"There is nothing quite like beer for making the past clear, but clouding the road ahead," could be what the guy in front of me was thinking tonight, as he looked forward to getting home. It was after eleven. I was driving from tennis and he, at warp factor well-within- the-range-of-what-his-engine'll- take, milk-floated along in front of me, his Plymouth Voyager not going boldly in the least. It seemed that he was steering by shine of curb, or under pendulum guidance from St Christopher, hanging and swinging five to seven within what I took to be the driver's foreshortened range of view. Like you I'm only guessing. Maybe he wasn't thinking this at all. Possibly he broke his glasses back there on a court?
T. at eighty five was looking spry. She tells me after dim sum that E. shouldn't marry an italian boy because those boys are "like Shakespeare." Now I'm trying to figure out whether she thinks Shakespeare was gay. This I doubt, because I said something about Romeo and Juliet, and she said, "that one." On account of having lived in Hong Kong and Shanghai and Peking and places in between, including an interlude with Chiang Kai Shek's army, her English is not the best; she divides the world into "this one" and "that one." The fact that Romeo and Juliet was "that one," I took to mean italian boys are hot-headed and quarrelsome, and may run you through with swords, but you know how often I am wrong.
David Ritchie,Portland, Oregon