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Public
Relation
's
shirt
collar
is
so
tight
it
bloats
his
face
up
when
he
laughs
,
and
he
's
laughing
most
of
the
time
I
do
n't
ever
know
what
at
,
laughing
high
and
fast
like
he
wishes
he
could
stop
but
ca
n't
do
it
.
And
his
face
bloated
up
red
and
round
as
a
balloon
with
a
face
painted
on
it
.
He
got
no
hair
on
his
face
and
none
on
his
head
to
speak
of
;
it
looks
like
he
glued
some
on
once
but
it
kept
slipping
off
and
getting
in
his
cuffs
and
his
shirt
pocket
and
down
his
collar
.
Maybe
that
's
why
he
keeps
his
collar
so
tight
,
to
keep
the
little
pieces
of
hair
from
falling
down
in
there
.
Maybe
that
's
why
he
laughs
so
much
,
because
he
is
n't
able
to
keep
all
the
pieces
out
.
He
conducts
these
tours
--
serious
women
in
blazer
jackets
,
nodding
to
him
as
he
points
out
how
much
things
have
improved
over
the
years
.
He
points
out
the
TV
,
the
big
leather
chairs
,
the
sanitary
drinking
fountains
;
then
they
all
go
have
coffee
in
the
Nurse
's
Station
.
Sometimes
he
'll
be
by
himself
and
just
stand
in
the
middle
of
the
day
room
and
clap
his
hands
(
you
can
hear
they
are
wet
)
,
clap
them
two
or
three
times
till
they
stick
,
then
hold
them
prayer-like
together
under
one
of
his
chins
and
start
spinning
.
Spin
round
and
around
there
in
the
middle
of
the
floor
,
looking
wild
and
frantic
at
the
TV
,
the
new
pictures
on
the
walls
,
the
sanitary
drinking
fountain
.
And
laughing
.
What
he
sees
that
's
so
funny
he
do
n't
ever
let
us
in
on
,
and
the
only
thing
I
can
see
funny
is
him
spinning
round
and
around
out
there
like
a
rubber
toy
--
if
you
push
him
over
he
's
weighted
on
the
bottom
and
straightaway
rocks
back
upright
,
goes
to
spinning
again
.
He
never
,
never
looks
at
the
men
's
faces
...
.
Ten-forty
,
-
forty-five
,
-
fifty
,
patients
shuttle
in
and
out
to
appointments
in
ET
or
OT
or
PT
,
or
in
queer
little
rooms
somewhere
where
the
walls
are
never
the
same
size
and
the
floors
are
n't
level
.
The
machinery
sounds
about
you
reach
a
steady
cruising
speed
.
The
ward
hums
the
way
I
heard
a
cotton
mill
hum
once
when
the
football
team
played
a
high
school
in
California
.
After
a
good
season
one
year
the
boosters
in
the
town
were
so
proud
and
carried
away
that
they
paid
to
fly
us
to
California
to
play
a
championship
high-school
team
down
there
.
When
we
flew
into
the
town
we
had
to
go
visit
some
local
industry
.
Our
coach
was
one
for
convincing
folks
that
athletics
was
educational
because
of
the
learning
afforded
by
travel
,
and
every
trip
we
took
he
herded
the
team
around
to
creameries
and
beet
farms
and
canneries
before
the
game
.
In
California
it
was
the
cotton
mill
.
When
we
went
in
the
mill
most
of
the
team
took
a
look
and
left
to
go
sit
in
the
bus
over
stud
games
on
suitcases
,
but
I
stayed
inside
over
in
a
corner
out
of
the
way
of
the
Negro
girls
running
up
and
down
the
aisles
of
machines
.
The
mill
put
me
in
a
kind
of
dream
,
all
the
humming
and
clicking
and
rattling
of
people
and
machinery
,
jerking
around
in
a
pattern
.
That
's
why
I
stayed
when
the
others
left
,
that
,
and
because
it
reminded
me
somehow
of
the
men
in
the
tribe
who
'd
left
the
village
in
the
last
days
to
do
work
on
the
gravel
crusher
for
the
dam
.
The
frenzied
pattern
,
the
faces
hypnotized
by
routine
...
I
wanted
to
go
out
in
the
bus
with
the
team
,
but
I
could
n't
.
It
was
morning
in
early
winter
and
I
still
had
on
the
jacket
they
'd
given
us
when
we
took
the
championship
--
a
red
and
green
jacket
with
leather
sleeves
and
a
football-shaped
emblem
sewn
on
the
back
telling
what
we
'd
won
--
and
it
was
making
a
lot
of
the
Negro
girls
stare
.
I
took
it
off
,
but
they
kept
staring
.
I
was
a
whole
lot
bigger
in
those
days
.
One
of
the
girls
left
her
machine
and
looked
back
and
forth
up
the
aisles
to
see
if
the
foreman
was
around
,
then
came
over
to
where
I
was
standing
.
She
asked
if
we
was
going
to
play
the
high
school
that
night
and
she
told
me
she
had
a
brother
played
tailback
for
them
.
We
talked
a
piece
about
football
and
the
like
and
I
noticed
how
her
face
looked
blurred
,
like
there
was
a
mist
between
me
and
her
.
It
was
the
cotton
fluff
sifting
from
the
air
.
