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If
only
there
was
no
Drayer
Baba
holding
up
that
damned
STOP
sign
.
Then
it
was
Sara
’
s
birthday
,
November
nth
,
Veterans
’
Day
.
We
had
met
twice
again
,
once
at
her
place
,
once
at
mine
.
There
had
been
a
high
sense
of
fun
and
expectancy
.
She
was
strange
but
individual
and
inventive
;
there
had
been
happiness
.
.
.
except
in
bed
.
.
.
it
was
flaming
.
.
.
but
Drayer
Baba
kept
us
apart
.
I
was
losing
the
battle
to
God
.
"
Fucking
is
not
that
important
,
"
she
told
me
.
I
went
to
an
exotic
food
place
at
Hollywood
Boulevard
and
Fountain
Avenue
,
Aunt
Bessie
’
s
.
The
clerks
were
hateful
people
-
young
black
boys
and
young
white
boys
of
high
intelligence
that
had
turned
into
high
snobbery
.
They
pranced
about
and
ignored
and
insulted
the
customers
.
The
women
who
worked
there
were
heavy
,
dreamy
,
they
wore
large
loose
blouses
and
hung
their
heads
as
if
in
some
sleepy
state
of
shame
.
And
the
customers
were
grey
wisps
who
endured
the
insults
and
came
back
for
more
.
The
clerks
didn
’
t
lay
any
shit
on
me
,
so
they
were
allowed
to
live
another
day
.
.
.
I
bought
Sara
her
birthday
present
,
the
main
bit
being
bee
secretion
,
which
is
the
brains
of
many
bees
drained
out
of
their
collective
domes
by
a
needle
.
I
had
a
wicker
basket
and
in
it
,
along
with
the
bee
secretion
,
were
some
chop
sticks
,
sea
salt
,
two
pomegranates
(
organic
)
,
two
apples
(
organic
)
,
and
some
sunflower
seeds
.
The
bee
secretion
was
the
main
thing
,
and
it
cost
plenty
.
Sara
had
talked
about
it
quite
a
bit
,
about
wanting
it
.
But
she
said
she
couldn
’
t
afford
it
.
I
drove
to
Sara
’
s
.
I
also
had
several
bottles
of
wine
with
me
.
In
fact
,
I
had
polished
off
one
of
them
while
shaving
.
I
seldom
shaved
but
I
shaved
for
Sara
’
s
birthday
,
and
Veterans
’
night
.
She
was
a
good
woman
.
Her
mind
was
charming
and
,
strangely
,
her
celibacy
was
understandable
.
I
mean
,
the
way
she
looked
at
it
,
it
should
be
saved
for
a
good
man
.
Not
that
I
was
a
good
man
,
exactly
,
but
her
obvious
class
would
look
good
sitting
next
to
my
obvious
class
at
a
cafe
table
in
Paris
after
I
finally
became
famous
.
She
was
endearing
,
calmly
intellectual
,
and
best
of
all
,
there
was
that
crazy
admixture
of
red
in
the
gold
of
her
hair
.
It
was
almost
as
if
I
had
been
looking
for
that
color
hair
for
decades
.
.
.
maybe
longer
.
I
stopped
off
at
a
bar
on
Pacific
Coast
Highway
and
had
a
double
vodka
-
7
.
I
was
worried
about
Sara
.
She
said
sex
meant
marriage
.
And
I
believed
she
meant
it
.
There
was
definitely
something
celibate
about
her
.
Yet
I
could
also
imagine
that
she
got
off
in
a
lot
of
ways
,
and
that
I
was
hardly
the
first
to
have
his
cock
rubbed
raw
against
her
cunt
.
My
guess
was
that
she
was
as
confused
as
everybody
else
.
Why
I
was
agreeing
to
her
ways
was
a
mystery
to
me
.
I
didn
’
t
even
particularly
want
to
wear
her
down
.
I
didn
’
t
agree
with
her
ideas
but
I
liked
her
anyway
.
Maybe
I
was
getting
lazy
.
Maybe
I
was
tired
of
sex
.
Maybe
I
was
finally
getting
old
.
Happy
birthday
,
Sara
.
I
drove
up
to
her
house
and
took
in
my
basket
of
health
.
She
was
in
the
kitchen
.
I
sat
down
with
the
wine
and
the
basket
.
"
I
’
m
here
,
Sara
!
"
