“I am goddam sick and tired of that mother-loving thing on the wall,” said Hagerman, after Burroughs had tossed his books on the bed, and begun to change his pants; “goddam fed up seeing it day after day.” “Jesus, Peter, it was your idea in the first place.” “Jesus Peter is tired of it, Burroughs!” “Then take it down.” Hagerman was talking about the life-size Ursula Andress poster over Burroughs’ desk. Hagerman was sitting on the floor in a silk blue-and-white Pi Pi robe, cross-legged with his clipboard propped against his knees, staring up at it. “You take it down, Burroughs!” Burroughs stepped out of his pants and crossed the room in his stocking feet and gave a yank forceful enough to jolt his spectacles to the end of his nose and bring the poster crashing to the floor. “Okay now? Okay now, Peter?” “Well, what the hell is eating you, Burroughs?” “Wasn’t that an order? It sounded like an order.” “Goddam it, I’ve got enough trouble without your prima donna scenes!”
