But look at this: in the afternoon restless youngster Ron wants to go hitch hiking to Monterey of all things to go see McLear and I say “Okay go ahead”—“Aint you coming with me?” he asks. surprised to see the champion on-the-roader wont even hitch hike any more, “No I’ll stay here and get better—I gotta be alone,” which is true, because as soon as he’s gone and has yelled one final hoot from the canyon road directly above and gone on, and I’ve sat in the sun alone on the porch, fed my birds finally again, washed my socks and shirt and pants and hung them up to dry on bushes, slurped up tons of water kneeling at the creek race, stared silently at the trees, soon as the sun goes down I swear on my arm I’m as well as I ever was: just like that suddenly.
“Can it be that Ron and all these other guys, Dave and McLear or somebody, the other guys earlier are all a big bunch of witches out to make me go mad?” I seriously consider this—Remembering that childhood revery I always had, which I used to ponder seriously as I walked home from St. Joseph’s Parochial School or sat in the parlor of my home, that everybody in the world is making fun of money me and I dont know it because everytime I turn around to see whos behind me they snap back into place with regular expressions, but soon’s I look away again they dart up to my nape of neck and all whisper there
giggling and plotting evil, silently, you cant hear them, and when I turn quickly to catch them they’ve already snapped back perfectly in place and are saying “Now the proper way to cook eggs is” or they’re sing-
