Pyle went to the last session, in the large meeting room. All the presenters were asked to stand.

Nobody had any questions for him.

It was a good conference. Small enough to get around in, big enough to have some variety.

A person who wanted to be a writer could learn things about the writing game, or racket, or métier, and of course it was always nice to see people who had the same obstacles you did to surmount. It made you feel less like the Lone Ranger.

Fuck you, Kimo Sabe, I bought a boat, I'm going out to sea.

As Lyle Lovett says.

Or, as Miss Kitty used to say, on Gunsmoke, "From here to Tura Lura Lipschitz."

Driving home, Pyle couldn't find the exit he knew he came in at.

It was blocked off. It wasn't an exit anymore.

Didn't he come in that way?

He didn't feel like driving around looking for his exit, so he went another way.

When he got home, Brenda asked him if he'd eaten.

"No," he said. "Have you?"

"Yes," she said. "I didn't fix anything because I thought you'd get something to eat on the way home. Did you tell me you'd be home for supper?"

"No," Pyle said. "I should have stopped and gotten something. I just wanted to get home. I had a long day."

"How was the conference?" she asked. "Tell me all about it."

"Not much to tell," he said. "I saw some people I knew, met some people I didn't know. Have you noticed how young college students look nowadays?"

"Yes," she said. "They look like kids."

"Of course, we probably look old, to them."

Pyle started laughing.

He couldn't stop.

It struck him as funny.

Here he was, in character, and he just looked old.

An old guy, in character. Kinda sad.

An old guy, laughing. What was funny?

"If worms had daggers birds wouldn't fuck with them," he said.