He had to get outside, into the open air. But where did that man come from? Ach, don’t think about Fleming. Not him. Not Paula. Not Moss. He resolved to go straight to Walbaum’s apartment. What use was there in calling him on the phone? He’d have to go to his door, get down on his knees and plead. That was it. He had no other choice. Walbaum lived in the West 80s, off West End Avenue. Henry wasn’t far. What could he tell Walbaum that would make him understand? Would the truth be powerful enough to convince him that he’d meant no disrespect by standing him up? Henry wondered, the muscles in his face convulsing. Walbaum’s doorman led Henry inside the lobby and asked him to wait while he rung up to the apartment. Over and over in his head Henry was singing: Unfortunately, the reproducing male,Observing daily the structural depreciation,Of his city, Finds now not even the insistent cries of fuck me, Can get him to come, No, the decaying visible world has yielded a body, That knows better, Than to release its seed, To make children who will live in a city, That is fast falling apart—the body wants to know: Why consent to this?
