All this to make clear then, that Walter Lippit could well afford a tuxedo and parties like that, though I don’t think there was anyone who really spoke proper English at his little parties, except maybe his lawyer. And for that matter, Lippit had never worn anything tux-like before, or at least not until this Patricia came along. Otherwise, very nice though, this Pat.

So I put on the tux, for the change in pace which made Lippit so happy, and got back on the rounds which hadn’t been finished. Morry’s 9-Alley Emporium was next, and did he have any complaints. He always did, but I went there anyway.

The big place smelled of wax and of bowling shoes, and there were just two or three very slow customers. Even though it was getting dark Morry had not yet turned on all the lights. When it came to money and overhead, Morry had always been constipated.

He was on the other side of the snack-bar counter measuring water into the coffee urn. He had a coffee formula which would not rob you of sleep. I sat down on a stool and said, “Hi, Morry.”

He looked around; his face stayed sour. He turned back to the urn and finished his mixture. After that he came to the counter and looked at me.

“Funeral?” he said.

“No. I just naturally always wear a tux when I go to a bowling alley.”

“Oh.”

This showed how constipated he was when it came to humor and jokes. He said nothing else. No complaints, nothing. Morry always had complaints which was one of the reasons I dropped in there so often. But he turned away and watched the coffee-urn gauge and the urn as it filled up with a very light-colored liquid.

He said, “You wanna cup of coffee?”

“Are you mad?”

He shrugged and said nothing else. Maybe, I thought, there was no complaint this time, about records coming in late, wrong records coming in all the time, about coins jamming and lights blinking and using up too much electricity.