Bobby read his future in women; his girls were omens, changes in the weather, and he'd sit all night in the Gentleman Loser waiting for the season to lay a new face down in front of him like a card.
"You know," said the Finn, "I got a pair of shoes older than you are."
You could see his sunglasses scanning those faces as they passed, and he must have decided that Rikki's was the one he was waiting for, the wild card and the luck changer. The new one.
He seemed to be of no particular race, or, in certain lights, to belong to some race that nobody else belonged to.
It's not like bullshit, more like poetry.
She walked on, comforted by the surf, by the one perpetual moment of beach-time, the now-and-always of it.
The sky above the port was the color of television, tuned to a dead channel.
The high wore away, the chromed skeleton corroding hourly, flesh growing solid, the drug-flesh replaced with the meat of his life. He couldn't think. He liked that very much, to be conscious and unable to think.
The written word still enjoyed a certain prestige here. It was a sluggish country.
The designers [of the 1930s] were populists, you see; they were trying to give the public what it wanted. What the public wanted was the future.