* * * * *
The old man sat behind a fortress of magazines and books, treacherously
reading the funnies in a newspaper. His bald head swiveled on the
hunched shoulders of his sweater which was azuring toward white. He
grinned, toothless.
"Came back for more of the stuff, did you?"
He laid down the newspaper. (That subheadline couldn't really be
making so nasty a suggestion to a noted general, could it?)
"Yes," I laughed, not very true.
"I know what a craving can be. I shouldn't smoke, but I do. I've tried
to stop but I lie there thinking about cigarettes half the night. Long
ones, short ones, smoked ones, ones unlit. I feel like I could smoke
one in each hand. It like that with you?"
"Not that bad. To me it's just--"
"Don't tell me reading isn't a craving with some of you fellows. I've
seen guys come in here, hardly two threads stuck together on them, and
grab up them horror magazines and read and read, until sweat starts
rolling off the end of their nose. I've hardly got the heart to throw
'em out."
Horror magazines. Ones with lovely girls about to have their flesh
shredded by toothy vampires. Yes, they were a part of it. Not a big
part, but a part.
"That's not what I want to see. I want--"