"The movie? Nah. Probably just another quickie shot in a weekend," Jimmy replied.
"The projector broke during the third reel," Vera sighed, lighting a cigarette with a flick of a tarnished Zippo. "Half the audience started throwing popcorn, the other half didn't even notice the screen went dark. They’re just looking for a place to be out of the rain." Fleshpot on 42nd Street
They started walking toward 8th Avenue, navigating the sea of sailors on leave, three-card monte dealers, and the "fleshpots" the movie posters promised—the storefronts where intimacy was sold by the minute behind velvet curtains. To the tourists, it was a den of iniquity. To Jimmy and Vera, it was just the neighborhood. "The movie
"You're late," Jimmy said as she emerged from the crowd, her hair a beehive of gold against the grime of the block. "The projector broke during the third reel," Vera
A police siren wailed in the distance, a lonely, high-pitched cry that cut through the noise of the midnight traffic. Jimmy looked at the flickering lights, the peeling paint of the grand old theaters, and the desperate, beautiful faces swirling around them.
"No," Vera said, her voice dropping. "The feeling. Everyone thinks this street is about the skin, the grit. But look at them, Jimmy. They’re all just looking for a version of themselves that isn’t lonely. That’s the real fleshpot. It’s a trap made of wanting to be seen."