That night I gave another bad reading. I didn’t care. They didn’t care. If John Cage could get one thousand dollars for eating an apple, I’d accept $500 plus air fare for being a lemon.
It was the same afterwards. The little coeds came up with their young hot bodies and their pilot-light eyes and asked me to autograph some of my books. I would have liked to fuck about five of them in one night sometime and get them out of my system forever.
A couple of professors came up and grinned at me for being an ass. It made them feel better, they felt now as if they had a chance at the typewriter.
I took the check and got out. There was to be a small, select gathering at Cecelia’s house afterwards. That was part of the unwritten contract. The more girls the better, but at Cecelia’s house I stood very little chance. I knew that. And sure enough, in the morning I awakened in my bed, alone.
Bill was sick again the next morning. He had another 1:00 class and before he went off he said, “Cecelia will drive you to the airport. I’m going now. No heavy goodbyes.”
“All right.”
Bill put on his backpack and walked his bike out the door.
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