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To whom, then, could I turn? I went farther afield, to my so-called lawyer, the brave Attorney Goodkind; there was a man I wouldn’t trust with a subway token in the Sahara.
Atop the television set in one corner of the living room was a lamp of such monumental ugliness as to be magnificently impressive, like Chicago. Its porcelain base represented an endless chain of Cupids, in white and pink and gold, doing things together. It may all have been very obscene, there was no real way to be sure.
“Bongos, my friend,” he said, and put down the packet, and drummed the counter a hot lick to demonstrate. “Strippers need bongos,” he said, “like folk singers need guitars.”
I wouldn’t say that I have an abnormal fear of heights, but that’s probably because I don’t consider a fear of heights abnormal. I mean, you can get killed if you’re up high and all of a sudden you’re down low. People who aren’t afraid of heights are people who haven’t stopped to think about what happens when you reach the sidewalk in too much of a hurry.
