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Show 85, Jeffries, Islamorada was the sound of the highway a mile off, and he knew that the cars would be lining up. They'd go into Akron in the morning and then they'd come home in the dark. Then back into town the next morning! When the idleness got the better of the agoraphobia, he went downtown himself. Browsing far back in 0'Neils in children's books he picked up a selection called What Do People Do All Day? He read that they were milkmen, firemen, or with the police. Only when he was a very little kid and into uniforms had he ever wanted to do any of that stuff. He went out across State Street, and checked out the shopgirls at Scott's. A porno show was letting out at the Astor Theater, out into the street around him poured every manner of man and youth, it was that line from Poe, where A hideous throng rush out forever, And laugh-but smile no more. Damn poor quality films it was, now, nothing left to the imagination. He was thinking to describe a voice. Ubiquitous was not a word he cared for-but this voice was everywhere. On the television, from the Spectrum in Philly or in the Arena in Milwaukee, high up with the microphone, up by the organ: "Bas-ket by Ja-BAR, |
