Buying that Bukowski novel in the late Seventies had paid for itself in the mid eighties.
We kept our venture money in our wallet for the next several repeat performances knowing that eventually the law of averages would make a dramatic appearance in the day to day existence of the constant repetitious monotony accompanying the production of a daily publication.
One memorable Monday morning the excitement level had an ominous edge to it because Burke had called in sick on a day when the staff was eagerly anticipating his arrival with scads of cash he had reaped on their behalf.
He called in sick again the next day.
By Wednesday, folks were recreating the lesson of the kid who sat up all night wondering where the sun had gone. It finally dawned on him. (Old joke.) The roustabouts on the press crew where starting to grow nervous and resentful.
Burke never returned. Rumors of varying degrees of credibility began to permeate the work place. He had died. He had moved to England. He was working on a newspaper up in Sacramento.
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