realize that in the darkness all around us was fragrant green grass and the smell of fresh manure and
warm waters. .We’re in the South! We’ve left the winter!. Faint daybreak illuminated green shoots
by the side of the road. I took a deep breath; a locomotive howled across-the darkness, Mobile-
bound. So were we. I took off my shirt and exulted. Ten miles down the road Dean drove into a
filling-station with the motor off, noticed that the attendant was fast asleep at the desk, jumped out,
quietly filled the gas tank, saw to it the bell didn’t ring, and rolled off like an Arab with a five-dollar
tankful of gas for our pilgrimage.
I slept and woke up to the crazy exultant sounds of music and Dean and Marylou talking and the
great green land rolling by. .Where are we?.
.Just passed the tip of Florida, man - Flomaton, it’s called.. Florida! We were rolling down to
the coastal plain and Mobile; up ahead were great soaring clouds of the Gulf of Mexico. It was only
thirty-two hours since we’d said good-by to everybody in the dirty snows of the North. We stopped
at a gas station, and there Dean and Marylou played piggyback around the tanks and Dunkel went
inside and stole three packs of cigarettes without trying. We were fresh out. Rolling into Mobile over
the long tidal highway, we all took our winter clothes off and enjoyed the Southern temperature. This

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was when Dean started telling his life story and when, beyond Mobile, he came upon an obstruction
of wrangling cars at a crossroads and instead of slipping around them just balled right through the
driveway of a gas station and went right on without relaxing his steady continental seventy. We left
gaping faces behind us. He went right on with his tale. .I tell you it’s true, I started at nine, with a girl
called Milly Mayfair in back of Rod’s garage on Grant Street - same street Carlo lived on in Denver.
That’s when my father was still working at the smithy’s a bit. I remember my aunt yelling out the
window, ’What are you doing down there in back of the garage?’ Oh honey Marylou, if I’d only
known you then! Wow! How sweet you musta been at nine.. He tittered maniacally; he stuck his
finger in her mouth and licked it; he took her hand and rubbed it over himself. She just sat there,
smiling serenely.
Big long Ed Dunkel sat looking out the window, talking to himself. .Yes sir, I thought I was a
ghost that night.. He was also wondering what Galatea Dunkel would say to him in New Orleans.
Dean went on. .One time I rode a freight from New Mexico clear to LA - I was eleven years
old, lost my father at a siding, we were all in a hobo jungle, I was with a man called Big Red, my
father was out drunk in a boxcar - it started to roll - Big Red and I missed it - I didn’t see my father
for months. I rode a long freight all the way to California, really flying, first-class freight, a desert
Zipper. All the way I rode over the couplings - you can imagine how dangerous, I was only a kid, I
didn’t know - clutching a loaf of bread under one arm and the other hooked around the brake bar.
This is no story, this is true. When I got to LA I was so starved for milk and cream I got a job in a
dairy and the first thing I did I drank two quarts of heavy cream and puked..
.Poor Dean,. said Marylou, and she kissed him. He stared ahead proudly. He loved her.
We were suddenly driving along the blue waters of the Gulf, and at the same time a momentous
mad thing began on the radio; it was the Chicken Jazz’n Gumbo disk-jockey show from New
Orleans, all mad jazz records, colored records, with the disk jockey saying, .Don’t worry about
nothing!. We saw New Orleans in the night ahead of us with joy. Dean rubbed his hands over the
wheel. .Now we’re going to get our kicks!. At dusk we were coming into the humming streets of
New Orleans. .Oh, smell the people!. yelled Dean with his face out the window, sniffing. .Ah! God!
Life!. He swung around a trolley. .Yes!. He darted the car and looked in every direction for girls.
.Look at her!. The air was so sweet in New Orleans it seemed to come in soft bandannas; and you
could smell the river and really smell the people, and mud, and molasses, and every kind of tropical
exhalation with your nose suddenly removed from the dry ices of a Northern winter. We bounced in
our seats. .And dig her!. yelled Dean, pointing at another woman. .Oh, I love, love, love women! I
think women are wonderful! I love women!. He spat out the window; he groaned; he clutched his
head. Great beads of sweat fell from his forehead from pure excitement and exhaustion.
We bounced the car up on the Algiers ferry and found ourselves crossing the Mississippi River by
boat. .Now we must all get out and dig the river and the people and smell the world,. said Dean,
bustling with his sunglasses and cigarettes and leaping out of the car like a jack-in-the-box. We
followed.
On rails we leaned and looked at the great brown father of waters rolling down from mid-
America like the torrent of broken souls - bearing Montana logs and Dakota muds and Iowa vales
and things that had drowned in Three Forks, where the secret began in ice. Smoky New Orleans
receded on one side; old, sleepy Algiers with its warped woodsides bumped us on the other.
Negroes were working in the hot afternoon, stoking the ferry furnaces that burned red and made our
tires smell. Dean dug them, hopping up and down in the heat. He rushed around the deck and
upstairs with his baggy pants hanging halfway down his belly. Suddenly I saw him eagering on the
flying bridge. I expected him to take off on wings. I heard his mad laugh all over the boat - .Hee

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hee-hee-hee-hee!. Marylou was with him. He covered everything in a jiffy, came back with the full
story, jumped in the car just as everybody was tooting to go, and we slipped off, passing two or
three cars in a narrow space, and found ourselves darting through Algiers.
.Where? Where?. Dean was yelling.
We decided first to clean up at a gas station and inquire for Bull’s whereabouts. Little children
were playing in the drowsy river sunset; girls were going by with bandannas and cotton blouses and
bare legs. Dean ran up the street to see everything. He looked around; he nodded; he rubbed his
belly. Big Ed sat back in the car with his hat over his eyes, smiling at Dean. I sat on the fender.
Marylou was in the women’s John. From bushy shores where infinitesimal men fished with sticks,
and from delta sleeps that stretched up along the reddening land, the big humpbacked river with its
mainstream leaping came coiling around Algiers like a snake, with a nameless rumble. Drowsy,
peninsular Algiers with all her bees and shanties was like to be washed away someday. The sun
slanted, bugs flip-flopped, the awful waters groaned.
We went to Old Bull Lee’s house outside town near the river levee. It was on a road that ran
across a swampy field. The house was a dilapidated old heap with sagging porches running around
and weeping willows in the yard; the grass was a yard high, old fences leaned, old barns collapsed.
There was no one in sight. We pulled right into the yard and saw washtubs on the back porch. I got
out and went to the screen door. Jane Lee was standing in it with her eyes cupped toward the sun.
.Jane,. I said. .It’s me. It’s us..
She knew that. .Yes, I know. Bull isn’t here now. Isn’t that a fire or something over there?. We
both looked toward the sun.
.You mean the sun?.
.Of course I don’t mean the sun - I heard sirens that way. Don’t you know a peculiar glow?. It
was toward New Orleans; the clouds were strange.
.I don’t see anything,. I said.
Jane snuffed down her nose. .Same old Paradise..
That was the way we greeted each other after four years; Jane used to live with my wife and me
in New York. .And is Galatea Dunkel here?. I asked. Jane was still looking for her fire; in those
days she ate three tubes of benzedrine paper a day. Her face, once plump and Germanic and pretty,
had become stony and red and gaunt. She had caught polio in New Orleans and limped a little.
Sheepishly Dean and the gang came out of the car and more or less made themselves at home.
Galatea Dunkel came out of her stately retirement in the back of the house to meet her tormentor.
Galatea was a serious girl. She was pale and looked like tears all over. Big Ed passed his hand
through his hair and said hello. She looked at him steadily.
.Where have you been? Why did you do this to me?. And she gave Dean a dirty look; she knew
the score. Dean paid absolutely no attention; what he wanted now was food; he asked Jane if there
was anything. The confusion began right there.
Poor Bull came home in his Texas Chevy and found his house invaded by maniacs; but he greeted
me with a nice warmth I hadn’t seen in him for a long time. He had bought this house in New Orleans
with some money he had made growing black-eyed peas in Texas with an old college schoolmate
whose father, a mad-paretic, had died and left a fortune. Bull himself only got fifty dollars a week
from his own family, which wasn’t too bad except that he spent almost that much per week on his
drug habit - and his wife was also expensive, gobbling up about ten dollars’ worth of benny tubes a
week. Their food bill was the lowest in the country; they hardly ever ate; nor did the children - they
didn’t seem to care. They had two wonderful children: Dodie, eight years old; and little Ray, one
year. Ray ran around stark naked in the yard, a little blond child of the rainbow. Bull called him .the

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Little Beast,. after W. C. Fields. Bull came driving into the yard and unrolled himself from the car
bone by bone, and came over wearily, wearing glasses, felt hat, shabby suit, long, lean, strange, and
laconic, saying, .Why, Sal, you finally got here; let’s go in the house and have a drink..
It would take all night to tell about Old Bull Lee; let’s just say now, he was a teacher, and it may
be said that he had every right to teach because he spent all his time learning; and the things he
learned were what he considered to be and called .the facts of life,. which he learned not only out of
necessity but because he wanted to. He dragged his long, thin body around the entire United States
and most of Europe and North Africa in his time, only to see what was going on; he married a White
Russian countess in Yugoslavia to get her away from the Nazis in the thirties; there are pictures of
him with the international cocaine set of the thirties - gangs with wild hair, leaning on one another;
there are other pictures of him in a Panama hat, surveying the streets of Algiers; he never saw the
White Russian countess again. He was an exterminator in Chicago, a bartender in New York, a
summons-server in Newark. In Paris he sat at cafe tables, watching the sullen French faces go by. In
Athens he looked up from his ouzo at what he called the ugliest people in the world. In Istanbul he
threaded his .way through crowds of opium addicts and rug-sellers, looking for the facts. In English
hotels he read Spengler and the Marquis de Sade. In Chicago he planned to hold up a Turkish bath,
hesitated just for two minutes too long for a drink, and wound up with two dollars and had to make a
run for it. He did all these things merely for the experience. Now the final study was the drug habit.
He was now in New Orleans, slipping along the streets with shady characters and haunting
connection bars.
There is a strange story about his college days that illustrates something else about him: he had
friends for cocktails in his well-appointed rooms one afternoon when suddenly his pet ferret rushed
out and bit an elegant teacup queer on the ankle and everybody hightailed it out the door, screaming.
Old Bull leaped up and grabbed his shotgun and said, .He smells that old rat again,. and shot a hole
in the wall big enough for fifty rats. On the wall hung a picture of an ugly old Cape Cod house. His
friends said, .Why do you have that ugly thing hanging there?. and Bull said, .I like it because it’s
ugly.. All his life was in that line. Once I knocked on his door in the 60th Street slums of New York
and he opened it wearing a derby hat, a vest with nothing underneath, and long striped sharpster
pants; in his hands he had a cookpot, birdseed in the pot, and was trying to mash the seed to roll in
cigarettes. He also experimented in boiling codeine cough syrup down to a black mash -that didn’t
work too well. He spent long hours with Shakespeare -the .Immortal Bard,. he called him -on
his lap. In New Orleans he had begun to spend long hours with the Mayan Codices on his lap, and,
although he went on talking, the book lay open all the time. I said once, .What’s going to happen to
us when we die?. and he said, .When you die you’re just dead, that’s all.. He had a set of chains in
his room that he said he used with his psychoanalyst; they were experimenting with narcoanalysis and
found that Old Bull had seven separate personalities, each growing worse and worse on the way
down, till finally he was a raving idiot and had to be restrained with chains. The top personality was
an English lord, the bottom the idiot. Halfway he was an old Negro who stood in line, waiting with
everyone else, and said, .Some’s bastards, some’s ain’t, that’s the score..
Bull had a sentimental streak about the old days m America, especially 1910, when you could get
morphine in a drugstore without prescription and Chinese smoked opium in their evening windows
and the country was wild and brawling and free, with abundance and any kind of freedom for
everyone. His chief hate was Washington bureaucracy; second to that, liberals; then cops. He spent
all his time talking and teaching others. Jane sat at his feet; so did I; so did Dean; and so had Carlo
Marx. We’d all learned from him. He was a gray, nondescript-looking fellow you wouldn’t notice on
the street, unless you looked closer and saw his mad, bony skull with its strange youthfulness - a

86
Kansas minister with exotic, phenomenal fires and mysteries. He had studied medicine in Vienna; had
studied anthropology, read everything; and now he was settling to his life’s work, which was the
study of things them-selves.-in the streets of life and the night. He sat in his chair; Jane brought
drinks, martinis. The shades by his chair were always drawn, day and night; it was his corner of the
house. On his lap were the Mayan Codices and an air gun which he occasionally raised to pop
benzedrine tubes across the room. I kept rushing around, putting up new ones. We all took shots
and meanwhile we talked. Bull was curious to know the reason for this trip. He peered at us and
snuffed down his nose, thfump, like a sound in a dry tank.
.Now, Dean, I want you to sit quiet a minute and tell me what you’re doing crossing the country
like this..
Dean could only blush and say, .Ah well, you know how it is..
.Sal, what are you going to the Coast for?. .Only for a few days. I’m coming back to school..
.What’s the score with this Ed Dunkel? What kind of character is he?. At that moment Ed was
making up to Galatea in the bedroom; it didn’t take him long. We didn’t know what to tell Bull about
Ed Dunkel. Seeing that we didn’t know anything about ourselves, he whipped out three sticks of tea
and said to go ahead, supper’d be ready soon.
.Ain’t nothing better in the world to give you an appetite. I once ate a horrible lunchcart hamburg
on tea and it seemed like the most delicious thing in the world. I just got back from Houston last
week, went to see Dale about our black-eyed peas. I was sleeping in a motel one morning when all
of a sudden I was blasted out of bed. This damn fool had just shot his wife in the room next to mine.
Everybody stood around confused, and the guy just got in his car and drove off, left the shotgun on
the floor for the sheriff. They finally caught him in Houma, drunk as a lord. Man ain’t safe going
around this country any more without a gun.. He pulled back his coat and showed us his revolver.
Then he opened the drawer and showed us the rest of his arsenal. In New York he once had a sub-
machine-gun under his bed. .I got something better than that now -a German Scheintoth gas gun;
look at this beauty, only got one shell. I could knock out a hundred men with this gun and have
plenty of time to make a getaway. Only thing wrong, I only got one shell..
.I hope I’m not around when you try it,. said Jane from the kitchen. .How do you know it’s a
gas shell?. Bull snuffed; he never paid any attention to her sallies but he heard them. His relation with
his wife was one of the strangest: they talked till late at night; Bull liked to hold the floor, he went right
on in his dreary monotonous voice, she tried to break in, she never could; at dawn he got tired and
then Jane talked and he listened, snuffing and going thfump down his nose. She loved that man
madly, but in a delirious way of some kind; there was never any mooching and mincing around, just
talk and a very deep companionship that none of us would ever be able to fathom. Something
curiously unsympathetic and cold between them was really a form of humor by which they
communicated their own set of subtle vibrations. Love is all; Jane was never more than ten feet away
from Bull and never missed a word he said, and he spoke in a very low voice, too.
Dean and I were yelling about a big night in New Orleans and wanted Bull to show us around. He
threw a damper on this. .New Orleans is a very dull town. It’s against the law to go to the colored
section. The bars are insufferably dreary..
I said, .There must be some ideal bars in town..
.The ideal bar doesn’t exist in America. An ideal bar is something that’s gone beyond our ken. In
nineteen ten a bar was a place where men went to meet during or after work, and all there was was
a long counter, brass rails, spittoons, player piano for music, a few mirrors, and barrels of whisky at
ten cents a shot together with barrels of beer at five cents a mug. Now all you get is chromium,
drunken women, fags, hostile bartenders, anxious owners who hover around the door, worried

87
about their leather seats and the law; just a lot of screaming at the wrong time and deadly silence
when a stranger walks in..
We argued about bars. .All right,. he said, .I’ll take you to New Orleans tonight and show you
what I mean.. And he deliberately took us to the dullest bars. We left Jane with the children; supper
was over; she was reading the want ads of the New Orleans Times-Picayune. I asked her if she
was looking for a job; she only said it was the most interesting part of the paper. Bull rode into town
with us and went right on talking. .Take it easy, Dean, we’ll get there, I hope; hup, there’s the ferry,
you don’t have to drive us clear into the river.. He held on. Dean had gotten worse, he confided in
me. .He seems to me to be headed for his ideal fate, which is compulsive psychosis dashed with a
jigger of psychopathic irresponsibility and violence.. He looked at Dean out of the corner of his eye.
.If you go to California with this madman you’ll never make it. Why don’t you stay in New Orleans
with me? We’ll play the horses over to Graetna and relax in my yard. I’ve got a nice set of knives
and I’m building a target. Some pretty juicy dolls downtown, too, if that’s in your line these days..
He snuffed. We were on the ferry and Dean had leaped out to lean over the rail. I followed, but Bull
sat on in the car, snuffing, thfump. There was a mystic wraith of fog over the brown waters that night,
together with dark driftwoods; and across the way New Orleans glowed orange-bright, with a few
dark ships at her hem, ghostly fogbound Cereno ships with Spanish balconies and ornamental poops,
till you got up close and saw they were just old freighters from Sweden and Panama. The ferry fires
glowed in the night; the same Negroes plied the shovel and sang. Old Big Slim Hazard had once
worked on the Algiers ferry as a deckhand; this made me think of Mississippi Gene too; and as the
river poured down from mid-America by starlight I knew, I knew like mad that everything I had ever
known and would ever know was One. Strange to say, too, that night we crossed the ferry with Bull
Lee a girl committed suicide off the deck; either just before or just after us; we saw it in the paper the
next day.
We hit all the dull bars in the French Quarter with Old Bull and went back home at midnight. That
night Marylou took everything in the books; she took tea, goofballs, benny, liquor, and even asked
Old Bull for a shot of M, which of course he didn’t give her; he did give her a martini. She was so
saturated with elements of all kinds that she came to a standstill and stood goofy on the porch with
me. It was a wonderful porch Bull had. It ran clear around the house; by moonlight with the willows
it looked like an old Southern mansion that had seen better days. In the house Jane sat reading the
want ads in the living room; Bull was in the bathroom taking his fix, clutching his old black necktie in
his teeth for a tourniquet and jabbing with the needle into his woesome arm with the thousand holes;
Ed Dunkel was sprawled out with Galatea in the massive master bed that Old Bull and Jane never
used; Dean was rolling tea; and Marylou and I imitated Southern aristocracy.
.Why, Miss Lou, you look lovely and most fetching tonight..
.Why, thank you, Crawford, I sure do appreciate the nice things you do say..
Doors kept opening around the crooked porch, and members of our sad drama in the American
night kept popping out to find out where everybody was. Finally I took a walk alone to the levee. I
wanted to sit on the muddy bank and dig the Mississippi River; instead of that I had to look at it with
my nose against a wire fence. When you start separating the people from their rivers what have you
got? .Bureaucracy!. says Old Bull; he sits with Kafka on his lap, the lamp burns above him, he
snuffs, thfump. His old house creaks. And the Montana log rolls by in the big black river of the
night. . Tain’t nothin but bureaucracy. And unions! Especially unions!. But dark laughter would
come again.

88
7
It was there in the morning when I got up bright and early and found Old Bull and Dean in the
back yard. Dean was wearing his gas-station coveralls and helping Bull. Bull had found a great big
piece of thick rotten wood and was desperately yanking with a hammerhook at little nails imbedded
in it. We stared at the nails; there were millions of them; they were like worms.
.When I get all these nails out of this I’m going to build me a shelf that’ll last a thousand years!.
said Bull, every bone shuddering with boyish excitement. .Why, Sal, do you realize the shelves they
build these days crack under the weight of knickknacks after six months or generally collapse? Same
with houses, same with clothes. These bastards have invented plastics by which they could make
houses that last forever. And tires. Americans are killing themselves by the millions every year with
defective rubber tires that get hot on the road and blow up. They could make tires that never blow
up. Same with tooth powder. There’s a certain gum they’ve invented and they won’t show it to
anybody that if you chew it as a kid you’ll never get a cavity for the rest of your born days. Same
with clothes. They can make clothes that last forever. They prefer making cheap goods so’s
everybody’ll have to go on working and punching timeclocks and organizing themselves in sullen
unions and floundering around while the big grab goes on in Washington and Moscow.. He raised
his big piece of rotten wood. .Don’t you think this’ll make a splendid shelf?.
It was early in the morning; his energy was at its peak. The poor fellow took so much junk into his
system he could only weather the greater proportion of his day in that chair with the lamp burning at
noon, but in the morning he was magnificent. We began throwing knives at the target. He said he’d
seen an Arab in Tunis who could stick a man’s eye from forty feet. This got him going on his aunt,
who went to the Casbah in the thirties. .She was with a party of tourists led by a guide. She had a
diamond ring on her little finger. She leaned on a wall to rest a minute and an Ay-rab rushed up and
appropriated her ring finger before she could let out a cry, my dear. She suddenly realized she had
no little finger. Hi-hi-hi-hi-hi!. When he laughed he compressed his lips together and made it come
out from his belly, from far away, and doubled up to lean on his knees. He laughed a long time. .Hey
Jane!. he yelled gleefully. .I was just telling Dean and Sal about my aunt in the Casbah!.
.I heard you,. she said across the lovely warm Gulf morning from the kitchen door. Great
beautiful clouds floated overhead, valley clouds that made you feel the vastness of old tumbledown
holy America from mouth to mouth and tip to tip. All pep and juices was Bull. .Say, did I ever tell
you about Dale’s father? He was the funniest old man you ever saw in your life. He had paresis,
which eats away the forepart of your brain and you get so’s you’re not responsible for anything that
comes into your mind. He had a house in Texas and had carpenters working twenty-four hours a day
putting on new wings. He’d leap up in the middle of the night and say, ’I don’t want that goddam
wing; put it over there.’ The carpenters had to take everything down and start all over again. Come
dawn you’d see them hammering away at the new wing. Then the old man’d get bored with that and
say, ’Goddammit, I wanta go to Maine!’ And he’d get into his car and drive off a hundred miles an
hour - great showers of chicken feathers followed his track for hundreds of miles. He’d stop his car
in the middle of a Texas town just to get out and buy some whisky. Traffic would honk all around
him and he’d come rushing out of the store, yelling, ’Thet your goddam noith, you bunth of bathats!’
He lisped; when you have paresis you lips, I mean you lisps. One night he came to my house in
Cincinnati and tooted the horn and said, ’Come on out and let’s go to Texas to see Dale.’ He was
going back from Maine. He claimed he bought a house - oh, we wrote a story about him at college,
where you see this horrible shipwreck and people in the water clutching at the sides of the lifeboat,

89
and the old man is there with a machete, hackin at their fingers. ’Get away, ya bunth a bathats, thith
my cottham boath!’ Oh, he was horrible. I could tell you stories about him all day. Say, ain’t this a
nice day?.
And it sure was. The softest breezes blew in from the levee; it was worth the whole trip. We went
into the house after Bull to measure the wall for a shelf. He showed us the dining-room table he built.
It was made of wood six inches thick. .This is a table that’ll last a thousand years!. said Bull, leaning
his long thin face at us maniacally. He banged on it.
In the evenings he sat at this table, picking at his food and throwing the bones to the cats. He had
seven cats. .I love cats. I especially like the ones that squeal when I hold ‘em over the bathtub.. He
insisted on demonstrating; someone was in the bathroom. .Well,. he said, .we can’t do that now.
Say, I been having a fight with the neighbors next door.. He told us about the neighbors; they were a
vast crew with sassy children who threw stones over the rickety fence at Dodie and Ray and
sometimes at Old Bull. He told them to cut it out; the old man rushed out and yelled something in
Portuguese. Bull went in the house and came back with his shotgun, upon which he leaned demurely;
the incredible simper on his face beneath the long hatbrim, his whole body writhing coyly and snakily
as he waited, a grotesque, lank, lonely clown beneath the clouds. The sight of him the Portuguese
must have thought something out of an old evil dream.
We scoured the yard for things to do. There was a tremendous fence Bull had been working on
to separate him from the obnoxious neighbors; it would never be finished, the task was too much. He
rocked it back and forth to show how solid it was. Suddenly he grew tired and quiet and went in the
house and disappeared in the bathroom for his pre-lunch fix. He came out glassy-eyed and calm, and
sat down under his burning lamp. The sunlight poked feebly behind the drawn shade. .Say, why
don’t you fellows try my orgone accumulator? Put some juice in your bones. I always rush up and
take off ninety miles an hour for the nearest whorehouse, hor-hor-hor!. This was his .laugh. laugh when
he wasn’t really laughing. The orgone accumulator is an ordinary box big enough for a man to
sit inside on a chair: a layer of wood, a layer of metal, and another layer of wood gather in orgones
from the atmosphere and hold them captive long enough for the human body to absorb more than a
usual share. According to Reich, orgones are vibratory atmospheric atoms of the life-principle.
People get cancer because they run out of orgones. Old Bull thought his orgone accumulator would
be improved if the wood he used was as organic as possible, so he tied bushy bayou leaves and
twigs to his mystical outhouse. It stood there in the hot, flat yard, an exfoliate machine clustered and
bedecked with maniacal contrivances. Old Bull slipped off his clothes and went in to sit and moon
over his navel. .Say, Sal, after lunch let’s you and me go play the horses over to the bookie joint in
Graetna.. He was magnificent. He took a nap after lunch in his chair, the air gun on his lap and little
Ray curled around his neck, sleeping. It was a pretty sight, father and son, a father who would

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