It was a slow pan shot of 24fps as constituted on some long-ago date the two women were unable now to agree on. An incoherent collection of souls, to look at them, a certain number always having drifted in and out—impatient apprentices, old-movie freex, infiltrators and provocateurs of more than one political stripe. But there was a core that never changed, and it included genius film editors Ditzah and Zipi Pisk, who’d grown up in New York City and, except for geographically, never left it. California’s only reality for them was to be found in the million ways it failed to be New York. “Magnin’s?” Zipi would smile grimly. “OK for a shopping center, somewhere on Long Island perhaps, very nice ladies’ toilet of course, but please, this is no major store.” Ditzah was the food kvetch—“Try and get a Danish anywhere out here!” They found West Coast people “cold and distant” as invariably as they remembered apartment living in the Big Apple being all “warm and neighborly.”
This amused the others. “Are you kiddeen?” Howie, who took care of the paperwork, would snort. “I visited my sister back there, try to even get eye contact it’s yer ass, babe.”
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