Page 167

He had opened the door to the penthouse offices. The receptionist had been startled to see that he no longer dressed like his pictures. She montered in that he was there, putting upon her tongue an accent, and upon her lips looking back up to him, a worried smile. He accepted her with the grace of his palms turned outward at the slant of relaxed wrists. A door opened, and the usher lead them in a slow walk through the troops. An army of secret- ary's embracing their machines with clicking fing- ers; their singular actions multipling into wave- lengths; the embodied roar of a metal sea. He reflected now laying back on his bed reaching a stone, reaching something to hold on to accurate enough to justify this last exper- ience of rejection. His mind was remaining on the opening walk through these type preforming dolls. "Shit man," he said to himself aloud, his back arching up from the bed pulling his muscles, his mouth and eyes in a thin smile his acting could have easily turned into wicked; "that place wasn't A tragic or comic, not classic or romantic; that was a Wilshire-Bulvd; Wall Street," Walking through the huge room, with the far wall sided expansively in glass; he had winked at one of the smartly dressed working girls. Through the