I believed her. It looks the same as it always has. Big Dog, you’ve been imagining things. The Intercontinental Hotel, New York City. Two-day rest stop. 31 cities to go. Helen killed the mole fixation. My anxiety increased. I was wired for movement, performance and fantasy. My wife and a hotel room? I don’t know what to do. The first U.S. reviews were out. All praise was undercut with caveats. The book was difficult and intimidating. It was an impressive, but bullying work of art. I would have preferred fawning magnanimity. The assessment I got?—satisfactory. The bully in me dug it. The book was moving hotcake-fast. Helen took off to meet with her potential publishers. My rest stop was all deep breaths and head trips. I went back on the road. It got worse. I didn’t look bad. The tall and gaunt thing has always worked for me. My internal clock was de-sprung, re-sprung and un-sprung. My brain stuttered, sputtered, sparked and always caught ignition. The cities blurred by. I kept looking in my mouth.
