Unpublished Poets

Arm in arm they crossed 44th Street in the light snow, snow tinted red, sometimes greenish-blue falling against the glow of Christmas lights lining the sidewalks, lights vying for attention with the glaring neon of the small specialty shops so famous and close to Broadway. The three young people, a woman and two men, had their eyes on the Algonquin Hotel and maybe a nightcap while Contessa played blues. No holiday standards in the Blue Bar. Sometimes there they got a glimpse of Faulkner in town for a book signing, or maybe Hemingway tucked in a far corner as if daring a tourist to come near, only enough pale light on his face to be noticed by café society. Once, the woman had talked briefly with Max Perkins, the only editor to ever understand modern writers. Nobody ever said they understood Max. Some said he drank too much, others said they’d never seen him have more than two, possibly three. And family? If he had one, they must have missed him. He was always in the city, out and about near Broadway, once in a while with a showgirl type, usually an older diva making a comeback. He was also seen every now and then with younger actresses, dancers, and singers, but more often with writers, fiction writers; he liked to help them with their manuscripts, help them celebrate new contracts with Scribner, liked to watch them bask in glory when books sold big, when they got a literary prize, especially then. The lady with two escorts wanted to write fiction. So far, she’d not been so good. Not that it would matter or change her lifestyle really. Her family had built great ships for more than a hundred years, and she was an only child. She’d self-published once and now lived in a townhouse near Central Park where she entertained but always after they’d dropped by the Algonquin. Someday she’d have the nerve to ask Maxwell Perkins, and he might ask F. Scott Fitzgerald, or maybe even Hemingway. Anything was possible in the Blue Bar at midnight.