What man, seeing even a pig caught under a fence, does not pull it out, although it might be the Sabbath?
Which is germane to the circumstance?
What of the Good Samaritan?
I left the sunset hanging over the gray composite of the roofs—the willow trees in penthouse gardens, the chimneypots that twirled with supper cooking, and the fly-eyed walls, the thousand-lenses, the bloodshot windows staring at New Jersey—staring from the square sides of skyscrapers that towered around me in stiff, unplanned attention, waiting for night, waiting with God knew what stony thoughts and brickish resignation—doubtless for Soviet rockets.
I pushed down my shorts, kicked them onto a bed as Paul had kicked his jacket, and turned on the water in the tub.
I lay down there, donning the warm garment gradually, the wet, the clean, the only other that fits as perfectly as the grave. I turned off the tap with my foot. I looked at my skin, which was still fairly smooth, for all the long time I'd worn it, weathered it, and given it unnatural chores of excretion.
Good-bye to All That. Good-bye Mr. Chips. And Miss Chippies.
Yak-yak.
This is the cup.
And
take this cup from me.
Nyanh-nyanh.
I soaped the person.
The phone rang.
It does.
You get out of the bathtub. You wrap a towel around your midriff and make footprints on your rug. You sit and drip.
The operator says, "One moment, please. Rushford calling."