夜班服务员是一名波士顿大学的大二学生，他靠在《意义的意义》上，从昏昏沉沉的睡梦中醒来。他走过我们的走廊。蔚蓝的天使我那痛苦的蓝窗变得暗淡。乌鸦在石化的球道上乱飞。没有!我的心变得紧张起来，仿佛一支鱼叉在争抢猎物。(这是“精神病患者”的房子)我的幽默感有什么用?我朝斯坦利咧嘴一笑，他现在已经六十多岁了，曾经是哈佛大学的全美后卫，(如果可能的话!)在他泡澡的时候，他仍然保持着二十多岁男孩的身材，长长的浴盆里有一条像海豹一样的肌肉，从维多利亚时代的水管里隐隐地流下了尿。他整天整夜戴着一顶深红色的金帽子，是一尊高贵的花岗岩雕像，他只想着自己的身材，想着靠吃雪百利和姜汁汽水减肥——与其说是印章，不如说是文字。这是麦克林餐厅鲍迪奇大厅里破晓的样子; the hooded night lights bring out "Bobbie," Porcellian '29, a replica of Louis XVI without the wig-- redolent and roly-poly as a sperm whale, as he swashbuckles about in his birthday suit and horses at chairs. These victorious figures of bravado ossified young. In between the limits of day, hours and hours go by under the crew haircuts and slightly too little nonsensical bachelor twinkle of the Roman Catholic attendants. (There are no Mayflower screwballs in the Catholic Church.) After a hearty New England breakfast, I weigh two hundred pounds this morning. Cock of the walk, I strut in my turtle-necked French sailor's jersey before the metal shaving mirrors, and see the shaky future grow familiar in the pinched, indigenous faces of these thoroughbred mental cases, twice my age and half my weight. We are all old-timers, each of us holds a locked razor.