Overwhelmed by boredom one afternoon in the dayroom, as we watched Chandler execute yet another “grand entrance” (a little pivot with a serious lip pout and a low and sultry “Hello, darlings”), I confided to Rouse that I suspected Eagle of being a “closet” faggot, and shortly afterward I was called into the Eagle’s den for a rare appointment. Obviously Rouse had snitched on me. I told Eagle that I thought he was a homosexual because he had surfing posters in his office, and I watched him scribble three pages of notes about this. Eagle’s desk was cramped, and his office was hot in spite of a pair of twelve-inch portable fans beating like they could use a couple of shots of lightweight motor oil, and I began to perspire heavily as I watched Eagle write. He was a spectacle—a tall man, cadaverously thin, with his long, angular legs crossed tightly at the knees, his ass perched on the front edge of his chair as he chain-smoked with one hand, flicking ashes into a well-filled ashtray on his desk while he scribbled at the notepad on his lap with his other hand; turning pages, lighting fresh cigarettes off the butts of old ones, scribbling, flipping the pad, seemingly oblivious of me until he looked up and confronted me with that incredible tin nose. “Do you realize that you are sweating?”

“It’s hot.”

“It’s hot,” he repeated. He looked down at his notepad and proceeded to write a volume.

By now I was drenched with sweat, having something very much like a panic attack. Without looking up, Eagle said, “You’re hyperventilating.”

Everything was getting swirly. Eagle dashed out his cigarette and reached into a drawer, withdrawing a stained paper sack from McDonald’s. “Here,” he said. “Breathe into this.”

I took the bag and started breathing into it. “It isn’t working,” I said between breaths.

“Just give it a minute. Have you ever done this before? Hyperventilated?”

“Oh, God, no.” I felt like I was dying.

Eagle pushed himself back in his chair and placed his hands on his knees. “There’s more at work here than just a seizure disorder,” he said. “I’m seeing some psychopathology.”

“It’s that fucking nose,” I said, gasping. “I’m freaking out.”

“You don’t like the nose?” Eagle said. “Well, how do you think I feel about the nose? What am I supposed to do, go off on some island like Robinson Crusoe and hide?”

“I didn’t mean that,” I said. “It’s just—”

“It’s just too fucking weird, isn’t it, Sergeant?”

“Yes, sir,” I said. “Not normally, I mean, but I’m on all this medicine. You’ve got to cut back my dosage. I can’t handle it.”

“I’ll make you a deal. I’m going to cut you back if you do something for me.”