Ezra Pound vs. Jim Beam

I'm lying in bed in an airy Puerto Rican motel room - the same one I spent so much time in last year - and I'm looking out at the brilliant blue sea rolling outside my open window. The light cheesecloth curtains are carried inside on the breeze. I've got no blankets on, as the air already feels so hot and dry, but I am wearing some of those one-piece pajamas with the bum-flap.

I'm fully awake, but too lazy to get out of bed. I have to pee, but I'm too lazy to get out of bed. There's a knock at the door, but I'm too lazy to get out of bed. Instead, I call out: "who's there?"

"Housekeeping!" is the reply I hear through the flimsy wooden door.

I yell for her to come in.

When the maid sticks her head into the room, I explain that it's okay, that I'm awake but am going to stay in bed all day, and that she can go about her regular business. Making her way inside, she notices a book lying open, but face down, on my bed - ABC reading, by Ezra Pound. We then proceed to argue about Pound for awhile, and I'm increasingly impressed with the maids knowledge of contemporary American writing.

All of a sudden my attention is drawn to a half-empty bottle of Jim Beam sitting on the antique highboy across the room, and I lose my train of thought.

I'm still too lazy to get out of bed.