24
to
an
early
grave
this
is.
I
have
no
doubt
they’ll
need
a
crane
to
lift
him
out
of
his
deathbed.
I
turn
my
attention
to
pennants
of
American
League
baseball
teams
on
the
wall,
a
Joe
Montana
signed
jersey,
and
howling
drunken
students.
My
aim
to
ignore
the
otiose
tweak
who
winces
while
gorging
on
all
that
destructive
grub.
A
run
for
a
first
down
propels
my
thoughts
to
handsome
Dorian
Gray
posing
for
a
portrait
that
rivals
Blue
Boy.
Dusk
has
arrived,
and
the
tone
of
that
raucous
crowd
elevates
as
indoor
lighting
takes
hold.
I
glance
over
at
the
glutton
and
note
that
he’s
divested
both
plates
of
every
morsel.
I’m
utterly
stunned
that
even
one
so
voracious
could
consume
so
much
so
promptly.
The
DJ
arrives
and
starts
setting
up
mike,
amplifiers,
wiring.
The
game
about
over,
was
close
to
a
rout.
The
fat
guy
politely
pays
his
bill
and
waddles
away.
To
go
bathe
in
oyster
stew?
I’m
amazed
by
how
deeply
demented
men
can
get.
This
fat
freak
probably
thinks
he’s
Pretty
Boy
Floyd
gunning
for
some
bizarre
extreme
unction,
scared
stiff
to
take
the
least
measure
of
himself.
By
Thomas
Piekarski