Issue 50, Fall 1970
It happened just the other day. I can’t sleep. The whole thing makes me sick and throws me into a fever. I work in the park. Pick up papers and various articles with a stick. About an hour a day I put in, when I am in the mood for it. Mainly I sit in the Office, as we call it, and chew the fat with Lennox and Henzel and sleep and nip a bit. It is not a bad life But now there is this flood of strange types, youngsters mostly. “Buddhist riff-raff,” Lennox calls them. But they are not Buddhist, so far as I can see. I don’t know what they are. They come up fiom the sewers, I guess. Friday they had an outing in the park, thousands of them. The boys have long hair and beards that make a man want to throw up. The giris are pretty enough, but loose. I don’t know what it is they are after. Troubie, I’d say. I looked at them, and looked and looked. And then it all made me so unhappy and I had such a pain in my chest that I went back to the Office where it is dark and cool, and had a whiskey with Lennox and Henzel. They are parkies like me, old timers. We are in agreement about the crowd.
“They are profane,” said Henzel, who is a university graduate.”