I used to work in the same building as Bacall's publisher, Alfred A Knopf. One evening I was leaving my office later, around 7:30, during a pouring rainstorm.
As I exited the building, I saw what appeared to be a drenched bag lady, standing under the covered part of the building's entrance, scanning the street desperately, her clothes soaked, her stringy hair hanging down over her face.
I had an umbrella with me and always had several umbrellas in my office, since I never look at weather reports and I'm always caught in the rain and I invariably end up buying more and more cheap umbrellas on the street and at drug stores.
The woman looked so pitiful--and sort of manic and crazy--and I felt sorry for her, so I said, "Excuse me, would like this umbrella? I have another upstairs in my office."
The crazy, wet woman glared at me and said--in an unmistakable voice I felt I had known all my life, "Oh, for Christ's SAKE! Where is my goddamn CAR?!?"
I opened my umbrella, said, "Have a good evening, Miss Bacall," and walked into the rainy night.
Oh, for Christ's SAKE! Where is my goddamn CAR?!?