Wagner used to do on our Dharmabumming mountain climbs where we’d confide dolors, “yes, and we drink too many SWEET drinks in a way, you know all that sugar and no food is bound to upset your metabolism and fill your blood with sugar to the point where you aint got the strength of a hen; you especially you’ve been drinking nothin but sweet port and sweet Manhattans now for weeks—I promise you the holy flesh of this little fish will heal you,” (chuckle).
I suddenly look at the fish and feel horrible all over again, that old death scheme is back only now I’m gonna put my big healthy Anglosaxon teeth into it and wrench away at the mournful flesh of a little living being that only an hour ago was swimming happily in the sea, in fact even Dave thinking this and saying: “Ah yes that little muzzling mouth was blindly sucking away in the glad waters of life and now look at it, here’s where the fittin head’s chopped off, you dont have to look, us big drunken sinners are now going to use it for our sacrificial supper so in fact when we cook it I’m going to say an Indian prayer for it hoping it’s the same prayer the local Indians used—Jack in a way we might even start havin fun here and make a great week out of it!”—“Week?”—“I thought we was coming here for a week”—“Oh I said that didnt I . . . I feel awful about everything . . . I dont think I can make it. . . I’m going crazy with Billie and Elliott and me too . . . maybe I’ll have to, maybe we’ll have to leave or something, I think I’ll die here”—And Dave is disappointed naturally and here I’ve already routed him up out of his own affairs to drive down here anyway, another matter to make me feel like a rat.
