Myra-Breckinridge-Gore-Vidal

wrote an entire poem praising limestone, unaware that anyone of a thousand frames from Tarzan and the Amazons(1945) had not only anticipated him but made irrelevant hisefforts. This was one of Myron's insights that most excitedme. How I miss him. "How I miss him, Mr. Loner.Particularly now. You see, he didn't leave a penny..." "Noinsurance, savings account, stocks, bonds, safety depositbox maybe? Gertrude must've left the boy something."Buck fell into my trap. "No," I said, in a throaty voice with asmall croak to it not unlike (but again not really like) that ofthe late Margaret Sullavan. "Gertrude, as you call her,Myron's angel mother, did not leave him one penny. All thatshe owned on the day she died, Christmas Eve 1966, wasa set of bedroom furniture. Everything else was gone, dueto a series of expensive illnesses in the family, hers,Myron's, my own. I won't bore you with the details but for thelast five years we supported a dozen doctors. NowGertrude, your sister, is gone with no one to mourn her atFrank E. Campbell's Funeral Church except Myron and me.Then he died and now I'm absolutely alone, and penniless."During this recital Buck Loner directed toward me thatsame narrow-eyed gaze one detects in photographs ofPresident Johnson whenever he is being asked a questionabout Bobby Kennedy. But confident in the efficacy of myultimate weapon, I merely offered him a sad smile in return,and blinked a tear or two loose from my Max FactorSupreme eyelashes. I then looked up at the lifesizephotograph in color of Elvis Presley which hangs behindBuck's desk, flanked by two American flags, and began my