The Road to Miltown: Or, under the Spreading Atrophy

The Road to Miltown: Or, under the Spreading Atrophy

The Road to Miltown: Or, under the Spreading Atrophy

The Road to Miltown: Or, under the Spreading Atrophy

Excerpt

IF I EVER sit down like a retired Scotland Yard inspector to write my memoirs, which I have provisionally entitled "Forty Years a Boob," one of the episodes I plan to gloze over is the night of pub-crawling I spent in Hollywood last summer with a beautiful, Amazonian extra player named, for purposes of this indiscretion, Audrey Merridew. For nine tumultuous hours, her destiny and mine were interwoven. (No more than our destinies, I hasten to add; we never even progressed to the point of lacing fingers.) The encounter was so brief, our lack of rapport so conclusive, that when I received a postcard from her recently--an aerial view of San Bernardino, with a tiny shrunken lemon wired to it--I could not recall the creature for a few seconds. Then the whole gruesome affair came back, and I realized with an uprush of pique that the card had an ulterior . . .

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