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Dead Man Walking If you think it’s a shock reaching thirty, just wait till you turn eighty. Eighty, I keep saying to myself, I’m eighty and life’s quite normal— still walking around, still jacking off. Of course, one spill and I could be in the Village Nursing Home that I pass every day. We’re waiting for you, the attendants’ faces say, as they enjoy their cigarettes on the sidewalk or chat on their cellphones. And the wrecks in wheelchairs out front look at me grimly as I lope by, which I read as, You think you’re so smart, Pops, you’ll soon be right here, with us. Actually, it’s been months since my birthday, and I’m still taking it in, and when the crucial event happens I imagine it will also be awhile before I wake up and realize where I am— in a wheelchair, hospital bed, or coffin. 33 ...

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