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CLUE NUMBER NINE (from New York City):


For the Hidden Journey:

The only way to know is to try it on for size--a coat, a part, a romance, a job, an identity.


For the Puzzle:

Here is the ninth set of 5 letters of the puzzle/cryptogram:

b f t t v

To solve the puzzle, collect the other 13 parts and assemble them in order. This is part 9.

                                   


The Story:

One afternoon Alex and I are sitting on Benny and Tita's living room floor reading and listening to the radio when Benny skims in and tells us, "You guys got the parts. First rehearsal is tomorrow afternoon."

We drop jaw and say, "What?" Then he explains that some good friends are putting together a no-budget play and they need a couple of warm bodies for small parts. He volunteered us because he thought it would add to our trip. We tell him, "You're defective," but he insists. We've decided to stay with them for a while because we're liking the New York scene, so we cave in and agree to try it.

Getting to see Tita more was worth staying with them no matter what else was flipping. If a man doesn't go vertical when he sees her braless then he's in sad shape. Benny has this hokey expression, "It's the greatest thing since the development of frontal sex," and he knows what he's talking about, Jack, because Tita is goddess plus. Front, back, side, up, down, strange, charm, any old way must be heaven with her. Damn.

Sometimes I wonder what it's like to be in love, I mean really in love, not just lust madness. I wondered for a long time if I was in love with Tracie or Leslie, the girl I met in Iowa. I don't think Alex knows about love either, although he was pretty busted up by the rejection he got tagged with in Iowa. But I think that was mostly pride, not love.

Anyway, Benny drags us kicking and screaming to the rehearsal. It's a katakana madhouse in a dirty old brick building with wheat sheaf designs embossed on its rusty sliding door. Benny told us that once upon a time it was a bakery. It's dark inside and smells like stale tortilla chips, and during late rehearsals you can hear rats scurrying around in the attic.

The director is this little guy with a close-cropped graying beard and he's wearing this button that says, "That's Mr. Fuckhead to You" and it seems to me the gig is out of control, but Mr. Fuckhead has his hand on the wheel, it's in overdrive and he's got his eyes on the road.

(continued in Chapter Thirteen of I-State Lines)


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