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'Another piece of shit is another piece of shit is ...'
'But it's relative ...'
'It's all the same.'
'Excuse me ...' Bogus thought of biting the slender neck of a tall girl in front of him, thought of turning and kneeing a covey of callow philosophers behind him who were calling the film 'great nihilism'.
Just before the door, he knew he'd been recognized. A girl with a drug complexion and dirty-saucer eyes stared at him, then plucked her companion's sleeve. They were a part of a group, and in a minute all of them turned to regard Trumper, wedged in a clutch of people by the door. It was a double door, but half of it was stuck closed. As someone snapped it open, a cheer went up, and for a second, Trumper actually imagined the applause was for him. Then a young man in a Union Army uniform, who had an elegant Smith Brothers' beard and yellow teeth, blocked his way.
'Excuse me,' Trumper said.
'Hey, it's you,' the young man said, and turning to his friends, he called, 'hey, I told you - it's that guy ...'
Instantly a dozen people were gawking at him in celebrity fashion.
'I thought he was taller,' a girl said.
Some of the young ones - just kids, silly and laughing - followed him all the way to his car.
Another girl teased him. 'Oh, come home and meet my mother!' she sang.
He got into his car and drove away.
'A new Volkswagen!' a boy said with mock awe. 'Far out ...'
Trumper drove around and got lost; he'd never driven in New York before. Finally, he paid a taxi to lead him to Tulpen's apartment. He still had his key to the place. It was after midnight, but he was thinking of other kinds of time. Like months, and how long he'd been gone; like how pregnant Tulpen had been when the film was finished; like how much time had passed before the film was released. Though he knew better, he had an image of Tulpen as he expected her to look now: only a little more swollen than in the film.
He tried to let himself in, but she had fastened the safety chain. He heard her sit up startled in bed, and he whispered, 'It's me.'
It was a long time before she would let him in. She was in a short bathrobe, cinched tight at her waist; her belly was as flat as before; she'd even lost some weight. In the kitchen, he collided with a box of paper diapers and crunched a baby's plastic pacifier under his foot. A perverted demon in his head kept telling bad jokes to his brain.
He tried to smile. 'Boy or girl?' he asked.
'Boy,' she said. Looking down, she pretended to rub the sleep in her eyes, but she was wide-awake.
'Why didn't you tell me?'
'You made yourself pretty clear. Anyway, it's my baby.'
'Mine too,' he said. 'You even said so, in the film ...'
'In Ralph's film,' she said. 'He wrote the script.'
'But it is mine, isn't it?' he asked her. 'I mean, really ...'
'Biologically?' she said crisply. 'Of course it is.'
'Can I see him?' Trumper asked. She was very tense, but she faked a shrug and led him past her bed to a little nook made out of stacked bookcases and more fish.
The boy slept in a huge basket, with lots of toys around him. He looked the way Colm had looked at the age of a few weeks, and a lot like Biggie's new baby, who was probably only a month or so older.
Bogus stared at the baby because it was easier than looking at Tulpen; though there's not much to see in a child that age, Trumper appeared to be reading it.
Tulpen banged around in the background. From the linen cabinet, she took some sheets and some blankets and a pillow; it was clear she was making up the couch for Bogus to sleep on.
'Do you want me to go?' he asked.
'Why did you come?' she asked. 'You just saw the movie, right?'
