—S. Adams and H. Smith TOWN AGAIN. “Did you come down for the fight?” One of Bea’s kids talking. “The fight?” “The heavyweight championship, Ali vs. Frazier.” “No. I didn’t even know there was going to be one.” Well, one more thing along with the mill, automobiles, the war, that my craziness didn’t put a dent in. Haven’t people had enough of that shit? How can people get so excited about two men trying to kill each other in a ring? On to the post office. And for transportation, what else but faithful Car Car, the old Volks that had no right to keep running, great friend of its keeper who had no right to be out of the nut house and so cheerful and spunky to boot. I was cheerful, Kathy was cheerful, Car Car was cheerful. There were three important pieces of mail—a very nice get-well letter from Genie, one of the few people I had felt close to at Swarthmore, a poster from my father, and a letter from Vincent addressed to “Virginia and the Folks.” The letter from Genie had been forwarded from the hospital.
