Last night, I went with my friend, Sheldon Welmsbley, to the pork pie hat factory for some late night experiments. We ran into Jamaica Steve and his compadres. Jamaica Steve was the numbers runner at my grammar school, and after I hit a combination one afternoon, I gave him a signed painting of a giraffe I had done in art class that day. He told me last night that he kept it in his den now, and that he gets a lot of nice compliments about it. Sheldon asked him how his wife was doing, and he told us she had left him for Ted Danson. Our condolences.
Speeding, speeding, light but no form, we watched the cars pass, each with its cargo of man and wife and child and mistress, pain and acceptance and hope and concession.
Posted by hornblower 
