Jamboree

"George reeling quietly through the heavy revolving doors into this elderly place. To tip toe across the fat carpet and whisper boo at the reception desk. "Can I help you sir." Smith looking out at the eyes. Holding the counter with uncertain hands. Mouth opening and closing. Eyes fixed on all the hanging keys. To open doors. Shirl seems to stand somewhere behind this desk. With her unlit heart. However cold you get, remember me. Gripped in solitude. There can't be a jamboree all the time."

"[']Chuck us down that net on top of the lockers, Stalky.' / 'That's all right. It's a collapsible jamboree, too. Beastly luxurious dogs these fags are. Built like a fishin'-rod.[']"

"The campfires provide enough plain old regular visible light to show this sorry affair for what it is: a bunch of demented Boy Scouts, a jamboree without merit badges or hygiene."