At eleven forty seven, Jimmy steps out into the dark street. He’s coming from the bar lounge that had just let out after the big game finished. The work was done for the day, and for him, quite permanently. Dodgers beat the Yankees, 2-1, and everyone was in cheerful spirits in Downtown. Rain had just begun to fall just before it ended, and all the drunkards and the youngsters are treated to dark skies and damp sidewalks. Jimmy puts on his hat, and snaps up his umbrella. He is especially happy about the outcome, having wagered a pretty penny on this game. More than he could afford, in fact. 

As more barflys took to the streets now littered with life, Jimmy headed south on Broadway. As he walked, he wiped the perspiration leaking from the sweatglands in his face using one of the towels the waitress had given him. There had been much more sweat to clean up, earlier, before Roseboro’s single RBI, and before Bessent pitched a no-hitter in the final inning. But it had nothing to do with the game. 

Much earlier, as Jimmy sat, clutching tight to a piece of paper with an anonymous phone number, and drinking his beer, he noticed out of the corner of his eye, a girl. She sat alone at the bar several feet away. Her hair was a rich shade of copper. It flowed in waves to adorn her glowing, porcelain skin. Her eyes were bright, sparkling and eager, they seemed to brighten the world around her. A small nose, full lips - she seemed the apotheosis of what a woman should look like, or rather - What Jimmy’s idea of a woman should look like. 

The game wore on, and cheers could be heard all through out the bar, but the girl near the end seemed uninterested entirely. This made Jimmy uninterested, and now he yearned for her attention more than he yearned for that forty dollars. He wanted nothing more than to dive head first into the mysterous abyss of a conversation. Clammy hands, and a damp neck, Jimmy took his drink over to the girl. The break in play on the television overhead hinted at his cue to speak. The girl now shifted her bright eyes in his direction, silent as ever. But before he could speak-

“Cut!” Cried the director. “Jimmy, that was good. Real good, but we need you standing over this way.” The director places Jimmy, a supporting actor working on a made-for-television biopic, on the opposite side of the girl. All around them, the ambiance had been broken. Men run wire from floor-to-floor, as extras chatter during the break. Other actors begin to fix their ties, hats, and take large drinks of the cheap beer offered up for the scene. 

“Suzy,” The director speaks to the girl still sitting at the end of the bar, “You’re missing something, kid. Your look is somber, but it isn’t heartfelt. Try to fill in those gaps.” Suzy nods, still attaining the look of an uninterested city girl. Everyone is in position once more, and “Problems” by the Everly Brothers starts to play on the jukebox. 

“Ready…Action!” The spell has been recast, and everyone not holding a script in their hands or boom mics over their heads goes back to 1958. Jimmy takes his beer over, once more, this time walking around so the cameras will get better angles of his face. Again he found himself staring into the eyes of a gem. She took a modest drink of her Manhattan, as Jim Gentile’s fly ball is caught by Mickey Mantle. 

“Hey,” Jimmy says. The girl doesn’t speak, but reaches for her purse to pay for the drink. Here is where things didn’t turn out how they should. At this point, everything had been running parallel. The script, the buildup, the tension between characters. They were esablishing motive, which was the director’s intent for this specific scene. Jimmy, the man, not the actor however, had other intentions. Following the “hey” written in the script, were the words “aren’t you Tommy’s kid-sister? What’re you doing, knocking back Manhattans and smoking Chesterfield’s like it’s milkshakes and french fries?” That was the original intent. But Jimmy valued the movie and his paycheck far less than he valued this opportunity. He spoke, and his words could not be found anywhere in the pages of the script. The build up of five long years of running into this girl at various try-outs and bar spots. This film was so low now on funds, that the director had no choice but to keep rolling, praying to salvage the shot during editing. And here is where everyone in the room fell quiet, as Jimmy released every feeling, every miniscule emotion inside of him. 

“You must think you’re some sort of hot shot, don’t you? I’ll bet my bottom dollar, you’ve played with every man’s heart who is in this bar right now. You get your kicks that way, seein’ them all squirm for ya, don’t you?. Well, sister, I’ve gotta tell you, that ain’t the way for us. You and me, there’s something there. A dim light in a deep tunnel. A small gust on a windless day at sea. Hope. It does crazy things to a man. Sometimes it’s like waiting for an interesting piece of mail, the kind that so rarely arrives, and even when it does, you’re scared to death because it can be lost so easily. And sometimes it’s like a Rubix Cube, with countless numbers of wrong turns. It takes just the perfect combination of right turns, and when achieved, it is perfect. And sometimes, on days like today, hope is risking a job, a paycheck, next months rent and tomorrows groceries to talk to a girl for three damn minutes. And all you can hope for is that she’ll decide to stay and order herself another drink.”