they were experimenting with narco-analysis and found that Bill had seven separate personalities each growing worse and worse on the way down till finally he was a raving idiot and had to be restrained with chains. The top personality was an English lord, the bottom the idiot. Halfway, he was an old Negro who stood in line waiting with everyone else and said “Some’s bastards, some’s ain’t, that’s the score.” Bill had a sentimental streak about the old days in America, especially 1910 when you could get morphine in a drugstore without prescription and Chinamen smoked opium in their evening windows and the country was wild and brawling and free with abundance and any kind of freedom for everyone. His chief hate was Washington bureaucracy; second to that, liberals; also cops. He spent all his time talking and teaching others. Joan sat at his feet, so did I, so did Neal, and so had Allen Ginsberg. We'd all learned from him. He was a gray, nondescript looking fellow you wouldn't notice on the street, unless you looked closer and saw his mad bony skull with its strange youthfulness and fire---a Kansas minister with exotic phenomenal fires and mysteries. He had studied medicine in Vienna, known Freud too; had studied anthropology, read everything; and now he was settling to his life’s work, which was the study of things themselves in the streets of life and the night. He sat in his chair; Joan brought drinks, martinis. The shades by his chair were always drawn, day and night; it was his corner of the house. On his lap were the Mayan codices and an air gun which he occasionally raised to pop benzedrine tubes across the room. I kept rushing around putting up new ones. We all took shots. Meanwhile we talked. Bill was curious to know the reason for this trip. He peered at us and snuffed down his nose. “Now Neal, I want you to sit quiet a minute and tell me what you’re doing crossing the country like this.” Neal could only blush and say “Ah well, you know how it is.” “Jack, what are you going to the Coast for?” “Only for a few days, I’m coming back to school.” “What’s the score with this Al Hinkle, what kind of character is he?” At that moment Al was making up to Helen in the bedroom; it didn’t take him long. We didn’t know what to tell Bill about Al Hinkle. Seeing that we didn’t know