The Neon Jungle

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You can find people who will tell you about the neighborhood. Each will have his special vision. All those visions can never be added together, for perhaps, like a raddled and lusty woman reaching the weary end of middle age, the neighborhood has been all things to all men.

But there is still violence in her.

Ask that pair of college kids who came to sample the factory wenches last year, and broke their faces against stone Polack fists.

There is still money in her.

The numbers operators will tell you that. And those who get high rents for certain shabby houses near the Saegar Mill. And those Monday loan sharks, the six-for-five boys, who make a fine art of collection.

She is still colorful.

Down the narrow streets marches the neon. A fizzing and sputter and crackle of BAR GRILL LOUNGE INN and ROOMS APTS HOTEL and POOL BILLARDS BOWLING and TRIPLE FEATURE GIRLS BALLOOM CLUB FLOOR SHOW.

But here the feathers hang tired on the rumps of the floor-show ponies, and there is no self-conscious reading of Proust in satined dressing rooms. These are weary bitter-mouthed dollies, who take a percentage on the drinks you buy them.

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