Fatigue dwelt in me always, now. Oh--(barring such incidents in a
single one of these tired cells as neoplasm, of course)--I would have
exhibited my inordinate energy, my vitality, my apparent arrestation
of age for another ten years or twenty or thirty--I might have been
an agile old man, supple and good at games (with suitable allowance
for the years) whose eyes never clouded, whose hair never fell, diving
off tall dolphins to amuse my grandchildren and dancing gracefully
with Ricky to the applause of other septagenarians and the infinite
boredom of teen-agers. But I was old already--scribbled with the
nasty information of years, apprised of slinking hurts, debilities,
transient toxicities and nauseas that would increase and increase and
increase--or would have done so except for that one, rambunctious cell.
Who wants to be old?
What man, in his so-called prime, fails to note his coming scenery--the
bandaged varicosities, the braces, the cut bunions, the scarification
and bloodless horn, the smells and tastes of himself, the thickening
spectacles, the hearing aids, the pills and petit prostheses, the
gouty overpall, the migraine and vertigo, rheum, sour burp, dyspnoeia,
heart-kick, cracking, and the myriad painful impediments of urination,
defecation, respiration, transpiration, the organic wheeze, the gradual
invasion of death?
He wants to be old who accepts it.
But we, the people of the United States of America, have rejected it in
toto: there must be some way to keep grandpa a gamin and mom nubile;
meantime, let us pretend there is a way.
Millions for senescence and not one cent for sense.
So, okay, I said, it is happening to me with the short and sweet just
around the corner and a good thing too, perhaps.
Or a bad thing.
A thing, I realized, of no import.
_Now_ is a sufficient tomorrow for all my yesterdays--if I will see to
the circumstance in person.
This summary was a current that carried away the incubus of that early
morning and left me sound asleep on the divan.
When I woke up I saw by my watch--which slid on its gold band when
I moved my thin, saturate wrist--that it had passed nine o'clock. I
budged and yawned and swam up into the room. I felt better--the other
side of age having somewhat returned during the nap.
Paul still lay on his back, mouthing and snoring and sweating.
Room service brought cold orange juice and good, hot coffee with a
civilized cup to drink from.
I needed assistance--which is to say, Paul needed it. A friend. An
attorney. I could hardly spend the whole day with him unless there
was no alternative. Yet certainly he should not be alone with his
callow impetuosity. And certainly his young colleagues would be too
inept for a proper handling of all the potential dilemmas. He needed a
Danaos--he had always needed one, a wise older slave to manage his love
affairs--a shrewd promoter. Lacking such a companion he had invested
the meaningless savings of youth's passion in one whore. Profligate,
comical, and a disaster.