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“Avery.”
“Beg your pardon?” she said.
“My name is Avery.”
“Excuse me, Mr. Avery.”
“We’re agrarian romanticists,” Wally said.
“Avery is my first name.”
“Who wants to read a bunch of bloody Russians when they can have the agrarian romanticists?”
“What does your friend have in his bottle?” the girl said.
“The best Italian import that a pair of unwashed feet could mash down in a bathtub. I say, let’s have a drink.”
He took the bottle from Avery and turned it up.
“Your turn, old pal.”
Avery sat down on the well and drank.
“Damn good man. Wonderful capacity,” Wally said. “Everyone take a swallow. Pass it around. I insist. Each of you must take a swallow. I never drink alone. It’s a sign of alcoholism.”
“You’re impossible, Wally,” the girl said.
“I cannot stand people who do not drink.”
A man took the bottle and held it for his girl to drink. She laughed and a few drops went down her chin. The bottle was passed from one couple to another.
“I refuse to go to parties where everyone is not smashed,” Wally said.
“Do you live in the Quarter, Mr. Crèvecoeur?” another girl said.
“No writer would live in the Quarter,” Wally said.
“Are you a writer?”
“Work on the pipeline,” Avery said.
“What did he say?”
“He’s a disillusioned agrarian,” Wally said.
“Have you really written anything?”
“We’ve made an agreement with a publisher to write dialogue for comic books,” Wally said.
“Be serious.”
“He did his thesis on Wordsworth’s sonnets to the dark lady.”
“I’m interested in writing myself,” she said to Avery.
“She’s a copy reader for the Picayune.”
“Where is the wine?” Avery said.
