‘For a blue sky, that blue’s a bit dark, don’t you think? And the sea’s a bit too choppy,’ I said, ‘for that dog to be dashing into it.’

‘You mean the man threw something into the water?’ my son said, ‘–that’s why the dog jumped in?’

An hour passed. Why not say twenty years?

In the Green Room, I had fortunately ordered Frenched Chicken Breast – Chocolate Napoleon.

And at a great height – up on a balcony, as I readied to leave – a pianist began his version of Cole Porter’s ‘Katie Went to Haiti.’ I waved to him.

He nodded, likely pleased by the attention, but it was hard to tell – for only his radiant pate was made visible by a tiny ceiling light.

To my surprise, the air in the street was too hot to give pleasure and a cyclist was mistakenly on the sidewalk.

The cyclist hit me, and it’s vile after my life ends in the afterlife. Lots of incense, resin, apes, and giraffe-tails – all acquired tastes. I don’t like that kind of thing.


Photograph © rabiem22

Best Book of 1970: The Collected Works of Billy the Kid
Patrick deWitt and Neel Mukherjee in Conversation