My Sunday Morning Walk began after 2 AM, and in spirit, it was still Saturday night. I had spent the evening trying to defeat my teacher at billiards. There was a lot of hype, because I had in fact spent the entire month trying to defeat my teacher at billiards. And this would be one of my last chances to deal that devastating blow, as his fellowship is up in a few days and he’ll return to New York. I did not defeat my teacher at billiards. I defeated several other strangers, from Missouri, at various places across Missouri. But not my teacher.
I hate to lose. My teacher said “F minus, Mr. Bingaman.” To which I replied, “F you.” I had crossed the line for the umpteenth time, and my liver hurt. I had another pale ale, and liked it. Walking to the car, whereupon we both bought hot chicken on a stick without even discussing it, I said to myself “I like the taste of pale ale, a lot.” I promised myself I would record that thought, somewhere, in the morning. And then I thought of palms. I thought of being younger, much younger. And something like my liver hurt some more.