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fraternity brothers. His character line was: “A good friend.”
    Walter is at ease again. He turns away from the window and once more stands over me and inclines his narrow hollowed-out temple.
    â€œYou know most of the krewe, don’t you?”
    â€œYes. As a matter of fact I still belong—”
    â€œIt’s the same bunch that go down to Tigre au Chenier. Why didn’t you come down last month?”
    â€œI really don’t like to hunt much.”
    Walter seems to spy something on the table. He leans over and runs a thumb along the grain. “Just look at that wood. It’s all one piece, by God.” Since his engagement, I have noticed that Walter has begun to take a proprietary interest in the house, tapping on walls, measuring floorboards, hefting vases. He straightens up. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you. All I can figure is that you’ve got me on your list.”
    â€œIt’s not that.”
    â€œWhat is it then?”
    â€œWhat is what?”
    â€œWhy in the hell don’t you give me a call sometime?”
    â€œWhat would we talk about?” I say in our sour-senseless style of ten years ago.
    Walter gives my shoulder a hard squeeze. “I’d forgotten what a rare turd you are. No, you’re right. What would we talk about,” says Walter elegiacally. “Oh Lord. What’s wrong with the goddamn world, Binx?”
    â€œI am not sure. But something occurred to me this morning. I was sitting on the bus—”
    â€œWhat do you do with yourself out there in Gentilly?” People often ask me what is wrong with the world and also what I do in Gentilly, and I always try to give an answer. The former is an interesting question. I have noticed, however, that no one really wants to listen to an answer.
    â€œNot much. Sell mutual funds to widows and dagos.”
    â€œIs that right?” Walter drops his shoulder and feels the muscle in his back. Squatting down on his heels, he runs an eye along the baseboard calculating the angle of settle.
    After the war some of us bought a houseboat on Vermilion Bay near Tigre au Chenier. Walter got everything organized. It was just like him to locate a cook-caretaker living right out there in the swamp and to line up some real boogalee guides. But to me the venture was not a success. It was boring, to tell the truth. Actually there was very little fishing and hunting and a great deal of poker and drinking. Walter liked nothing better than getting out in that swamp on week ends with five or six fellows, quit shaving and play poker around the clock. He really enjoyed it. He would get up groaning from the table at three o’clock in the morning and pour himself a drink and, rubbing his beard, stand looking out into the darkness. “Goddamn, this is all right, isn’t it? Isn’t this a terrific setup, Binx? Tomorrow we’re going to have duck Rochambeau right here. Tell me honestly, have you ever tasted better food at Galatoire’s?” “No, it’s very good, Walter.” “Give me your honest opinion, Binx.” “It’s very good.” He got Jake the caretaker out of trouble once and liked having him around. Jake would sit in close to the poker game. “Jake, what do you think of that fellow over there?” Walter would ask him, nodding toward me or one of the others. He liked to think that Negroes have a sixth sense and that his Negro had an extra good one. Jake would cock his head as if he were fathoming me with his sixth sense. “You got to watch him! That Mister Binx is all right now!” And in some fashion, more extraordinary than a sixth sense, Jake would manage to oblige Walter without disobliging me. The houseboat seemed like a good idea, but as it worked out I became depressed. To tell the truth I like women better. All I could think about in that swamp was how much I’d like to have my hands on Marcia or Linda and be