"The movie? Nah. Probably just another quickie shot in a weekend," Jimmy replied.
"You're late," Jimmy said as she emerged from the crowd, her hair a beehive of gold against the grime of the block. Fleshpot on 42nd Street
A police siren wailed in the distance, a lonely, high-pitched cry that cut through the noise of the midnight traffic. Jimmy looked at the flickering lights, the peeling paint of the grand old theaters, and the desperate, beautiful faces swirling around them. "The movie
They started walking toward 8th Avenue, navigating the sea of sailors on leave, three-card monte dealers, and the "fleshpots" the movie posters promised—the storefronts where intimacy was sold by the minute behind velvet curtains. To the tourists, it was a den of iniquity. To Jimmy and Vera, it was just the neighborhood. "You're late," Jimmy said as she emerged from
"No," Vera said, her voice dropping. "The feeling. Everyone thinks this street is about the skin, the grit. But look at them, Jimmy. They’re all just looking for a version of themselves that isn’t lonely. That’s the real fleshpot. It’s a trap made of wanting to be seen."
Jimmy stood outside the Selwyn Theatre, his collar turned up against a wind that tasted of diesel and desperation. He wasn’t there for the movies, but the movies were everywhere. The marquee across the street screamed Fleshpot on 42nd Street in jagged, hand-painted letters. Below it, a poster featured a woman with eyes that looked right through the viewer, a mixture of boredom and a secret she’d never tell for less than a twenty.