Hooking Up
“That is one side of him. He is a small, quiet man, and he talks in this halting whisper. He seems to wear layer upon layer of clothes, all sorts of sweaters, vests, coats. He smiles, nods, nods, nods; he makes courtly, sort of down home pleasantries. And if—there may be an ashtray on his desk by now—but if there was no ashtray, he would go out himself! Mr. Shawn of The New Yorker!—and bring back a Coca-Cola bottle for use as an ashtray. Easygoing!
“Why—hello—Mr.—Cage—um—yes—how—are—yon—here—let—me—how—is—Mrs.—Cage—um—take—your—coat—oh-oh—didn’t—mean—to—um—there—if—I—can—just—slip—it—off—unh—here—have—a—”
“Well, thank you very much, Mr. Shawn—”
“—a—seat—right—over—here—well—it—uh—always—does— that—ha-ha—well—now—oh—I—see—you’re—smoking—let—me—”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Shawn, I didn’t-”
“No, no, no, no, no, no, please—perfectly—all—right—it’s—please—keep—your—seat—I’ll—be—right—back—”
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