Myra-Breckinridge-Gore-Vidal

world of your ever being a major star." The reference to histalent pleased him; the prophecy alarmed him. "Hell, MissMyra, I don't walk that bad." "I'm afraid you do. And look atthe way you're leaning to one side right now. You look likeyou're about to fall out of the chair." He straightened up andcrossed his legs. "That better?" The hint of a sneer in hisvoice excited me. He must be built up in order that his fallbe the more terrible. "Yes. Now I realize that you have aphysical problem. Mary-Ann told me about your back." "Ibroke four ribs and even so finished the last half." He wasinordinately proud; no doubt about it, a confident youngman. "Very admirable. Now I want you to stand up and walkfirst toward the door and then back here to me." I couldhear him murmur "Oh, shit" under his breath as helumbered to his feet. Slowly he walked, or rather slouched,to the door and then returned and stood defiantly in front ofme, thumbs hooked in his belt. I noted for the first time howlarge and strong his hands are, hairless with unusually longthumbs. O.K.? he asked. "Not O.K." I studied him amoment. He was so close to me that my eyes were on alevel with his belt buckle. "Now, Rusty, I noticed the othernight that your problem seems to go away when you dance.So, just as an exercise, I want you to do one of thosestationary dances--I don't know what they're called. Youknow, like the one you were doing at the party." "Dance?Here? Now?" He looked puzzled. "But there's no music.""To be precise there never is music with those dances, justelectronic noise. Nothing compared to the big sound ofGlenn Miller. Anyway, all you need is a beat. You can keep