Year of the Jackpot 8

The last time we had anything like this was the so-called
Era of Wonderful Nonsense. But this one is much worse."
He delved into a lower drawer, hauled out a graph. "The
amplitude is more than twice as great and we haven't
reached peak. What the peak will be I don't dare guess
three separate rhythms, reinforcing."
She peered at the curves. "You mean that the laddy with
the artic real estate deal is somewhere on this line?"
"He adds to it. And back here on the last crest are the flag-
pole sitters and the goldfish swallowers and the Ponzi hoax
and the marathon dancers and the man who pushed a pea-
nut up Pikes Peak with his nose. You're on the new crest-
or you will be when I add you in."
She made a face. "I don't like it."
"Neither do 1. But it's as clear as a bank statement. This
year the human race is letting down its hair, flipping its lip
with a finger, and saying, 'Wubba, wubba, wubba."'
She shivered. "Do you suppose I could have another
drink? Then I'll go."
"I have a better idea. I owe you a dinner for answering
questions. Pick a place and we'll have a cocktail before."
She chewed her lip. "You don't owe me anything. And
I don't feel up to facing a restaurant crowd. I might . . . I
might"
"No, you wouldn't," he said sharply. "It doesn't hit twice."
"You're sure? Anyhow, I don't want to face a crowd." She
glanced at his kitchen door. "Have you anything to eat in
there? I can cook."
"Urn, breakfast things. And there's a pound of ground
round in the freezer compartment and some rolls. I some-
times make hamburgers when I don't want to go out."
She headed for the kitchen. "Drunk or sober, fully dressed
ornaked, I can cook. YouTI see."
He did see. Open-faced sandwiches with the meat mar-
ried to toasted buns and the flavor garnished rather than
suppressed by scraped Bermuda onion and thin-sliced dill,
a salad made from things she had scrounged out of his re-
frigerator, potatoes crisp but not vulcanized. They ate it on
the tiny balcony, sopping it down with cold beer.
He sighed and wiped his mouth. "Yes, Meade, you can
cook."
'"Some day III arrive with proper materials and pay you
back. Then III prove it."
"You've already proved it. Nevertheless I accept. But I
tell you three times, you owe me nothing."
"No? If you hadn't been a Boy Scout, I'd be in jail."