He sat slumped in the office chair, his chin bobbing slightly with
the rhythm of much drink. He typed. The typing was poor, and it made
him sad. He remembered the typing of the years before the boom, and
before the bust, and the failed dreams of men with pants of khaki and
the fine blue shirts with white buttons. That typing was the good typing,
he thought, pulling long at the bitter ale which had once been cool but
had now warmed and did not please him.
"This typing is bad now," he said to the woman with the brown hair.
"You have typed well. You are a typer," she said, not looking at him as
she lifted and set down the dumbbells which were heavy.
"Yes. I suppose I am that," and he sighed, and farted.
"Did you eat beneath the sign of the Bell of the Taco?" she said,
again lifting up a dumbbell before setting it down. It was heavy.
There was much sweat.
"Yes. It was good. It was spicy. There were beans," he said, and his eyes were misty as he thought then of the war, and the girl, and two horses, and several varieties of salad greens he had not tasted since the days in San Ramon. Again he farted.
"Yes, there were beans. I know," she said. "It fucking reeks in here."
She left. He drank. Night fell.