“You can certainly think of some unpleasant subjects,” said Simple. “Even if I was dying, I would comb my own head—and better not nobody else touch it! But say, boy, if you want to do me a favor, when you come back bring me a stocking-cap to make my hair lay down. That is one thing these white folks do not have in this hospital. I wonder if it is against the rules to wear a nylon stocking-cap in this here high bed? If it ain’t you tell Joyce to send me one.”

“Very well.”

“Also a small drink, because you know it’s a long time between drinks in a hospital. And sometimes I don’t have nothing to do but lay here and think. The other day I got to thinking about the Age of the Air when rocket planes get to be common.”

“What did you think about it?”

“About how women will have a hard time keeping up with their husbands then,” said Simple.

“How’s that?”

“Mens will have girl friends all over the world, not just around the corner where a wife can find out—and sue for divorce. Why, when rocket planes get to be as cheap as Fords, I’m liable to go calling in Cairo any week end.”

“Joyce would be right behind you,” I said.

“I expect so. Not even in a rocket plane could I keep Joyce from knowing my whereabouts. But you know what I am talking about is true, and in the future it is going to be even better. In 1975, when a man can get in a rocket plane and shoot through the stratosphere a thousand miles a minute—when he can get to London sooner than I can get from Harlem to Times Square—you know, and I know, a guy will meet some woman he likes halfway across the earth in Australia and any night after dinner he will shoot over there to see her while he tells his wife he’s going out to play pool. He can be back by bedtime.”

“Your imagination is certainly far-fetched,” I said.

“No place will be far-fetched when them rocket planes gets perfected,” said Simple. “If I can afford it, I sure will own one myself. Then, in my rocket I will rock! You won’t see me hanging around no Harlem bars no more. Saturday nights I will rock on down to Rio and drink coconut milk and gin with them Brazilian chicks whilst dancing a samba. Sunday morning I will zoom on over to Africa and knock out some palm wine before I come back to Seventh Avenue around noon to eat some of Joyce’s chicken and dumplings.

“Joyce will say, ‘Jess, where you been this morning with your hair blowed back so slick?’