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Show Anting Alone Page 185 minutes after, and used only implied subjects in his sentences. Like in a Marlborough ad. He was breathing deeply and flexing his pectorals and standing up straight for the first time in twenty-odd years (his back muscles grew tired of that within a few minutes) . The grunty slow TV Injun chief talk stopped at the very second that they were all bounced out into the cold wet night air. But the whizzing feeling of personal excellence did not stop. Sam began to expatiate as he walked with Axelrad and his friends. He began waving his arms and almost shouting into their ears and hyperventilating. He was going on about the sheer animal rush, the terrible exhilaration of "plying 303 lbs in an assertive way - it felt so real!, the cartilage of his nose popping under my mean hand!" (Sam was exaggerating here, of course.) He talked and yelled for several more blocks, and they passed into the fag part of town without Sam noticing. (Oh - this must've been Houston after all; if there was a definite, well-delineated, brazen fag part of town, it must've been Houston, not Chicago.) Well into the deepest fag part of town he continued his spiel, waving his arms now like a giant condor. He accidentally touched a metal telephone pole. Large segments of his soft professorial hand came away like lip-skin on a popsicle. (Wait a minute - only Novembery Chicago gets like a popsicle; this must've been the Second City after all.) Anyway, he left a part of his hand there, wherever it was, and the sting was spurring him on to even greater, louder feats of eloquence when he heard a voice. This voice made him stop short, shut up, stand still - |