I was there, but Gene was first; he was squeaking. It’s the squeak that gets the oil. Of course you don’t talk to the person who makes no noise. I was tired; then sad and quiet. I was resting; I didn’t want to help him. Gene is a strange slow, a misdirected nonchalant, a pitiful easy, a painful casual. I wanted to understand. Then I had to leave. My greasy face itches. I didn’t want to squeak.
April 1971