“We have seen what has happened in other cities,” Winterburger said. “The defaced buses and subway cars and buildings in New York, the broken windows and senselessly marred schools of Detroit and San Francisco, the abuse of public facilities, public museums, public galleries. We must not allow the greatest country in the world to be overrun with huns and barbarians.”

Police were called to the Grand Street area of the construction when a number of fires and explosions were seen by

(Continued page 5 col. 2)

He folded the paper and put it on top of a tattered pile of magazines. The washer hummed and hummed, a low, soporific sound. Huns. Barbarians. They were the huns. They were the rippers and chewers and choppers, turning people out of their homes, kicking apart lives as a small boy might kick apart an anthill-

The young woman dragged her daughter, still crying for a bottle, out of the UWash-It. He closed his eyes and dozed off, waiting for his dryer to finish. A few minutes later he snapped awake, thinking he heard fire bells, but it was only a Salvation Army Santa who had taken up his position on the corner out front. When he left the laundry with his basket of clothes, he threw all his pocket change into Santa’s pot.

“God bless you,” Santa said.

The telephone woke him around ten in the morning. He fumbled the extension off the night table, put it to his ear, and an operator said crisply into his sleep, “Will you accept a collect call from Olivia Brenner?”

He was lost and could only fumble, “What? Who? I’m asleep.”

A distant, slightly familiar voice said, “Oh for Chrissake,” and he knew.

“Yes,” he said. “I’ll take it.” Had she hung up on him? He got up on one elbow to see. “Olivia? You there?”

“Go ahead, please,” the operator overrode him, not willing to vary her psalm.

“Olivia, are you there?”

“I’m here.” The voice was crackling and distant.

“I’m glad you called.”

“I didn’t think you’d take the call.”

“I just woke up. Are you there? In Las Vegas?”

“Yes,” she said flatly. The word came out with curiously dull authority, like a plank dropped on a cement floor.

“Well, how is it? How are you doing?”

Her sigh was so bitter that it was almost a tearless sob. “Not so good.”

“No?”

“I met a guy my second… no, third… night here. Went to a party and go s-o-o-o fucked up-”

“Dope?” he asked cautiously, very aware that this was long distance and the government was everywhere.

“Dope?” she echoed crossly. “Of course it was dope. Bad shit, full of dex or something… I think I got raped.”

The last trailed off so badly that he had to ask, “What?”

“Raped!” she screamed, so loudly that the receiver distorted. “That’s when some stupid jock playing Friday night hippie plays hide the salami with you while your brains are somewhere behind you, dripping off the wall! Rape, do you know what rape is?”

“I know,” he said.

“Bullshit, you know.”

“Do you need money?”

“Why ask me that? I can’t fuck you over the telephone. I can’t even hand-job you.”

“I have some money,” he said. “I could send it. That’s all. That’s why.” Instinctively he found himself speaking, not soothingly, but softly, so she would have to slow down and listen.

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Do you have an address?”

“General Delivery, that’s my address.”

“You don’t have an apartment?”

“Yeah, me and this other sad sack have got a place. The mailboxes are all broken. Never mind. You keep the money. I’ve got a job. Screw, I think I’m going to quit and come back. Merry Christmas to me.”

“What’s the job?”

“Pushing hamburgers in this fast-food joint. They got slots in the lobby, and people play them and eat hamburgers all night long, can you believe it? The last thing you have to do when your shift is over is to wipe off all the handles of the slot machines. They get all covered with mustard and mayo and catsup. And you should see the people here. All of them are fat. They’ve either got tans or burns. And if they don’t want to fuck you, you’re just part of the furniture. I’ve had offers from both sexes. Thank God my roomie’s about as sex-oriented as a juniper bush, I… oh, Christ, why am I telling you all this? I don’t even know why I called you. I’m going to hitch out of here at the end of the week, when I get paid.”

He heard himself say: “Give it a month.”

“Don’t go chickenshit. If you leave now you’ll always wonder what you went out there for.”

“Did you play football in high school? I bet you did.”

“I wasn’t even the waterboy.”

“Then you don’t know anything, do you?”

“I’m thinking about killing myself.”

“You don’t even… what did you say?”

“I’m thinking about killing myself.” He said it calmly. He was no longer thinking about long distance and the people who might monitor long distance just for the fun of it-Ma Bell, the White House, the CIA, the Effa Bee Eye. “I keep trying things and they keep not working. It’s because I’m a little too old for them to work, I think. Something went wrong a few years ago and I knew it was a bad thing but I didn’t know it was bad for me. I thought it just happened and then I was going to get over it. But things keep falling down inside me. I’m sick with it. I keep doing things.”

“Have you got cancer?” she whispered.

“I think I do.”

“You ought to go to a hospital, get-”

“It’s soul cancer.”

“You’re ego-tripping, man.”

“Maybe so,” he said. “It doesn’t matter. One way or the other, things are set and they’ll turn out the way they will. Only one thing that bothers me, and that’s a feeling I get from time to time that I’m a character in some bad writer’s book and he’s already decided how things are going to turn out and why. It’s easier to see things that way, even, than to blame it on God-what did He ever do for me, one way or the other? No, it’s this bad writer, it’s his fault. He cut my son down by writing in a brain tumor. That was chapter one. Suicide or no suicide, that comes just before the epilogue. It’s a stupid story.”

“Listen,” she said, troubled, “if they have one of those Dial Help outfits in your town, maybe you ought to…”

“They couldn’t do anything for me,” he said, “and it doesn’t matter. I want to help you. For Christsake look around out there before you go chickenshit. Get off dope, you said you were going to. The next time you look around you’ll be forty and your options will mostly be gone.”

“No, I can’t take this. Some other place-”

“All places are the same unless your mind changes. There’s no magic place to get your mind right. If you feel like shit, everything you see looks like shit. I know that. Newspaper headlines, even the signs I see, they all say yeah, that’s right, Georgie, pull the plug. This eats the bird.”

“Listen-”

“No, no, you listen. Dig your ears out. Getting old is like driving through snow that just gets deeper and deeper. When you finally get in over your hubcaps, you just spin and spin. That’s life. There are no plows to come and dig you out. Your ship isn’t going to come in, girl. There are no boats for nobody. You’re never going to win a contest. There’s no camera following you and people watching you straggle. This is it. All of it. Everything.”

“You don’t know what it’s like here!” she cried.

“No, but I know what it’s like here.”

“You’re not in charge of my life.”

“I’m going to send you five hundred dollars-Olivia Brenner, c/o General Delivery, Las Vegas.”

“I won’t be here. They’ll send it back.”

“They won’t. Because I’m not going to put on a return address.”

“Throw it away, then.”

“Use it to get a better job.”

“No.”

“Then use it for toilet paper,” he said shortly, and hung up. His hands were shaking.