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question. Heather and Dawn glance at each other, and I
wonder if they’re communicating in some special twin way. Matt
looks at me.
    “Everything cool, Jim?”
    “Aces.”
    He smiles that oh-I-know-what-you’re-up-to
smile. And he’s right. I am up to it.
    “Oh to be you. Well, then. I’ll leave you
three. Jim, come find me before you leave, and I’ll give you that
script.” He winks at me and walks inside, and before my attention
turns back to the women, I get to wondering whatever happened to
Wittig. Scanning the dim, flashy living room, music pumping through
the glass, I finally see him: a short, tweed-suit sporting,
gray-bearded man, martini glass raised, in the thick of that
dancing colony, sandwiched between two tall, slim men.
     
     

Chapter 5
     
    his caterpillar * why they can’t stay at the
Waldorf * the triangle of goodness * the joy of twins * the
contents of their refrigerator * doesn’t even say goodbye * the
diner called DINER * it’s all chemicals * studies his lines * Dr.
Lovejoy
     
    Four years ago, I carved a deep gash into my
chin with a razor. On purpose. It bled for six hours before I
realized I needed stitches. It took four to close the wound, but I
got what I wanted—a quarter-inch scar on the left side of my chin
nearly identical to the one on Jansen’s.
    It looks like the footprint of an
eight-legged caterpillar now, and the twin with short hair is
touching it as we sit in the backseat of a cab, en route to their
pad, as they call it.
    “That is the most precious little scar I’ve
ever seen,” she says. “Look at this, Dawn.”
    “Oh God, that’s cute. How’d it happen?”
    “I walked into the corner of a car door on
the set of Greener Grass .”
    These women can’t keep their hands off me.
I’m sitting in the middle of the backseat, one on either side of
me, focusing on their luxurious smell rather than the cab funk.
    “Where the fuck are you going, dude?” Dawn
yells at the cabby. “I said East Thirty-Seventh and Lexington—”
    “We go there.”
    “You’re taking the long way. I want the short
way. You’re out of your mind if you think I’m paying the scenic
route fare.”
    “What is scenic route?”
    “Unbelievable,” Dawn mutters. “He knows
exactly what he’s doing. We aren’t fucking tourists here!”
    Heather places her right hand on my cheek and
turns my face toward hers. Of the two, she has sweeter eyes.
    “Baby, why can’t we stay at your pad tonight?
I know you must be shacked-up in some killer suite.”
    “I’d love to,” I say. “I really would. But
I’m here with my girlfriend. Now she expects me not to come home.
That’s all right. But showing up with two buxom ladies like
yourselves would get me thrown out on my ass. You understand.”
    “Shit, I’d sleep in Central Park if it was
with you.”
    Heather and Dawn live in a two bedroom
apartment in Murray Hill. I have a hunch they’re models, but I
don’t ask. I mean, they have to be, right? How do two
twenty-year-olds afford a place in Manhattan?
    It’s 1:15 in the morning when we step out of
the elevator onto their floor. The building is dead silent. I’m
walking behind them, and they keep looking back at me with these
wicked grins. I know it should’ve occurred to me long before now,
but it hits me suddenly that we’re probably going into their
apartment to be naughty. And my head’s spinning so much from this
wonderful, inconceivable day which began more than eighteen hours
ago, that I can’t even assess whether or not I’m ready to live out
this fantasy. I’m not a terribly sexual person in real life. There
are guys out there, who I’m sure think about it much more than me.
I don’t even look at that much porn. I’ve only slept with one
person in my entire life—this nice girl I dated my freshman year in
college, when it still looked like I might turn out like everyone
else.
    So as Heather unlocks the door to their
apartment and we stroll inside, I’m kind of