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inaugurate a conversation about Proust, about existentialism or the geopolitical climate of the southeastern section of Latin America. Hell, she could discuss phyllo-dough cookies or Fidel Castro; stock dividends or stock-car racing; parity for potato farmers or recipes for potato soup. So why, Ellenor wondered, as she walked back into her office, why had she been so shy and boring?
    Frustrated and annoye4 with herself, Ellenor plopped down in the chair behind her desk. She wasn’t certain what else she might be doing that evening after work, but she was now damned sure she’d end up gobbling that Sara Lee chocolate cake sitting on the top shelf of the freezer.

6 
    Party time!
    There was work to be done, and Ron got right to it. At college he had been the best social director his fraternity had ever known. His theme affairs—Roman Orgy, Roaring Twenties, Pirate, and Pajama parties—had been the talk of the campus. There was no reason to believe he couldn’t follow the same formula, come up with another string of successes in Manhattan.
    He combed the dark and musty basement of his apartment house and found an old metal tub. He dragged it up to the apartment, scrubbed and scoured it, removed the rust, and if it wasn’t quite shining new, at least it no longer looked rancid.
    He found a dozen bags of not-the-freshest potato chips (on sale) and ordered, from a local delicatessen, several huge blocks of ice and a couple of trays of sandwiches to be delivered to the apartment the night of the soiree.
    On Wednesday, their first day off, Ron and Gary went shopping.
    Ron flew through the Salvation Army outlet like a tornado, praying he’d run into no one he knew, as he pointed at second-, third-, and twenty-fourth-hand furniture.
    One day, Ron promised himself, one day I’ll have Billy Baldwin picking out furniture for me….
    For now, however, Ron handed over $215 for three out-of-shape box springs and $105 for three lumpy mattresses. They also bought eight torn and scratchy window shades ($40), a dining table ($27), four wobbly chairs ($16), a shambles of a couch ($35), and a covered-with-stains coffee table ($12).
     
    “Two hundred and twenty-five dollars each to look like we just moved into Catfish Row?” Gary complained to Ron.
     
    “Relax,” said Ron as he handed the money plus the twenty-dollar delivery charge to the lady behind the counter. “It’s a beginning, isn’t it? How will we ever appreciate the lap of luxury if we don’t start at its feet?”
     
    “Luxury doesn’t have feet,” said Gary.
     
    “Don’t worry,” said Ron. “This furniture’ll be fine for now. Till our ships come in. Trust me.”
    Ron pocketed the five dollars change handed him by the cashier, thanked the woman for her time, and then gave Gary a shove, propelling him toward the front door.
    They took a subway uptown to Fifty-ninth Street and walked over to Bloomingdale’s.
     
    “The sheets for our third-rate beds,” Ron explained as they walked through the seventh floor of the bustling department store, “have to be first-rate. The mattresses may be for shit, but if they’re covered well, any guest who sleeps over will never guess we bought them at the Halloween shop.”
    Gary gasped at the $84 bill.
     
    “Basics means booze,” said Ron, practically dragging Gary through the liquor store near their apartment house. “Comprenez-vous? Scotch, bourbon, vodka, gin, and mixers. For now, however, we’ll just stick with picking up a couple of gallons of the world’s cheapest vodka and, while we’re at it, something civilized and sophisticated to mix it with … like four and a half gallons of the Hawaiian Punch … on sale across the street at our local A&P.”
     
    “Why don’t we just get a couple of six-packs and declare bankruptcy?” protested Gary.
     
    “Don’t be more of a peasant than you already are, kid,” said Ron, loading up Gary’s outstretched arms with vodka bottles and removing his last