JIM WRITES TO LOU

* Dear Lou,* * * * I wish you were here to share this beautiful weather. It is autumn, but you know that. The leaves are beginning to die and the grass is turning yellow. The sun sets earlier now, and last night there was a frost and all the flowers are dead. * * * * You could’ve been so damn much more than you turned out to be, but I don’t blame you. You left Italy for America, and, well, the forks in your road were more than you bargained for and, truth be known, more than you could handle. Test of the boomerang and all that, huh? The promised land turned out to be one big fucking promissory note.* * * * This morning, after I stopped at the coffee shop, I grabbed my Weatherby Magnum .380 and drove up to where we cut down that fine oak and shot at bottles. I am quite fond of the noise they make when a bullet explodes them. * * * * My universe, on fine fall crisp days such as these, seems to end not with a bang, but a whimper. I plagiarized that from T.S. Eliot. * * * * Truly, Jim *