"Well … the one in the center."
* * * * *
The one in the center. One out of five. Hold your breath, Peter Ambrose, hold it now or you can hold your breath the rest of your natural life and no one will ever know, nor ever care. The fan in the center began to smoke and the blades choked off abruptly.
I said, "The one on the far left … the one next to it … the far right … and four makes five." I watched the last blade make its last swing. "Has anybody got a cigarette?"
I got a full package. While I tore off the cellophane someone held a light. I filled my lungs so full they creaked and sat back defiantly.
"So now what?"
No one knew just what. Two men slipped out and the others drew together their chairs for a whispered conference full of dark looks in my direction. I sat quietly and smoked until even that got on my nerves. Finally I broke it up with a yell.
"Can't you fatheads make up your minds? Don't you know what you want? Do you think I'm going to sit here all night?"
That was a stupid question; I knew I was going to sit there until they told me to get up. But at the time I wanted to say it, and I did, and I said a few other things that were neither polite nor sensible. I was a little upset, I think. It didn't matter. They paid no attention to me, so I lit another cigarette and waited. The outer door opened and one of the two that had left came back in. He came directly to me, waving the others out as he came. They filed out and he stood in front of me.