Carl was there to see me off.
I must do or say something extra nice to him. Something he could appreciate. I couldn't think. I talked inanities and I felt that he knew I was being inane. I tried to think of a passage of his poetry to recite. I couldn't. Then it came—the inspiration.
"Where can I buy your book of poems, Carl?" I almost blurted it out. It was gone. Too late to be recalled.
"At any bookstore."
His reply may have been casual. To me it was damning.
Ye gods, what a silly imbecile I was! I needed rest. My brain was gone. I couldn't think of a thing to say in reprieve. Thank God, the train pulled out then. I hope Carl will understand and forgive when he reads this, if he ever does.
A wretched sleep en train, more solitaire, meals at schedule times, and then we hit New York.
Crowds. Reporters. Photographers. And Douglas Fairbanks. Good old Doug. He did his best, but Doug has never had a picture yet where he had to buck news photographers. They snapped me in every posture anatomically possible. Two of them battled with my carcass in argument over my facing east or west.
Neither won. But I lost. My body couldn't be split. But my clothes could—and were.
But Doug put in a good lick and got me into an automobile. Panting, I lay back against the cushions.