He'd probably make a good writer.
He was bursting with enthusiasms.
He probably loved many things: the hawk in flight, the god-damned ocean, full moon, Balzac, bridges, stage plays, the Pulitzer Prize, the piano, the god-damned Bible.
There was a small radio in the bar.
There was a popular song playing.
Then in the middle of the song there was an interruption.
The announcer said, "A bulletin has just come in.
The Japanese have bombed Pearl Harbor.
I repeat: The Japanese have just bombed Pearl Harbor.
All military personnel are requested to return immediately to their bases!" We looked at each other, hardly able to understand what we'd just heard.
Well," said Becker quietly, "that's it." "Finish your beer," I told him.
Becker took a hit.
Jesus, suppose some stupid son-of-a-bitch points a machine gun at me and pulls the trigger?" "That could well happen." "Hank . . ." "What?" "Will you ride back to the base with me on the bus?" "I can't do that." The bartender, a man about 45 with a watermelon gut and fuzzy eyes walked over to us.
