6

For at least the last five years Simon has been spending a great deal of time and money and all his manpower on what he calls his Project for the Suppression of Sadness. Sure it takes a lot to plant a forest, he says, but I've got to watch some kind of future—mine's not growing anywhere. How are your weeds? I ask Simon, when I see him. It's not that uncommon, he says. He gives me half a smile. You're the only person I know who wants to kill themself when they wake up in the morning, I say. Simon has always had an unflinchingly slow reaction page 146to life. He pays for his love of detail by not getting anything done. He stops halfway through lifting the glass of every sip in order for an inspection. He stops halfway through everything. Recently Simon has become noticeably more precise. Every time he sits down it is as bad as ironed socks. Simon often speculates on the origins of himself. How do you like it here? he asks me. But before I answer he asks again, How do you like it here in this shit dump? I desperately need to retire, Simon used to say all the time. Simon—the man with no job. Recently Simon told me that he had a plan. I'm going to take a trip back to '66, he said. He said it softly like his voice had got stuck under his tongue. I was worried that maybe this time it was more than the search for the birthplace of introspection and first edition psychedelic posters. Last Sunday I made a point of calling Simon before the morning was through. You're right, I said. Sunday is the worst of the worst. I think I'll call you next week as well, I said. Just to be sure, I said. Thank you, said Simon.