NOW I’M GETTING SCARED, I SUSPECT SOME OF THOSE guys crisscrossing the streets in front of my wandering path are fixing to mug me for my two or three hundred bucks left—
NOW I’M GETTING SCARED, I SUSPECT SOME OF THOSE guys crisscrossing the streets in front of my wandering path are fixing to mug me for my two or three hundred bucks left—It’s foggy and still except for sudden squeek wheels of cars loaded with guys, no girls now—I get mad and go up to an apparent elderly printer hurrying home from work or cardgame, maybe my father’s ghost, as surely my father musta looked down on me that night in Brittany at last where he and all his brothers and uncles and their fathers had all longed to go, and only poor Ti Jean finally made it and poor Ti Jean with his Swiss Army knife in the suitcase locked in an airfield twenty miles away across the moors—He, Ti Jean, threatened now not by Bretons, as on those tourney mornings when flags and public women made fight an honorable thing I guess, but in Apache alleys the slur of Wallace Beery and worse than that of course, a thin mustache and a thin blade or a small nickel plated gun—No garrottes please, I’ve got my armor on, my Reichian character armor that is—How easy to joke about it as I scribble this 4,500 miles away safe at home in old Florida with the doors locked and the Sheriff doin his best in a town at least as bad but not as foggy and so dark—
