The Cesspool

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I never met Harlan Johnson’s wife, but she couldn’t have been the paragon he said she was. No woman could be.

On the other hand, Harlan wasn’t the paragon his wife might have thought him. I know, because when he was particularly disgusted with himself, he let me have a glimpse or two into what, he called his “cesspool of a mind.”

According to Harlan, his wife Janet thought he was just as wonderful as he thought she was. He always gave the impression of being a little humble because Providence had let something as nice as Janet happen to him.

George Swift spoiled the little pink cloud Harlan lived on. George, and Harlan’s own cesspool of a mind. When a man strays from a wife like Janet to a cheap tramp like Sally, you can’t put all the blame on the guy who introduced them.

The three of us had a rather peculiar relationship. We became close enough friends to confide our intimate thoughts to each other, without ever getting to know each other well. We never saw each other anywhere, except at the Men’s Bar on Forty-second Street.

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