Plexus by Henry Miller — Read

It was on a sunny day in the first rush of Spring that we found ourselves on Second Avenue. The Mezzotint racket was on its last legs and there was nothing new on the horizon. We had come to the East Side to make a touch but nothing had come of it. Weary and thirsty from tramping about in the blazing sun, we were wondering how to get a cool drink on no money. Passing a candy store with an inviting soda fountain we decided, on a mutual impulse, to go in, have our drink, and then pretend we had lost our money.

The owner, a homely, friendly sort of Jew, waited on us himself. His manner indicated that we obviously hailed from another world. We dawdled over the drink, drawing him into conversation in order to prepare him for the sad news. He seemed flattered that we took such notice of him. When it came time I fumbled around for change and, not finding any, asked Mona in a loud voice to look through her handbag, saying that I must have left my money at home. She of course couldn't dig up a red cent. I suggested to the man, who was calmly observing this performance, that, if he didn't mind, we would pay the next time we were in the neighborhood. Quite affably he said that we could forget about it if we liked. Then he politely inquired what part of the city we came from. To our surprise we discovered that he knew intimately the very street we were living on. At this point he invited us to have another drink and with the drink he offered us some delicious cakes.