I came, I meant, as soon as I could. I wasn't a dumbbell. I didn't let
that gob grow inside my neck, week after week, in secret fear. I did
what you told me to do.
He said, "Well, well," and injected me and clipped off a hunk and told
me to come back on Monday at twelve o'clock. I went onto the street
again.
It wasn't bothering me any.
Nobody could catch it from me.
Another cab slid to a stop on another pile of metropolitan offal. I got
in. The radio was talking about Babe Ruth, who had recently died of
throat cancer. And metastases.