When the day came (and like a bloody bowel movement, he said, it always came) that he discovered himself writing in incendiary tones about the need for a traffic light at the “corner of Myrtle Avenue and Shoshoni” (he reverenced and collected our Indian names) “Boulevard” and laughing aloud—roaring really, helpless to stay the tears streaming down his cheeks, all eyes in the city room cast apprehensively, somewhat amazedly, on him—he resigned in the interest of his “bloody sanity” and moved on to Wichita Falls—yearning, one gathered, so steadfastly for Fleet Street and room-temperature beer
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