The tuba player wasn’t a lunatic. He was perfectly normal. He probably lived in a condo in Scranton, maybe, or Allentown, one with wall-to-wall carpeting and vertical blinds. He bought his toothpaste and dish soap at a drugstore. He had a pet dog, a mutt, and a girlfriend, maybe. He took her to breakfast at Denny’s. She ordered a Belgian waffle with bacon. He got the Grand Slam.
