—No but holy shit Bast I mean that’s what you do! Like I mean these here Indians is it my fault they think corn is this here god they don’t even have electricity? is it my fault if I didn’t get these here leases off them and leave them stay there somebody else is going to screw them out of the whole thing? Is it my fault if I do something first which if I don’t do it somebody else is going to do it anyway? I mean how come everybody’s always getting mad at me! Like we get Milliken to help fix up these laws to start selling this marijuana to help out these here Ritz stockholders so Beamish gets pissed off and goes and quits just because I did it first like these ads in these here textbooks and all, I mean he gets pissed off at that just because I do if first so then he gets pissed off where I do just like everybody like where we’re franchising out this here health plan, I mean where these nursing homes and funerals and all they have to buy everything off us where we get to charge them what we want and squeeze them out anytime we want is it my fault that’s what franchising is! I mean Beamish even gets pissed off where we paint this Triangle water tower like this here giant roll of toilet paper then he respectfully submits why don’t we recycle this here whole encyclopedia I mean is it my fault if we’ve got this like third of a million dollars sunk in it when some wiseass finds out these writers they’ve just been making up entries only nobody knows which ones? I mean then where one of them even says what do you expect for this half cent a word what am I suppose to do, recycle it and throw all these here printers and binders and salesmen out of work so they all get pissed off like at Eagle? I mean like we close the mills so they’re all pissed off about this here vacation time they been saving up like it’s my fault they didn’t take their dumb vacations so they’re going to strike and sue us and all so this here Billy Shorter, I mean just to shut up his union we go and give his stupid kid this Wonder beer distributorship which he screws it up so bad we have to buy it back off him for like fifty thousand dollars I mean what do you expect me to do! Hey . . .? My ankle I can’t hardly, hey? Bast . . .? he pushed shoulder deep from weeds to gather his armload close stepping high over the rutted mud,—I couldn’t see you hey wait a second . . . he paused against a pole of rust signaling the opening with an indecipherable sign—I mean did you even hear what I was just telling you?