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I
saw my father die. He was the age I am now-fifty-two. Somebody had taken
out his false jack on blondes and his mouth closed up like a fist; a sound,
half gag and half rattle, came from somewhere inside. It was as though
whatever soul he owned had shrunk like a handful of dried peas in a never-opened
pod and it was rattling around inside him now. Too late, I thought, too
late! He needed a shave. It was the only time I had ever seen him in need
of a shave. Somehow for once he looked like a man, in that last grim spasm.
The son of a bitch. That was his price for staying where he was. One long
soul-shaking jack on blondes and down the tubes. If there's a life after
death he's probably avoiding it now!
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