In the seventh month of our living together, he began to introduce me to his girls again when they came in. Most of them came only once, but all of them received the same mechanical treatment. He only discriminated with liquor, the quality of which improved with the attractiveness or reluctance of the girl: gin for slow starters, bourbon for momentary strangers, and the scotch he reserved for those he hoped would come again. There was first the trek into his room, his own trip out for the ice and glasses while classical music was played within; then after a while the classical piece would be replaced by several Motowns. Finally, there was her trip to the bathroom, his calling a cab in the hall, and the sound of both their feet on the stairs as he walked her down to the cab. Then he would come to my room in his red bathrobe, glass in hand, for the aftertalk.

THEN IN THE NINTH MONTH the trouble started. It would be very easy to pick out one incident, one day, one area of misunderstanding in that month and say: “That was where it began.” It would be easy, but not accurate. It might have been one instance or a combination of many. It might have been the girl who came into the living room, when I was going over the proposed blueprints for a new settlement house, and who lingered too long outside his room in conversation because her father was a builder somewhere. Or it might have been nothing at all. But after that time he warned me about being too friendly with his company.

Another night, when I was leaving the bathroom in my shorts, he came out of his room with a girl who smiled.

“Hi,” she said to me.

I nodded hello as I ducked back into the bathroom.

When he had walked her down to the door he came to my room and knocked. He did not have a drink.

“Why didn’t you speak to my company?” he demanded.

“I was in my shorts.”

“She felt bad about it. She asked what the hell was wrong with you. What could I tell her—‘He got problems’?”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “But I didn’t want to stop in my shorts.”

“I see through you, Howard,” he said. “You’re just jealous of me and try to insult my girls to get to me.”

“Why should I be jealous of you?”

“Because I’m a man and you’re not.”

“What makes a man anyway?” I said. “Your fried eggs and wheat germ? Why should I be jealous of you or what you bring in?”

“Some people don’t need a reason. You’re a black devil and you’ll get yours. I predict that you’ll get yours.”

“Look,” I told him, “I’m sorry about the girl. Tell her I’m sorry when you see her again.”

“You treated her so bad she probably won’t come back.”