The Lady from Shanghai

Wherever you go, the absolute number of crazy people I think remains pretty constant. It’s just that you’re unlikely to see much of them during the day. They’re diluted by all the normal stuff going on about them. They blend in well enough on a crowded streetcar or a busy street, but as the normal people disperse to their normal lives, so increases the proportion of crazy . . . riding the last subway home on a Monday night, sorting through the remainder bins on the third floor of Sam the Record Man, watching an Orson Welles double bill at the Nostalgic Theatre.

And sure, I might very well have taken her seat, but that’s where we’d been sitting all afternoon, through A Touch of Evil and now waiting for the start of The Lady from Shanghai. Even so, there were plenty of good seats left, but she was determined to sit next to me, right next to the perfect seat I’d taken from her, flicking angry bits of popcorn from her fingers all through the film, squirming and scheming, waiting for the final credits, waiting to grab her coat and dump her drink in my lap on her way out the door.