Remember by STANLEY JOHNSON Remember you? I cannot guarantee That when this autumn's gone I will recall The passion of its nights, or ecstasy That carried me into your arms' enthrall; I cannot swear that when tomorrow comes I will be back. "What of the night?" you say In vain; the dark alone knows what becomes Of us; our nights are all too far away. Remember you? Not after autumn, dear. You cannot ask me that. Has not the past Shown that Octobers always disappear? How then, if autumns fade, can our love last? page TEN 'Frisco Fling by Rolfe Peterson IT was New Year's Eve. I was shoving my way down San I Francisco's Market Street with a gay heart, a thirst for adventure, and an equally thirsty pal. We had used a desire to see the famed East-West football game as a blind for making the trip, during which we planned to take advantage of the complete lack of parental supervision and meet life romantic, raw, roaring life. We had been in San Francisco for three days, and the only experiences we had thrilled to were (1) being badly frightened by an enthusiastic pimp who had invited us to get "da reel t'ing, fellas, da reel t'ing for oney a buck", and (2) obtaining bad cases of pelvic deformity as a result of sitting through two double-features and an educational burlesque show every afternoon. So the New Year's Eve celebration was to be a wild fling a rootin' tootin' debauchery abandoned to life at its wickedest. We initiated our debauchery with a rootin' tootin' ice cream soda straight. Our next step toward hell and damnation was a fearless stride out into the seething, reeking parade of merrymakers which stumbled and roared up Market. I must give that mob credit for quick efficiency, at least it had torn the knee out of my pant-leg in fifty-three seconds flat. Within sixty more seconds it had trodden on a U. S. mail box and my friend's hat. I never had liked that hat, however. During the next hour we jostled and grunted in the current of the crowd, laughing forced guffaws and pretending to be having one devil of a good time. Finally, while I was retching and writhing in a gloomy doorway to get rid of a mouthful of delicately flavored confetti flung playfully into my epiglottis by a hiccoughing sport, my comrade suggested that we migrate to Chinatown in all possible haste. I suppose he expected dragons in the street and exploding firecrackers. What we found, after a heart-pounding hike up and down about seven hundred fifty-three of San Francisco's hills, was a huge mob of white drunks who had made the pilgrimage for the same reason that we had to see those quaint Chinese shoot off firecrackers and parade through the streets dressed like dragons, the way they're shown celebrating in the movies. Those quaint Chinese, however, had politely ignored the whole thing by going quietly to bed to wait for their own New Year's Day, which comes along in March or something. The only quaint character we met was a naval anti-prohibitionist (a soused gob), who, after stopping us to ask for a light, launched into an eloquently blasphemous tirade against everything but America, to which he pledged tearfully his undying devotion. Fearful that he was about to break into "God Bless America," we patted him on the back, assured him that we felt deeply for everything for which he felt deeply, and slipped guiltily around a convenient corner. Our next move was toward an inviting noodle parlor. That is, an outwardly inviting noodle parlor. After a few minutes on the inside I came to the obvious conclusion that the place was merely a cleverly renovated sewerage main. It might, however, have been the greasy customer sitting in the neighboring booth; he wasn't the type who reminds one of running water and bath salts. In scanning the menu I was impressed by the startling array of wicked beverages listed; so I somewhat furtively ordered a martini. This exciting drink, which I had mentally sipped a dozen times in cinema houses, proved to be a careless concoction of straight whiskey, liver bile, and a stringy piece of lemon rind. My first sip, taken debonairly with a worldly glance at my friend, reminded me of a putrid strawberry I had once encountered in a well-remembered shortcake. For the sake of prestige, however, I calmly gulped a bit more of the appalling stuff and emitted a satisfied "Ah-h!" after each sip. This procedure prompted my comrade to order a "good ole snort" for himself and to exclaim over its goodness as hypocritically as had I over mine. After an interim of aimless wandering through the weaving crowds, we took our next step toward purgatory. This one was a hesitating and uncertain one over the forbidding threshold of a cocktail room. We were accosted at the bar by an impatient barkeep whose threatening "Yessir?" caused us to ponder momentarily as if we actually knew the names of the various drinks. We finally ordered ain fizzes, which proved to be delightful sweetnesses, and turned unashamedly in our seats to stare at a drunken gentleman at a table who, in the process of kissing the wife of his table-mate, was apparently attempting to vacuum-clean the vital organs of that cooperative young lady. This open-faced act of indiscriminate necking caused the irate husband of the playful female to attempt to bring down the chandelier by throwing his wife's playmate at it. The resulting brawl, during which the two initial participants were battered into insensibility and the young lady sneaked off with a third party, constituted a very interesting diversion for us and made the evening seem worthwhile. Then, on the crest of a wave of vivacity, we drank another gin fizz and staggered affectedly out of the barroom and down the street toward a double-feature, fancying mistakenly that we were intoxicated. Boy oh boy, whatta binge! page ELEVEN