray--glasses
of water--metal domes.
The boy staggered--and the wild gesticulation of his free arm was
caught by my peripheral vision. So I saw the tray slant--saw its burden
slide and crash onto the heads of a pair of buttressed dowagers, a few
tables away. The noise seemed to continue for a long time and a scream
permeated it as the boy lost hold entirely on his tray, fell against
a chair-back, and dish after soiled dish cascaded onto flower hats,
bright blouses, fat shoulders, and freckled necks.
A rush of waiters masked the scene. Guests stood to see better.