I. Back in the late sixties I was serving in the Royal Navy, and we were visiting the East Coast of Canada. After several stops at Ports in Canada, we were informed that we were having one last visit before sailing for home. This final stop would be fifteen days in New York. We sailed into the Port of New York, mooring alongside the liner Queen Mary. The morning after we arrived the ship was open to the general public, I was patrolling the upper deck, when I was approached by two guys who asked if I would like to go with them on a sightseeing trip around some of The Big Apple. I said that I would like to, but I would like to bring a friend. One hour later we were in a taxi, travelling around the City, the two guys were both very touchy-feely and we were wondering if they might be gay. The cab dropped us of outside an apartment block in a smart district of the City, we went to the flat of these two friends. Once inside things started to happen quite quickly. One guy led me into a. There was a telephone bill, past due, sitting on the nightstand, a vodka bottle on top of it, half empty. ‘Hi Amanda, this is your old pal Glory,’ the answering machine told her. Glory Jacobson, former heroin junkie. To think, her nose had been operated on four times, twice for a deviated septum. She was still attractive though, a pair of blue eyes that made her face seem like an afterthought. She was a writer once, her claim to fame being an obscure short story, one that was featured in an anthology of lesbian fiction. No one knew how to kiss ass or soothe an ego like Glory did. She was as piss poor as Amanda was, but that never stopped Glory from making connections, mooching free meals. Amanda couldn’t help watching Glory, the way her mind moved. It was quite a sight, the wheels turning rather rapidly when she had her eye on something or someone. Glory Jacobson was the purveyor of all chemicals, great and small, her mood always positioned between chic detachment and quiet cool, as.
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