Fare Forward: Letters from David Markson

Feb 3 ’05

Simsy, you’re a pisser—

You tell me you’ll be in town about 45 minutes, you’ve got sixteen readings, nine maybe-readings, eleven tentative dinner plans — and I should pick any time that’s fine with me!

OK, OK, here’s the deal. Sunday, March 6. Noon. Sharp. Place called Rafaella. On Seventh Avenue (maybe it’s called Seventh Av. South), just two doors above 10^th Street, west side of the street. Name Rafaella on a blue awning (maybe some stripes). Noon gives us comfortable time in which without rush you can leave for that later reading, no? Big, campy joint, two rooms — if you’re ahead of me pick whatever location you want — lots with armchairs, even.

But, but, but — do call and confirm when you’re here, eh? Sat., or even an hour or two beforehand on Sun. There’s one remote (I hope) possible difficulty — and who knows what else, when you’re dealing with a 103-year-old wreck?

Done? Done.

Until—

David

P.S. I just may, may still be the guy with the three-month experimental beard — when we are peering around to spot each other.