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Eric Ericson, ex wrestler, was staying at my boardinghouse.
He had a job as a doorman (bouncer) at a local nightspot,
but was fired for drinking on the job and could no longer
pay for his room. I told him, with heavy heart, that he had
to leave next day at noon. I went up to his room at eleven
asked if I could drive him somewhere? Say, the bus station.
Eric sat on a chair looking out of the window, it was a nice
spring day and the mild breeze made the curtains flap like
sails did on boats in the bay. He civilly thanked me, said he
wasn’t going far. At precisely twelve a cold shudder went
through the sleepy house and I froze not wanting to know
what the wobble could mean. Half past twelve I went up to
his room, Eric, the quiet man, hung from the end of a rope.
The curtains billowed, it had been such a beautiful day.
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