At the lunchroom the fish sandwich is forty dollars a pound as I suspect. I whisper "usurious" to the cashier and storm off into the day hungry. There is no other meal. In an antique dormitory I find my friends but I have to leave them without a key into another dorm room with two sheetlike fountains: one going up and the other going down. They switch directions. At the bar I meet my my date but we are expected to join a large group in a small private dining room. I have to switch with someone to sit next to her at the corner. Look, I'm told, at the wall. There is a hundred-year-old photo of Jim Carrey on the streets of Little Italy with two long Malian prostheses: one to hold the tambourine, and the other to smack it.