While Foster went into the library to welcome his first book, Vida and I continued lying there on the bed taking little nips from the bottle of whiskey he had graciously left behind. After a while Vida and I were so relaxed that we both could have been rented out as fields of daises.
Suddenly, we had lost track of time, Foster came slamming into the room. He was very angry in his overweight T-shirt sweating kind of way.
"I think we'd better close this nuthouse while you're south," he said, demanding whiskey with his right hand. "Come to think of it, we should close this God-damn place forever. Everybody go home. Pick up their marbles. That is, if they have any left."
Foster gobbled down a big turkey slug of whiskey. He grimaced and shook when it hit his stomach.
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