And the Hippos Were Boiled in Their Tanks

I began to get a feeling familiar to me from my bartending days of being the only sane man in a nut-house. It doesn’t make you feel superior but depressed and scared, because there is nobody you can contact. Right then I decided to go home

There’s something rotten about him,” she had said. “He has the smell of death about him.”

We were talking about the bad quality of Cuban gin, and high prices of liquor generally

get wise to phosphorus paste. And besides, there were so many holes in her apartment that all the rats in New York could come in

Oh well,” I said, “do what you like. It’s no skin off me

joint of joints, the Imperial Café. Here were two floors and five rooms of sailors, soldiers, and seamen, women, music, whiskey, smoke, and fights.

“It was all a blur to me. I remember

We were still drunk—we’d been drunk all the three days—and we didn’t care about anything

It’s for five months and I’m broke, you know that. But don’t worry, we’ll get a ship together. Just leave it to me

Weekends in New York started Thursday and ended Tuesday

His calm was becoming apathy