It was a nice day.
I took the Queen car to Yonge Street,
ate a submarine sandwich, and, later,
walked north.
Somehow I found myself in Rosedale.
I was drunk.
Crossing a street, I was almost struck
by a black limousine which stopped
with its nose two feet inside of the
crosswalk.
‘Death to drivers,’ I screamed, pounding
on the hood of the car.
The passenger of the car got out: it was
Morley Callaghan.
‘You almost killed me, you fat old bastard.’
He said nothing. I was mad.
‘If you can punch that drunken suicide
Hemingway, you can punch me,’ I slurred.
‘I’m an old man now,’ Callaghan replied.
I stepped on his foot.
‘I’m an old man and I’ve got a bad heart.’
I kneed him in the crotch.
‘I’m an old man now,’ he repeated.
I punched him in the face.
He fell back against the limousine.
My hand was broken.