The discrepancy between the life of the one busy in the world, and the other lying continuously on his back, abruptly becomes apparent; both persons rack their brains for a rejuvenating subject; the painfulness of the moment rises to a locked, near-violence. On this occasion Jimmie sat with a sense of increasing embarrassment and frustration; it was Biff, oddly enough, who found a way to reopen the impasse—a perfectly conventional way—the weather.
“What sort of a night is it, old man?”
“Oh, nice. Moon up and almost full. Crisp. On the Hallowe’en side. Shadows sharp, and the air feels good to breathe.”
Biff listened solemnly to that. “You kind of like the weather, don’t you, Jimmie?”
“Yeah. Guess so.”
“I remember—from before. Six years ago. It used to make you moody as hell.”
“Did it?” Jimmie smiled.
“Yeah. I could never figure it out. Not moody like other people. Not because it interfered with your plans. Sometimes—on a bright, sunny, warm fall day—you’d be as sunk and as snappy as a dying turtle. And sometimes—on rainy days—you’d be full of hell and bejee. I used to try to figure it out, but I never could.”
Biff’s tone—its intimacy, its amiability, and especially its quality of sentimental reflection—was surprising to Jimmie. It was almost poetical. Something new, or hitherto unseen in Biff. “I guess I was just being adolescent—and perverse.”
“Maybe. Dad sure enjoyed going up to State with you.”