I was upset. I had a right to be upset and I wanted to be alone. Alone?
That was a joke!
Well, my cab pulled up in front of my very modest place. I paid the
driver, overtipped him--I was really upset--and ran up the stairs. In
the apartment, I hustled to the two by four kitchen and, with
unshakable determination, I poured myself a four-finger snort of
scotch.
Then I groaned and poured it down the sink. Unshakable determination is
all very well--but when the top of your head seems to rip loose like a
piece of stubborn adhesive coming off a hairy chest and bounces, hard,
against the ceiling, then all you can do is give up. I stumbled out to
the front room and slumped down in my easy chair to think.
I'd left the door open and I was sitting in a draft.
So I had to--that compulsion--go close the door. _Then_ I sat down to
think.
Anyway I _thought_ I sat down to think. But, suddenly, my thoughts were
not my own.