of fast-speaking woman who regularly drove taxi-drivers, barbers, and hardhat construction workers into foaming frenzies. Why that particular little jangle of doggerel had come into his mind, however, he couldn't say; it was tagged to some memory that wouldn't quite come. Maybe his tired old brains were just cross-referencing that sixties Vietnam protest chant, the one which had gone "Hey, hey, LBJ! How many kids did you kill today?"
No, that's not it. he thought. Close, but no cigar. It was just before his mind could cough up Ed Deepneau's name and face, a voice spoke from almost beside him. "Earth to Ralph, earth to Ralph, come in, Ralphie-baby!"
Roused out of his thoughts, Ralph turned toward the voice. He was both shocked and amused to find he had almost been asleep on his feet.
Christ, he thought, you never know how important sleep is until you miss a little. Then all the floors start to tilt and all the corners on things start to round off.
It was Hamilton Davenport, the proprietor of Back Pages, who had spoken to him. He was stocking the library cart he kept in front of his shop with brightly jacketed paperbacks. His old corncob pipe-to Ralph it always looked like the stack of a model steamship-jutted from the corner of his mouth, sending little puffs of blue smoke into the hot, bright air. Winston Smith, his old gray tomcat, sat in the open doorway of the shop with his tail curled around his paws. He looked at Ralph with yellow-eyed indifference, as if to say, You think you know old, my friend? I'm here to testify you don't know dick about getting old.
"Sheesh, Ralph," Davenport said. "I must have called your name at least three times."
"I guess I was woolgathering," Ralph said. He stepped past the library cart, leaned in the doorway (Winston Smith held his place with regal disinterest), and grabbed the two papers he bought every day: a Boston Globe and a USA Today. The Derry News came right to the house, courtesy of Pete the paperboy. Ralph sometimes told people that he was sure one of the three papers was comic relief, but he had never been able to make up his mind which one it was.
"I haven't-" He broke off as Ed Deepneau's face came into his mind. It was out by the airport last summer he'd heard that nasty little chant from, and it really wasn't any wonder it had taken him a little while to retrieve the memory, Ed Deepneau was the last person in the world from whom you'd expect to hear something like that.
"Ralphie?" Davenport said. "You just shut down on me."
Ralph blinked. "Oh, sorry. I haven't been sleeping very well, that's what I started to say."
"Bummer... but there are worse problems. just drink a glass of warm milk and listen to some quiet music half an hour before bed."
Ralph had begun to discover this summer that everyone in America apparently had a pet remedy for insomnia, some bit of bedtime magic that had been handed down through the generations like the family Bible.
"Bach's good, also Beethoven, and William Ackerman ain't bad. But the real trick"-Davenport raised one finger impressively to emphasize this-"is not to get up from your chair during that half hour.
Not for anything. Don't answer the phone, don't wind up the dog and put out the alarm-clock, don't decide to brush your teeth... nothing. Then, when you do go to bed... barn! Out like a light!"
"What if you're sitting there in your favorite easy chair and all at once you realize you have a call of nature?" Ralph asked. "These things can come on pretty suddenly when you get to be my age."
"Do it in your pants," Davenport said promptly, and burst out laughing. Ralph smiled, but it had a dutiful feel. His insomnia was rapidly losing whatever marginal humor value it might once have had.
"In your pants." Ham chortled. He slapped the library cart and wagged his head back and forth.
Ralph happened to glance down at the cat. Winston Smith looked blandly back at him, and to Ralph his calm yellow gaze seemed to say, Yes, that's right, He's a fool, but he's my fool.
"Not bad, huh? Hamilton Davenport, master of the snappy comeback.
Do it in your. He snorted laughter, shook his head, then took the two dollar bills Ralph was holding out. He slipped them into the pocket of his short red apron and came out with some change. "That about right?"