"I'm fine," I said without hesitation for the probability of being correct is one in two; not bad odds; and the Genome is a sporting man if he is a day.
It's my custom to rise at 5:30 each morning to feed the inside cats first and then the outside, to sluice the torso, fuel the mitochondria, and then hie for the open spaces of Dulce in the Sutton Station.
To reach the morning, of course, you must practice the proven proverb of early to bed and continue there through the small hours, eventually arriving at the gates of a new dawn. But you probably knew that already.
The past evening found me continually awake with a song playing on the lips of the inner man. Does that happen to you? A song that you can't seem to shut off. If I remember correctly, it was a tune called, "I Have a Motorcar With a Horn That Goes Toot-toot." Couldn't get it out of my head.
I arose long before I arrived at the gates of dawn and by the time I entered the salle de bain I observed in the mirror a man of my own age but not half as good looking. It was his eyes that arrested the attention. They were reddish in color and sagged beneath. The lazy eyelids were reminiscent of the Italian crooners of my youth.
The fact that I'd heard a young man driving an Audi refer to me the day before as a goggle-eyed turkey allowed me to recognize the man in the looking glass. Few turkeys have goggled as well as this specimen and any turkey would have been proud to do so.
"At least you're clean and sober," I said to the newcomer.
"Why shouldn't I be sober?" he said.
"I'm not complaining," I said, "I'm just saying."
"Having trouble sleeping is one of the textbook symptoms of overdone anxiety brought on by manic mental activity," he said. "Can you suggest anything that might account for it?"
"Well..."
"What? Say it!" he said.
"Is loopiness hereditary?" I said.
"It can be."
"Noses are," I said just to point out that some things are passed along from one to another generation.
"True," he said.
"This beezer of mine has come down through the ages," I said.
"Indeed?"
"My father had it; my grandfather had it; and my great grandfather had it. It accompanied my ancestors to Agincourt," I said.
"Were they at Agincourt?"
I nodded. "They came over with the Conqueror. My ancestor was a nephew."
"Would you say they were all dotty?" he said.
"Possibly," I said. "The Conqueror's sister's kid accepted a governing post in Hungary."
"I see," he said seeming to consider the pros and cons suggested by this fact. "How about your father? Did he have any structural weaknesses?"
"No, Dad was all right. He collected Zane Gray novels."
"He didn't think that he was Zane Gray?"
"No, certainly not," I said.
"That's all right then. Yes, I think I know the source of your problem."
"What?"
"It's the same fate that befalls many people who stand over six feet. You see, the heart has evolved over the millennia to pump blood and oxygen into a head that is five feet, eight inches off the floor. Stands to reason then that a brain so far away from the heart as yours can't possibly function properly."
I suddenly began to see this man in a different light. I didn't like the tone. All wrong as far as I was concerned.
"That's your opinion is it?" I said with more than a little topspin.
"The medical term is sublunary medulla oblongata diathesis."
"You made that up, you goggle-eyed turkey," I said.
"Very possibly," he said, "but I can't stand here arguing with you all day. I have writing to do."
I started visibly at these words. I realized that what he spoke was soothe and it was with me the work of an instant to gather the quills, refill the ink pot, roll up the sleeves and get straight to work. Maybe a nap in the afternoon you think?
The past evening found me continually awake with a song playing on the lips of the inner man. Does that happen to you? A song that you can't seem to shut off. If I remember correctly, it was a tune called, "I Have a Motorcar With a Horn That Goes Toot-toot." Couldn't get it out of my head.
I arose long before I arrived at the gates of dawn and by the time I entered the salle de bain I observed in the mirror a man of my own age but not half as good looking. It was his eyes that arrested the attention. They were reddish in color and sagged beneath. The lazy eyelids were reminiscent of the Italian crooners of my youth.
The fact that I'd heard a young man driving an Audi refer to me the day before as a goggle-eyed turkey allowed me to recognize the man in the looking glass. Few turkeys have goggled as well as this specimen and any turkey would have been proud to do so.
"At least you're clean and sober," I said to the newcomer.
"Why shouldn't I be sober?" he said.
"I'm not complaining," I said, "I'm just saying."
"Having trouble sleeping is one of the textbook symptoms of overdone anxiety brought on by manic mental activity," he said. "Can you suggest anything that might account for it?"
"Well..."
"What? Say it!" he said.
"Is loopiness hereditary?" I said.
"It can be."
"Noses are," I said just to point out that some things are passed along from one to another generation.
"True," he said.
"This beezer of mine has come down through the ages," I said.
"Indeed?"
"My father had it; my grandfather had it; and my great grandfather had it. It accompanied my ancestors to Agincourt," I said.
"Were they at Agincourt?"
I nodded. "They came over with the Conqueror. My ancestor was a nephew."
"Would you say they were all dotty?" he said.
"Possibly," I said. "The Conqueror's sister's kid accepted a governing post in Hungary."
"I see," he said seeming to consider the pros and cons suggested by this fact. "How about your father? Did he have any structural weaknesses?"
"No, Dad was all right. He collected Zane Gray novels."
"He didn't think that he was Zane Gray?"
"No, certainly not," I said.
"That's all right then. Yes, I think I know the source of your problem."
"What?"
"It's the same fate that befalls many people who stand over six feet. You see, the heart has evolved over the millennia to pump blood and oxygen into a head that is five feet, eight inches off the floor. Stands to reason then that a brain so far away from the heart as yours can't possibly function properly."
I suddenly began to see this man in a different light. I didn't like the tone. All wrong as far as I was concerned.
"That's your opinion is it?" I said with more than a little topspin.
"The medical term is sublunary medulla oblongata diathesis."
"You made that up, you goggle-eyed turkey," I said.
"Very possibly," he said, "but I can't stand here arguing with you all day. I have writing to do."
I started visibly at these words. I realized that what he spoke was soothe and it was with me the work of an instant to gather the quills, refill the ink pot, roll up the sleeves and get straight to work. Maybe a nap in the afternoon you think?