June Moon
by Ring Lardner
A lyricist moves to New York City aspiring to make it big on Tin Pan Alley.
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June Moon · Prologue
Prologue
The scene is a section of a parlor car speeding toward New York, and not so very far from it when the curtain rises. We see only two chairs clearly; the ends of the car dissolve in shadows. On these less visible chairs are tossed vague overcoats and magazines; the racks above them are filled with baggage. There is a bag or two overhead; on the floor are quantities of Sunday newspapers, along with plenty of rotogravure sections, curling carelessly against the bottoms of the chairs. It is night, and the shades are down.
In the two vital chairs sit a boy and a girl. The name of the boy, as we presently find out, is Fred Stevens. The girl is Edna Baker. She sits with her back to him, and is absorbed in a magazine when the curtain goes up. The boy, who is not exactly a literary type, is a bit restless. He wriggles in his seat, sighs, peers discreetly at the girl, who pays no attention. With a bit too much of a flourish, as though he thus hoped to attract her attention, he whips out a time table and studies it. Consults his watch; swings and peers out of the window, hand cupped over eyes to exclude the light. Then he swings back, relaxes—and looks toward the girl again. She swings her chair around for a second; peers down the aisle, but swings back without having permitted the boy to catch her eye. He rattles his newspaper a trifle obviously; indulges in a bit of bad whistling; hums a little. She swings around again; another look down the aisle. Fred girds up his courage to break the ice. The girl, who has the situation well in hand, gives sudden and demure attention to an imaginary spot on her dress. She chips at it with a fingernail.
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Prologue
Prologue
The scene is a section of a parlor car speeding toward New York, and not so very far from it when the curtain rises. We see only two chairs clearly; the ends of the car dissolve in shadows. On these less visible chairs are tossed vague overcoats and magazines; the racks above them are filled with baggage. There is a bag or two overhead; on the floor are quantities of Sunday newspapers, along with plenty of rotogravure sections, curling carelessly against the bottoms of the chairs. It is night, and the shades are down.
In the two vital chairs sit a boy and a girl. The name of the boy, as we presently find out, is Fred Stevens. The girl is Edna Baker. She sits with her back to him, and is absorbed in a magazine when the curtain goes up. The boy, who is not exactly a literary type, is a bit restless. He wriggles in his seat, sighs, peers discreetly at the girl, who pays no attention. With a bit too much of a flourish, as though he thus hoped to attract her attention, he whips out a time table and studies it. Consults his watch; swings and peers out of the window, hand cupped over eyes to exclude the light. Then he swings back, relaxes—and looks toward the girl again. She swings her chair around for a second; peers down the aisle, but swings back without having permitted the boy to catch her eye. He rattles his newspaper a trifle obviously; indulges in a bit of bad whistling; hums a little. She swings around again; another look down the aisle. Fred girds up his courage to break the ice. The girl, who has the situation well in hand, gives sudden and demure attention to an imaginary spot on her dress. She chips at it with a fingernail.
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