Then all of a sudden she turned to him. “Live’n th’ City?”
Ron’s throat was so dry it took him three tries to say, “Uh . . . no. I’m from Vermont.”
“Oh. From yer clothes, I thoughtcha lived here.” She spoke fast, blurring her words together. Ron had to listen hard to understand her, especially with the movie’s sound track blaring at them quadraphonically.
“No . . . no . . . I’m just here . . . for a few days.”
She nodded and smiled at him.
“Um . . . where are you from?”
“Noo Yawk.”
“I mean, after vacation time. Where do you live then?”
She said, “Right here. I live’n th’ City alla time.”
“But you can’t!” Ron said. “The City’s closed down after this weekend. Nobody lives here after Labor Day.”
“Don’t let ’em kid ya,” she answered.
By the time the movie was over, Ron learned that the girl’s name was Sylvia Meyer. She kept insisting that she lived in New York City—in Manhattan—all the time.
“I never been Outside,” Sylvia told him as they walked slowly out of the movie theater. “I was born here.”
The blinking, bleary-eyed people pushing out of the theater merged into the faster-moving noisy crowd on the street. It was still bright and muggy outside, even though the Dome blocked off any direct sunshine. Cars growled and honked in the streets. People hurried along, their faces grim.
“You alone?” Sylvia asked.
Ron nodded. Out here in the better light, he could get a good look at her. She was beautiful! Long dark hair falling over her shoulders, gray eyes with a bit of an oriental look to them, and a figure that made his pulse start throbbing. She was wearing a microskirt and white boots and a kind of loose-fitting short-sleeved blouse that didn’t hide anything.
“Nice rest’rant a few blocks down th’ avenya,” she said.
“Thanks—I was thinking I’d eat at one of the hotels. I’ve still got to find myself a room for the weekend.”
“Cripes, you ain’t got a room yet?” Sylvia shouted over the noise of the crowd. “Ya’ll never get one in th’ regular hotels. City’s jammed.”
Ron felt like an idiot. “Oh . . . then, what—”
She grinned at him. “Don’t worry. I know a place where you can get a room. An’ it’ll be a lot cheaper’n dese big hotels they stick visitors in. Right? An’ there’s a good rest’rant on th’ way. Right?”
Grinning back at her, Ron said, “Right. Let’s go.”
They fought across the stream of people walking down the street, went around a corner, and started down a cross-street. The crowd here was a little thinner, and it was easier to walk.
“Lousy tourists,” Sylvia muttered. “Think they own the City.”
The restaurant she led Ron to was quiet and dimly lit. It was nearly full, but it wasn’t noisy and nervy like the restaurants Ron’s father had gone to. Like most places in New York City, the restaurant had real live waiters. No automatic selector dials with their rows of buttons. No robot carts rolling your food tray up to your table on silent rubber wheels. Real waiters, in funny suits. Men who spoke with far-away accents and bowed and stood waiting for you to make up your mind.
Ron let Sylvia order dinner, since she knew the place. When the waiter left, she smiled at Ron and asked, “Where ya from? I don’t know nothin’ aboutcha.”
So while they ate, Ron talked. Sylvia listened and hardly said a word. Ron jabbed on and on. It was the first time anyone had asked him to tell much about himself, and he found that he enjoyed telling the story of his life. Especially to such a fantastic-looking girl.
By the time they left the restaurant, Ron felt warm and full and happy. And also sleepy. It was dark outside now, the street lamps were on. Not all of them, Ron saw. Many of them were broken, the bulbs shattered and sharp edges of glass hanging uselessly from their sockets. There were only a few people walking on the street now, and they all seemed to be hurrying as if they were afraid that something was following them. Something terrible.
Ron shifted his package of clothes from one arm to the other. “I still don’t understand how you can live here all year long when—”
Sylvia laughed. “Forget it. Don’t worry about it. Hey, c’mon . . . we gotta getcha a room. Right?”
He started to follow her down a street. But it looked dark down in the direction she was heading. Glancing back over his shoulder, Ron saw that the bright lights of the main avenue seemed to be behind them.
“Wait . . . shouldn’t we be going the other way?”
Sylvia reached for his free hand. “Naw—that’s where all th’ tourists stay. Dose big dumps charge ya two hunnerd a night for a room th’ size of a rat’s nest. And they’re all full-up by now. Right? C’mon down this way.”
She seemed to be in a hurry.
“What’s the rush?” Ron asked.
For a moment Sylvia’s face looked strange. Like she wanted to tell him something but was afraid to. The light from the street lamps made everything look weird, shadowy, off-color.
“C’mon,” she repeated, with a smile that was starting to look forced. “This is a great hotel. You’ll like it.”
Shrugging, Ron let her lead him down the street, into the deepening darkness. They crossed one avenue and started down the next block.
“Hey Sylvie.”
She stopped as if she had hit a steel barrier.
