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rubs the long, shiny black hairs on his arm and does not look at the football game on TV, as do The Sunday Afternoon Regulars: Seated along the bar, heads turned toward the rainbow hues of the color television set and The Game, they periodically shove their empty beer glasses toward Wilma: the barmaid, in her middle thirties, who sucks on a toothpick, looks out through her shining glasses toward the cars passing in the street, and vaguely hiccups. ROY: AIN’T YOU afraid of cancer? Lillian: Why hell no. \(She taps her I’m not afraid of nothin or nobody anymore. The New Yorker: \(laughing and giving Kee-rist! Lillian: \(frowning as she sees two neatly dressed men who have stood up and are talking together at the other end of the people in the world . . . they got each other. \(She yells out at them, into the roar See that little one there, the pasty-faced one. He told Joe my hair stunk. \(turning to He ain’t worth the dirt God feeds earth worms. \(She taps her cigarette into the ash tray again. Roy hangs in the air at her side, would you like some dove for super? whorin around all week and then sit up in church in Sunday like most people. Joe knows that. I come here and drink in the open and I’m just as good a woman as those hypocrites that sneak around at home and hide bottles in the closet. Wilma: Heyyy, you’re disturbin the game. The New Yorker: Bloody ball game! Lass, I’m not a-worryin today, or any saintly day, about ball games. \(He laughs, groans, shakes his head as he smiles over Roy: Wilma, don’t Glenn come on at three? Wilma: Naw, he don’t come on till nine. Right after Ed Sullivan. THE NEW YORKER: Tel-e-vision … football. … house of joy . . . is a little music! \(He gets up, puts a dime in the juke box, Lillian: When my first husband had that stroke, he went crazy, you know. The doctor said his burns got brained . . . his brains got burned . . . and all he wanted was to tear up things. The New Yorker: Tear up things .. . umh, umh, umh . . . What a bunch of ma-lark-y . . . ma-lark-y. The New Yorker: Well, good health to ya, as the wop says. Good health to ya. \(He smiles at the Pediatrician, who is quietly shaking his head and looking down at a AHHHHHHHHHHHHWilma: Just cool it, will ya. Lillian: I had to order them special, silver-tipped bullets for my .45. Then the doctor told me to hide everything because my husband was so violent. The New Yorker: Yom Kippah! It’s a Jewish holiday, ya know. Lillian: Anything he had in his hand, he just wanted to throw it. So I had to get rid of it. The New Yorker: Ah, Pauline, honey-my-lamb, I believe I will buy you a drink. Wilma: My name ain’t Pauline. The New Yorker: Well, honor me with your birthday-true little name, my pet. Wilma: I told you last night 52 times. The New Yorker: \(smiling into his glass trifles. And you know what the wop says: “That’s poi-fect-ly all right with me, kid!” Roy: \(leaning over to Lillian and day. You want to kiss me? Lillian: God, did he suffer. Rback about six, and we can watch Glenn. I got a little running around to do. Lillian: … ready for the boneyard. Then the doc tells me: If you don’t give up whiskey and cigarettes, you ain’t gonna last any longer than your husband. The New Yorker: Now whiskey I can eat. H0000000 … Kee-rist. what is yore honest opinion ain’t a little wine good for a feller? How ’bout that Morgan David? The New Yorker: Well, now, my man, let me tell you: This cra-aap they sell over the bar Wilma: Hey, let’s watch our language. The New Yorker: Bless me, did you utter sounds, my doll? \(There is a loud roar from the TV. The Pediatrician rubs the black hairs on his arm, getting them to lie smooth and straight and parallel. The New Yorker tries another huge smile in his direction, wobbling his head a little You know, of course, that Christ wouldn’t work? He was the first Bolshevik. Ah, haaaaaa! Wilma: You’re nuts. The New Yorker: Yahhhh. Ummmm. Weill I’ve drunk my share of salt water and gasoline, I’ll be telling’ ye that, my sweet Lorraine. Or is it Pauline? Lillian: ‘Born to Lose’: You better believe it. The man said everything when he said that. Roy: \(whispering to Lillian as he turns somewheres along ’bout six. \(There is The New Yorker: Kee-rist. Busing in focus Washington The real issues behind the anti-busing controversy went unnoticed, for the most part, until conservative Houston Cong. Bob Casey got before the House Judiciary Committee late in February to testify in favor of his proposed constitutional amendment to end “forced busing.” The results of forced busing, Casey told his Congressional colleagues, have been an inflammation of racial tensions with a very detrimental effect on the children and the school system. To prove his point about the evils of busing, Casey offered the following detrimental effects: “Football teams have been broken up due to the reassignment of students. School bands have’ been dispersed in the same manner. Students who buy their senior high school rings during their junior year find themselves graduating from a school other than the school whose rings they wear.” Man’s love affair with Earth is nearly over: He has been unfaithful. Grace Ross Fort Worth March 17, 19 72 19 BIG THICKET MUSEUM Saratoga, Texas Open Saturday through Thursday, morning and afternoon. Support Your Big Thicket Association