Set Fire to the Stars Page #4

their arms Round the griefs of the ages

Who pay no praise or wages,

Nor heed my craft or art"

Exactly.

Stop it, you mad man!

- John!

- John!

John, over here! Hello!

- Who are they?

- Hello!

I think it's the Hymans.

- Over here.

- Hello!

Oh, yes. It's definitely the Hymans.

- Hello!

- She looks a hoot.

- Hello!

- Hello!

I'm Dylan Thomas,

I'm a friend of John's!

We know. Hello to you!

Come to dinner tonight?

No, no... wait! We've not got the time.

- It's our last day before Yale.

- Please?

We'd love to!

- Eight o'clock?

- Sure.

Perfect! Perfect!

Ciao!

- Goodbye!

- Goodbye!

Wave, John.

Looking forward to you!

Oh, thank you, thank you.

- Hello, John.

- Hey, buddy.

- I got it. I got it.

- Sorry, we are late.

- What's this for?

- You kidding me?

It's the Marciano-La Starza fight.

I'm not missing that barn-burner.

Not even for Dylan Thomas.

Shirley.

This is my husband, Stanley.

Enchant.

Shirley and Stanley are both writers.

Stanley wrote, The Armed Vision:

- A Study in the Methods of...

- John, John...

Let's just say our main export

is books and children.

We produce both in abundance.

Can I please get a drink, John?

Thank you.

- Higher.

- Lower.

Hold it.

Look at us.

Like two spinster aunts at a prom ball.

Why should they have all the fun?

You call this fun?

Shirley likes to cut loose

once in a while.

Like Mount Vesuvius. I indulge.

How very catholic of you.

Not really. We all have our vices.

Don't you?

I don't have time for vices.

Dylan makes sure of that.

Up until four days ago, I thought I was

a Professor of Poetry in New York. Now?

I'm not so sure.

Benefactor, babysitter, nursemaid...

Jesus, you make it sound

like a marriage.

Like you and Shirley, huh?

Oh I wouldn't go that far.

There is a crucial difference, my boy.

Oh?

Shirley needs me.

Come on, Boyo Rees.

- Your turn.

- No, no...

No, Dylan!

Come on!

America versus Wales. Put 'em up.

- Come on.

- Put 'em up.

Put your hands up, John. That's right.

Whoa!

Come on, try a bit harder. Put 'em up.

- John, try harder.

- You first.

Come on!

Jesus, John. What the f***?

Are you crazy?

See what you did.

You can't make friends with that.

- I'm sorry. I didn't mean...

- Everyone stabilise.

Let's not get our

pantyhose knotted, gentlemen.

You okay, champ?

Sucker punch. He's bleeding.

It was an accident, Stan.

Blood seems to be

my main export these days.

I must have some alcohol out back...

Sit down, Rocky.

No one goes anywhere.

It's still cocktail hour.

Well, I hope you've got

a Chinese jump rope

or a stack of cards. Otherwise Stanley

will start talking jazz.

- A man needs a hobby, dear.

- Like a cat needs a bicycle.

I've got a chess set that...

John tells me

that you write horror stories.

A young boy, let's call him Jimmy,

is sitting in school one spring afternoon.

He's not really paying attention

to the class.

Hell, it's double math.

Algebra. Trigonometry.

You can't make friends with that.

Shut up, Stan.

Like a lot of kids his age,

Jimmy is daydreaming.

He's thinking of the World Series,

and sophomore girls in bobby socks

who look like Deanna Durbin.

With these sweet distractions

in his head

he absentmindedly looks out the window.

He notices what appears to be a picture

laying on the ground in the schoolyard.

He can't stop looking at it.

So much so, that after class

he goes and picks it up.

It is a photograph of a pretty

young girl in stovepipe pants,

all peppercorn freckles

and a smile as big as Texas.

She is holding up two fingers.

Like this...

She is the most beautiful girl Jimmy

has ever seen.

He is captivated.

He spends the entire evening

asking around town

if anybody knows her

or where he can find her.

But no one knows.

Jimmy returns home disappointed.

He lies in bed that night

staring at the picture of the girl

until he falls asleep.

Later that night he is suddenly awoken.

Tap-tap-tap.

Something rapping on his window.

Tap-tap. There it is again.

Like someone throwing pebbles up

at the windowpane.

Looking out, Jimmy sees a figure

standing in the parking lot

opposite his house.

The figure steps into the streetlight.

It's the girl in the picture.

Jimmy's heart misses a beat.

He wastes no time and quickly

rushes downstairs to see her.

He races out of the house and...

He is struck by a car

while crossing the street.

Jimmy is killed instantly,

dead before he hits the ground.

So, the police investigators arrive.

They find a picture lying

next to the boy's body.

It is a photograph

of a pretty young girl.

The kind of smile that can

break a boy's heart.

And that, gentlemen, concludes my story.

Oh, except to say that in this photo

the girl is holding up her fingers.

Like this...

That's good!

That's bloody good, girl!

Oh, my boys would love that!

May I borrow your wife, Stanley?

She's lightning in a bottle.

Haven't you already got a wife?

Well, you know what they say,

one is company,

two's a crowd and three's a party.

Dylan, dear,

I do believe it is your turn

to entertain me with something that goes

- bump in the night.

- Happy to oblige.

But I don't think Stanley would approve.

Are we sitting comfortably?

Like biscuits and butter.

Has anyone seen my Pouilly-Fuiss?

I had three bottles.

It's your turn.

No, I don't... I don't want to.

Come on.

Let's see what a Harvard education

can bring to the party.

You must have a ghost story or two

rattling around in that loaf of yours.

Leave me alone, Dylan.

I can help you, if you like.

Once upon a time...

Once... upon...

What's wrong? Cat got your tongue?

Come on, John. I know it's in there.

A real horror to give us all

the gooseflesh.

- Once... upon... a time...

- Detroit!

Once upon a time in Detroit.

Michigan? You can't make

friends with that.

Shut up, Stan.

Go on. You were saying, John?

Detroit.

It was the hottest summer

the city had seen in over a decade.

They said you could fry a hamburger

off the sidewalk on Woodward Avenue.

I was 11 years old.

There was a kid in the neighbourhood

called Billy Levitt.

Had these two white mice he'd been

given from the school biology lab.

Samson and Delilah.

He carried them in a shoe box.

Took them everywhere.

I used to hang out with Billy

and his older brother Tommy.

We had the whole summer stretching out

ahead of us, but after two weeks,

playing stoop ball and skinny dipping

started to lose its edge for Tommy.

What was called for was a new form of...

entertainment.

Tommy did Samson first.

Cut off his tail with a bread knife.

We watched the poor thing

roll around on the porch.

Helpless.

It must've been another ten minutes

before the mouse was dead.

I can see Billy just standing there.

Fighting back tears.

The whole time watching.

I couldn't look at Billy.

We both knew what was coming.

Tommy said it was my turn next.

Delilah was all mine.

He snuck into his old man's room and

came back with a hypodermic.

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