64. Man, some of that stuff back there was cheap, I'll admit it. But what was I supposed to do? What ground do I have to stand on? Got to keep moving, don't I? The ground is constantly shaking beneath me. Keep on dancing. The show must go on, right? Thanks, bucko. Retire. Where am I supposed to go? Florida? What am I supposed to do? I got nothing here. I have you, and that's all I have. And I'm sorry to have to say this, but you just aren't all you're cracked up to be. You've won no personality contests here, M. Congeniality, M. Munificence, M. Humanitarian. You've provided zip for conversation, zero for enlightenment. You didn't get it when I wanted you to. You've misconstrued nearly everything I've said, or you've twisted it around for your own purposes. Wasted your time? How do you think I feel? Just a dog in heat, aren't I? Any mongrel cur crawls in here on paws. Any leg that struts into the room. I'm all over it. No choice whatsoever. When I look back and think to myself: "Is this where I wanted to be? At sixty-four?" the only consolation I get is that twinkle in your eyes. Pleased to see me? Hell no. Another victim.

65.