Shopping: I chose a wire market cart and began trundling it down the first long corridor. The shelves were more than head-high, crammed with cans in brightly colored labels, packed with glass jars that showed ingeniously packed olives, pickles, fruits and nuts. There seemed miles and miles of such corridors; thousands of cans and boxes cried out to me to be seized and carried off. I gave in easily, a purposeless mariner glad of the diversion afforded by the siren's flamboyant cried. Lulled by the seductive music that crept from corners, enticed by pictures, by special prices and free gifts, I rapidly filled a wire cart, which I was forced to abandon near the meat counter... A third and fourth cart I filled, until, satiated, I halted. It was bad for me, i realized, to give in to each impulse; I was destroying the tough fiber of the inner man. And I was in danger of clogging the aisles with my abandoned wire carts.
Telephones: No sounds on earth can so wake a sleeper as that of the telephone. I awoke, each nerve jangling inharmoniously, my muscles tensed to leap toward the vile instrument. I fought that impulse. I am one of those rare men who can sit in a room alone with a ringing telephone and refuse to answer it. I am proud to be able to make that statement and I write it with some pride. I can sit in a room alone in a room with a ringing telephone and refuse to answer it... I did it once. Of course, I was almost out of my mind by the time that that ringing stopped. It rang seven and one-half times and my mental condition grew steadily worse throughout the rest of that long ago afternoon. ... I have never discovered who was trying to call me that afternoon... but I can sit in a room alone with a ringing telephone and refuse to answer it.
On a beatnik bar (but rather apropos for your average hipster coffee shop as well): The unlighted sign still swung before the narrow door in the brick wall; within, the same naked and fly-specked light globes illumined the tomby room. What appeared to be the same duffel-coated couples sprawled in what appeared to be the same poses, poses expressive of world-weariness and of careful scrutiny of weekly photo journals that showed the latest fashions in Weltscherz. The young ones who sprawled with such exquisite langour must have felt they were au courant, but I felt on entering the joint for the second time that I was on some great and dreadful treadmill that kept me running, running, running as insipide scenes of Life in Stratford paused shakily by me. I shuffled to a table in the far corner and slumped into an authentic pose. In time the waitress drew near. She expressed great boredom in my presence and an unreadiness to take my order. We exchanged blank looks half-filled with rue.
On Music: There was a sudden whirr, a blast of colored lights that struck my eyes painfully: red, mauve, blue, yellow, green lights whirled across the roof and rafters. There was a sharp metallic sound (the hammer of a gun?) and then the electronic melody of a terribly magnified violin hit me. Some one had plugged in the juke box. "The Little Gypsy Tea Room" hit me, encompassed me with the brisk ululations of Guy Lombardo's regimented musicians. The recording was poor, but I was worse. I sunk shakily into the nearest chair.
On Danger: How does one fend off a bullet? My hands flew to my eyes, my ears, my crotch, my stomach. I crouched forward, twisting awkwardly to the ground. I have never been strong on dignity, and I chose to meet death with great, quivering reluctance.
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