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I
go
out
before
breakfast
--
as
soon
as
it
's
light
,
most
days
--
for
my
first
stroll
.
It
was
raining
this
morning
,
and
the
damp
makes
my
joints
ache
,
but
I
hooked
a
poncho
from
the
rack
by
the
kitchen
door
and
went
out
,
anyway
.
When
a
man
has
a
chore
,
he
has
to
do
it
,
and
if
it
hurts
,
too
bad
.
Besides
,
there
are
compensations
.
The
chief
one
is
keeping
that
sense
of
Real
Time
,
as
opposed
to
Georgia
Pines
Time
.
And
I
like
the
rain
,
aches
or
no
aches
.
Especially
in
the
early
morning
,
when
the
day
is
young
and
seems
full
of
possibilities
,
even
to
a
washed-up
old
boy
like
me
.
I
went
through
the
kitchen
,
stopping
to
beg
two
slices
of
toast
from
one
of
the
sleepy-eyed
cooks
,
and
then
went
out
.
I
crossed
the
croquet
course
,
then
the
weedy
little
putting
green
.
Beyond
that
is
a
small
stand
of
woods
,
with
a
narrow
path
winding
through
it
and
a
couple
of
sheds
,
no
longer
used
and
mouldering
away
quietly
,
along
the
way
.
I
walked
down
this
path
slowly
,
listening
to
the
sleek
and
secret
patter
of
the
rain
in
the
pines
,
chewing
away
at
a
piece
of
toast
with
my
few
remaining
teeth
.
My
legs
ached
,
but
it
was
a
low
ache
,
manageable
.
Mostly
I
felt
pretty
well
.
I
drew
the
moist
gray
air
as
deep
as
I
could
,
taking
it
in
like
food
.
And
when
I
got
to
the
second
of
those
old
sheds
,
I
went
in
for
awhile
,
and
I
took
care
of
my
business
there
.
When
I
walked
back
up
the
path
twenty
minutes
later
,
I
could
feel
a
worm
of
hunger
stirring
in
my
belly
,
and
thought
I
could
eat
something
a
little
more
substantial
than
toast
.
A
dish
of
oatmeal
,
perhaps
even
a
scrambled
egg
with
a
sausage
on
the
side
.
I
love
sausage
,
always
have
,
but
if
I
eat
more
than
one
these
days
,
I
'm
apt
to
get
the
squitters
.
One
would
be
safe
enough
,
though
.
Then
,
with
my
belly
full
and
with
the
damp
air
still
perking
up
my
brain
(
or
so
I
hoped
)
,
I
would
go
up
to
the
solarium
and
write
about
the
execution
of
Eduard
Delacroix
.
I
would
do
it
as
fast
as
I
could
,
so
as
not
to
lose
my
courage
.
It
was
Mr.
Jingles
I
was
thinking
about
as
I
crossed
the
croquet
course
to
the
kitchen
door
--
how
Percy
Wetmore
had
stamped
on
him
and
broken
his
back
,
and
how
Delacroix
had
screamed
when
he
realized
what
his
enemy
had
done
--
and
I
did
n't
see
Brad
Dolan
standing
there
,
half-hidden
by
the
Dumpster
,
until
he
reached
out
and
grabbed
my
wrist
.
"
Out
for
a
little
stroll
,
Paulie
?
"
he
asked
.
I
jerked
back
from
him
,
yanking
my
wrist
out
of
his
hand
.
Some
of
it
was
just
being
startled
--
anyone
will
jerk
when
they
're
startled
--
but
that
was
n't
all
of
it
.
I
'd
been
thinking
about
Percy
Wetmore
,
remember
,
and
it
's
Percy
that
Brad
always
reminds
me
of
.
Some
of
it
's
how
Brad
always
goes
around
with
a
paperback
stuffed
into
his
pocket
(
with
Percy
it
was
always
a
men
's
adventure
magazine
;
with
Brad
it
's
books
of
jokes
that
are
only
funny
if
you
're
stupid
and
mean-hearted
)
,
some
of
it
's
how
he
acts
like
he
's
King
Shit
of
Turd
Mountain
,
but
mostly
it
's
that
he
's
sneaky
,
and
he
likes
to
hurt
.
He
'd
just
gotten
to
work
,
I
saw
,
had
n't
even
changed
into
his
orderly
's
whites
yet
.
He
was
wearing
jeans
and
a
cheesy-looking
Western-style
shirt
.
In
one
hand
was
the
remains
of
a
Danish
he
'd
hooked
out
of
the
kitchen
.
