Fourteen Stories, None of Them Are Yours

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IN THE HOSPITAL. In the gown. On the gurney. Strange me but I love it here. I like the inside. I'd rather be well, but I love to hear the people speak. An old woman in her room wants to speak sputum. I hear garbage bags being opened. I'm on a hospital bed not a gurney. I hear crinkling sounds. The rush and flock of life's little hospital-bound disasters. Even in my little room. I can't believe I get to be in the world. I have always felt like I'm getting away with something being alive. Even though it's the usual cases of shit — nervous breakdowns on peyote, cowering in my mind, getting myself back together with it, moving from hotel to hospital to behind the wheel.

How about a JOKE: A man, let's call him Harry. Harry goes into an interview in old New York City. There is a great big man behind the desk, an outdoorsman-looking man, even in his finery and top office. You can tell he is an outdoorsman, among other things, by the occasional artifact placed here or there, the pictures on his desk of his duck-hunting dog, by the duck-hunting dog itself, Buck, lying on his carpeted floor. Let's say the interview starts and Harry has terrible gas. He is trying to hold it. He's a young guy looking for a first real gig in the city. He has some good connections and a highfalutin education. He answers the first question fine but out comes Harry flatulating. Luckily, Harry thinks, Buck is nearby. He pins it off on the dog. Pretends nothing has happened. Looks at Buck briefly. Pretends to be polite about the indiscretion. Pretends he's hardly even noticed, he's such a guy, Harry is. Well, you know jokes. Every step of the interview, bwaaaarp, another fart from young nervous Harry. “What can you do for me,” the old man barks, followed by a further line of questioning.

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