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onto the road and the hearse started up again

and we continued to drive along

until we reached that

church.

we were going

to the funeral of a great man

but

the crowd was very sparse: the

family, a couple of old screenwriter friends,

two or three others. we

spoke to the family and to the wife of the deceased

and then we went in and the ser vice began and the

priest wasn’t so good but one of the great man’s

sons gave a fine eulogy, and then it was over

and we were outside again, in our car,

following the hearse again, back down the steep

road

passing the strawberry truck again and my

woman said, “let’s not stop for strawberries,”

and as we continued to the graveyard, I thought,

Fante, you were one of the best writers ever

and this is one sad day.

finally we were at the graveside, the priest

said a few words and then it was over.

I walked up to the widow who sat very pale and

beautiful and quite alone on a folding metal chair.

“Hank,” she said, “it’s hard,” and I tried in vain

to say something that might comfort her.

we walked away then, leaving her there, and

I felt terrible.

I got a friend to drive my girlfriend back to

town while I drove to the racetrack, made it

just in time for the first race, got my bet

down as the mutuel clerk looked at me in wonder and

said, “Jesus Christ, how come you’re wearing a

necktie?”

the wine of forever

re-reading some of Fante’s

The Wine of Youth

in bed

this mid-afternoon

my big cat

BEAKER

asleep beside

me.

the writing of some

men

is like a vast bridge

that carries you

over

the many things

that claw and tear.

Fante’s pure and magic

emotions

hang on the simple

clean

line.

that this man died

one of the slowest and

most horrible deaths

that I ever witnessed or

heard

about…

the gods play no

favorites.

I put the book down

beside me.

book on one side,

cat on the

other…

John, meeting you,

even the way it

was was the event of my

life. I can’t say

I would have died for

you, I couldn’t have handled

it that well.

but it was good to see you

again

this

afternoon.

the pile-up

the 3 horse clipped the heels of

the 7, they both went down and

the 9 stumbled over them,

jocks rolling, horses’ legs flung

skyward.

then the jocks were up, stunned

but all right

and I watched the horses

rising in the late afternoon,

it had not been a good day for

me

and I watched the horses rise,

please, I said inside, no broken

legs!

and the 9 was all right

and the 7

and the 3 also,

they were walking,

the horses didn’t need the van,

the jocks didn’t need the

ambulance.

what a beautiful day,

what a perfectly beautiful day,

what a wondrously lovely

day—

3 winners in a

single race.

my big night on the town

sitting on a 2nd-floor porch at 1:30 a.m.

while

looking out over the city.

it could be worse.

we needn’t accomplish great things, we only

need to accomplish little things that make us feel

better or

not so bad.

of course, sometimes the fates will

not allow us to do

this.

then, we must outwit the fates.

we must be patient with the gods.

they like to have fun,

they like to play with us.

they like to test us.

they like to tell us that we are weak

and stupid, that we are

finished.

the gods need to be amused.

we are their toys.

as I sit on the porch a bird begins

to serenade me from a tree nearby in

the dark.

it is a mockingbird.

I am in love with mockingbirds.

I make bird sounds.

he waits.

then he makes them back.

he is so good that I laugh.

we are all so easily pleased,

all of us living things.

now a slight drizzle begins to

fall.

little chill drops fall on my

hot skin.

I am half asleep.

I sit in a folding chair with my

feet up on the railing

as the mockingbird begins

to repeat every bird song

he has heard that

day.

this is what we old guys do

for amusement

on Saturday

nights:

we laugh at the gods, we

settle old scores with

them,