to death. You become obsessed by sex. You spend all your time talking, not working. You are an expatriate, see? You hang around cafés.”
“It sounds like a swell life,” I said. “When do I work?”
“You don’t work. One group claims women support you. Another group claims you’re impotent.”
“No,” I said. “I just had an accident.”
“Never mention that,” Bill said. “That’s the sort of thing that can’t be spoken of. That’s what you ought to work up into a mystery. Like Henry’s bicycle.”
He had been going splendidly, but he stopped. I was afraid he thought he had hurt me with that crack about being impotent. I wanted to start him again.
“It wasn’t a bicycle,” I said. “He was riding horseback.”
“I heard it was a tricycle.”
“Well,” I said. “A plane is sort of like a tricycle. The joystick works the same way.”
“But you don’t pedal it.”
“No,” I said, “I guess you don’t pedal it.”
“Let’s lay off that,” Bill said.
“All right. I was just standing up for the tricycle.”
“I think he’s a good writer, too,” Bill said. “And you’re a hell of a good guy. Anybody ever tell you you were a good guy?”
“I’m not a good guy.”