There are times—when you see Hard Day's Night again, for instance, or read an interview with an actor in a Wim Wenders film— that you realize how conventional you’ve become. I felt that after meeting Scrimshaw and wondered what I could do.
Perhaps begin to wear old suits? pleat-fronted gabardines with trousers that sail in the breeze. Or wear a watch cap at all hours in all seasons and in new locations, matching it maybe with my new-found velvet cape.
For awhile, and probably wisely, I considered taking off again with Obie, the two of us leaving here and hitchhiking through America. I imagined him in one of those snuggly slings across my chest, looking up expectantly as the tractor trailers roared and diesel fuel perfumed the air.
He too could wear a watch cap of dark wool. We would meet girls and they would suckle him and ease him to sleep before they slept with me. In the dark I would hear his breathing and smell on their breasts the sweetness, sweet Bess, of Obie’s mouth, the sweet skull smell of talc and oil and lotion which babies have and which echoes the sweetness of where they’ve suckled, alone and unconventional.