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Show hour. So you don't think I'd get any dates? Ha! WONDER IF I could go back to school? What college would have me? And what could I study? Bubble gumming? Roller skating? Knit sculpture? Arabic? "You, sir, in the back seat with the grey butch. Will you please awaken?" See what I mean? Better I fall asleep right here, at the typewriter. Mac. SOME OF MY friends seem to think it's time for me to be planning some retirement. They point to younger men who are "taking it easy." They suggest that My Lady Fair Louise (especially her) and I work too many hours, face too many problems, are expected at too many places. I'd go nuts. What would I DO? You can finish your book. Well, bully for you. Why don't you finish it for me? I've got this far: THE NIGHT was dark and stormy as the tall, dark, handsome, hand-some, filthy-rich, utterly charming, superbly conditioned, con-ditioned, curly-haired and highly intellegent private eye, known to his intimates as Mac the Knife ..." See, I can't keep myself out of the book. So I can take long walks. My legs get tired. Or I can go over to the park and kick grass. But in the wintertime? Perhaps I might join the mob and become a Federal employe. Be another bureaucrat in my own plush office. With three secretaries yet. Blonde, brunette, bru-nette, red. I can send people out on census investigations. Might even go out myself: KNOCK-KNOCK. "Hello, I'm your friendly neighborhood census-taker. What brand detergent deter-gent do you buy? How many normal nor-mal children do you have? How old are you really? Plan to buy or build a yacht this year? Do you admire Senator Moss?" "None of your business.' Slam. Maybe I could wear a disguise dis-guise as a sporting lady and get a job with the police force in Salt Lake, as a stool pigeon on West Second. Make $4.10 per |