Boulder. Dillon had pretty much decided it was Boulder. He knew he had to leave. Six years plus was long enough. He wished he had a narrative that would allow him to go for a PhD in something stupid, history or anthropology or something. That would be fucking golden. He'd stay for that, but they knew him too well. He didn't want to answer too too many questions. Fuck. Boulder. Not fucking Providence. Not fucking Santa Fe. None of those other fucking places. When? Soon enough. After the first of the year. That would work. The bar. Fuck. Joe Fallon didn't give up though, that bastard. And because he was willing to push so hard, Dillon was getting some annoying interest from a few other firms. They were like fucking blind men, rushing after Fallon's lead, hoping to get something special even if they had no fucking idea what that thing was yet. Assholes. He needed to make a list though, figure out where he should be looking. Do some chasing of his own. Too bad he didn't fucking care.
Evie reading Calvert was pretty funny; now they all were, apparently, all those silly, silly probably untalented girls. Not like the old days. Where was Larry Schwartz when you needed him? Los Angeles, probably. Sucking dick. Good for him. He was a good person, though. There was an inherent decency to Larry under all that fucking hilarious walking, screaming, flaming Hollywood via Suffern commonplace. Because Dillon was a Philadelphia cop's son, he missed a bunch of the riffing nuance to Calvert at first. With the spread of the internet, the reality of Calvert's background was, much like Pynchon's oddly enough, more exposed, more transparent to anyone who actually cared. Now it wasn't so much later and not everybody was reading Calvert, even here. Some people. But some of the kids, lots of them, really, were still reading Vonnegut. Even here. What were they doing in Boulder?
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