CHAPTER FORTY THREE

FORTY THREE

“Gus Windham?”
The voice was familiar though I was not sure
why, and that made me wince. She was walking at my
elbow and I stopped and looked at her. Her features
struck a faint chord in my memory but there was no
ensuing melody of recognition and recollection.
“You don’t know me,” she said.
I was sure that I did know her but uncertain as
to why or from where.

“I’m sorry to bother you on the street like this.
I walked past you going the other way and I saw
you and just had to turn around and say something.
I worked for your father for five years. My name’s
Pam Gryffyn, with two ‘y’s – why and why not your
father used to say. He said he hired me so that he
would always be reminded to look at both sides of any
question.”
Everything came flooding back to me. This
woman was my personal assistant in the late 1960s
and early 1970s, working in a diminished capacity
compared to what Patti does now.
“Hello, Pam. So very nice to meet you.”
Back then I switched assistants more often.
Things were a lot more wide open than they are
since the events of September 2001. This city used
to be much more freewheeling. There were bankers who wanted my business enough to transact it in the evenings, outside the walls of their institutions. I did not need to purchase the trust of an assistant in order to have her execute large transactions and handle sums of cash. Now everyone but investment bankers and hedge fund managers is on alert for the least digression from government approved methods.
“I’ve been following your career since you arrived in the city. I’ve seen Ukulele, Baby, and I saw Café Lysistrata twice.”
This statement baffled me. So many people tell me they loved that show. I still do not understand why it never caught on with audiences enough to sustain a successful run. Fortunately it was Off Broadway, too, and only set me back a couple of hundred thousand dollars.
“I’ve already got tickets for Pretty Lady,” continued she of the two whys. “I feel so lucky to have gotten orchestra seats for opening night. It’s going to be just like the old days for me. I don’t go see much on Broadway anymore.”
“You should have called my office for tickets. Next time do that, please, and mention my father.”
“Oh I don’t mind. It is so sad about your director, though. His first Broadway show and this happens. I was so sorry for you when I heard about that. It must have been touch and go there for awhile.”
“Well, if you worked with Dad, you know show people.”
“I guess so. Show people are so great. I loved that era of my life.”
Then she said, “You’ve got it, too, I see.”
“Excuse me?”
“The eye condition -- Some people used to joke that your father was trying to be the Andy Warhol of theater. If they said that to me, I set them straight.”
“That was very good of you. People get such crazy ideas sometimes.”
“Don’t they? Well, you were on your way somewhere and my Joe is wondering where I am, I’m sure.”
I was not going to inquire about Joe. Dog, cat, or man – I was in no mood for further chatter from this dim reflection of my past. She meant little to me then and even less now.
“You know, I have to say, the resemblance is uncanny. You look so much like your father, talking to you almost made me feel younger.”
She laughed.
“Almost only counts in horseshoes, though, right?”
And shotgun blasts, I thought but did not say.
“Pam, it’s been so nice to meet you. I’ve got friends waiting, though, and have to be on my way.”
“I was talking to Joe about you just the other day. Imagine just running into you on the street. I saw you and I just had to say hello.”
“I’m glad you did. Bye.”
I started walking north again. Pam would be allowed to live. She believed the generational story.
“I’ll see you opening night,” she called after me.
Without turning, I raised a hand in acknowledgement that I had heard her and kept walking. Joe was in for an earful tonight, whatever his species.