She stumbled down the hallway, weaving from side to side
like a barndoor splitie that was parked behind a corn-crib somewhere
in Nebraska and hadn't had its link-pin-shims adjusted since Goldwater
taught Malcom X everything he knew about extremism and liberty.

	His fingers were wet, and shaking, and when he finally got
the cigaret lit, the wet fingerprints and droplets of water he'd
scattered made it burn unevenly, the way a Vanagon runs when its been 
driven at high speed and hasn't had that little cable harnes retrofit,
and he sucked on it, as if it was a 1600 single-port with the C.A.R.B.
throttle positioner that had flexed and flexed and finally broken and
now in overrun, would suck air, that worm of extra air, that would
burn his exhast valves and leave him gasping, 20 years later, in the
veterans hospital, one lung removed, the other barely functioning,
thinking to himself, "any time in the last 40 years I could have quit,
anyone can change, VW went from having an aircooled flat engine in the back,
driving the rear wheels, to a water cooled inline engine in the front,
driving the front wheels, I could have quit when they went to 12 Volts,
introduced independant rear suspension, when they started using disc brakes, 
or fuel injection, could have quit for the Vanagon body, or the
Synchro, or the wasserboxer, could have quit for the psychedelic plads,
or quit when they dropped 'em.