Free Hollywood is an All Volunteer Army by Steven Paul Leiva Page B

I’m afraid, were going to be broken here.
    As for me, I was determined to find Gilgamesh Paul.
    ~ * ~
    As I walked out of the hotel I stopped for a moment to appreciate the grand gift I had given Manhattan. Quiet. It was so very quiet—wonderfully so; eerily so; wonderfully, eerily so. There was very little if any traffic, and what there was moved to a muted soundtrack. I took a step out from under the awning of the hotel and the crunch of snow my footfall caused seemed like a celebratory cheer. Then I noticed various other crunches at various other volumes around me caused by other hearty souls out to see their city in its great white pause. A short pause, it would only last for a matter of hours before dirt would demand its due; dogs would, in olfactory panic, begin to remark their territories, and slush would laughingly settle in, waiting to freeze up overnight to cause someone bodily harm the next morning, as is its purpose in existence.
    I had planned to take the subway, but this was no time to be subterranean. It was going to be a long walk, but it was going to be one in a benign and fresh alternate universe. The subway would do for the trip back.
    I made my way to the corner of Central Parks West and South and turned down Broadway. Before me was an inviting corridor. I took the first step and never looked back.
    Sometime later I entered a small shop on Broadway close to Twelfth Street, which I was relieved to find open. At about three quarters of the way I had the sudden fear that no one would be there, prevented by the conditions from getting in. That would have been ironic. The door opened with the old fashion tinkling of a bell, though, and an ancient face looked up and greeted me.
    â€œGood morning,” the man behind the counter said.
    â€œGood morning. Glad to see you’re open.”
    â€œWhy shouldn’t I be?”
    â€œA blizzard is a good excuse to take some time off.”
    â€œDying is taking some time off. Until then, I’ll work.”
    â€œI’m interested in finding the whereabouts of a Gilgamesh Paul. I was given to understand that you might—”
    â€œGilgamesh Paul,” he said with some awe. “That is a name I have not heard in many years.”
    â€œSo...?”
    â€œHaven’t a clue. Not here. Not for years. No one’s interested.”
    â€œI’m interested.”
    â€œMake’s you odd, then, doesn’t it? Have you ever—”
    â€œNever.”
    â€œNot surprising.”
    â€œBut he sounds like—”
    â€œYes, so others have told me. I only remember one thing he said. He was at a summerhouse in the Hamptons and was asked if he wanted to go for a swim, and he answered—let’s see if I can remember this—he answered, ‘The act of swimming should only be committed if one happens, by accident, never by design, to be in water of sufficient depth to reach from the bottom of your big toe whilst en Pointe, to the bridge of your nose at its highest possible elevation.’” The old man laughed. “I always liked that.” He laughed some more. “You see—I don’t swim.”
    â€œYou don’t swim?”
    â€œDon’t swim.”
    â€œYou live on an island.”
    â€œA meaningless point if you never leave it—and I never have.”
    ~ * ~
    Disappointed, I left the shop looking for the nearest subway entrance, when I suddenly noticed that directly across the street was the New York offices of Olympic Pictures, housed in a violently Art Deco building. It had been their New York offices since the founding of the company in the early Twenties. Of course, the Olympic Pictures of then is not the Olympic Pictures of today. The Olympic Pictures of then was founded by George Pangalos a Greek fishmonger who had developed a passion for the nickelodeon and photographing shorthaired flappers in short skirts, whereas the Olympic Pictures of today is owned by Sveriges