I went directly to the typewriter, sat down, pulled the chair forward and sat for two busy hours dialing the radio. No station seemed less irritating than bedlam and the silence after I turned it off was actually frightening. The only time I touched the typewriter was once when my elbow accidentally hit the keys The word came out "mkli9" which seemed to sum everything up pretty neatly. At eleven-thirty I gave up and went in to shower. The water was both iced and scalding; no compromise in that faucet. And when I lay down to read, I was shocked at the tiny lines that make up a printed page. Some were no thicker than hairs and many of the periods weren't really round at all. There was a place where the quotation marks were almost as low as commas and another one where I threw the book clear across the room. Then the electric clock began whirring as if it were about to take off from the bureau; it made the whole room vibrate. It was only trying to get me to look at it so I started to get the radio from the kitchen; that would give the clock real competition. But halfway through the front room I stopped and felt a sick glob appear in my middle. You don't want to get the radio or go back in to read or lie down or sit down or even stand here like this. All you want is that beer, that cool, delicious beer in that charming little bar.

I don't remember much about the next couple hours. There was an exciting encounter with a stick of chewing gum and an attempt to filter solace from a cup of tea and a doughnut. One tasted

one

as if a very old duck had been swimming around in it and the other was sheer excelsior. Nor did I ever think a dollar ninety-nine clock could ever become so interesting I would just sit there and stare at it: "There went twenty seconds. Now, let's see how long it takes ten seconds to pass. Come on, whip it up. Hell, hours have passed and there are still four seconds to go. Hm, two. One. Hm. So that was ten seconds. Think of it.'

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Closing time for bars came and went. The most important beer in all history went, too. Just up and vanished, that gigantic beer of ours.

I wanted to go out but there was always the chance you'd call. Anyway, where could I leave the key? The thought of going to bed was the most repugnant ever to steam up from the sewers of hell. I stood beside the contraption as if it were a vat of bubbling acid. When I at last did crawl in, it was like floating face down on a tepid swamp. I rolled and only stopped for brief briefings: "Now don't jump when it rings. Phones always startle people in bed at night. Always. If they wake up, that is. So don't get startled and jump and all that. Just walk out there casually and say a very matter-of-fact Hello or May I help you? or Where the godamhell have you-no, not that. Keep it casual." I dragged the phone in beside the bed and lay there studying it. A cold looking instrument. Very black.

Suddenly I knew you were in trouble. You were too decent and honest and efficient to simply forget to call. It must have been an accident or something.

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