By John Irving
'Imagine a tender guy on his approach to a less-than-thirty-second occasion - the lack of his left hand, lengthy sooner than he reached heart age.' whereas reporting a narrative from India, a brand new York tv journalist has his left hand eaten by means of a lion; thousands of television audience witness the coincidence. In Boston, a popular hand health professional awaits the chance to accomplish the nation's first hand transplant. A married lady in Wisconsin desires to supply the one-handed reporter her husband's left hand, that's, after her husband dies. however the husband is alive, fairly younger, and healthy...
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The hand-eating episode was over before the mother could reiterate the tortured tale of her relationship with the now-maimed television journalist. It would be an hour until the international news channel aired the incident again, although every fifteen minutes there were what the network cal ed “bumpers,” tel ing of the upcoming item—each promo in a ten-or fifteen-second instal ment. The lions fighting over some remaining and indistinguishable tidbit in their cage; the handless arm dangling from Patrick’s separated shoulder; the stunned expression on Wal ingford’s face shortly before he fainted; a hasty view of a braless, headphone-wearing blond woman, who appeared to be sleeping in what looked like meat.
Only it shouldn’t have been his hand,” the mother said. “Yeah, right,” the daughter replied. But after this third viewing of the grisly event, only a sul en silence greeted the final swal owing of the body parts, and the mother found herself looking away from Patrick’s face as he was about to swoon. “The poor bastard,” the daughter said under her breath. ” “I think I’l see it one more time,” her mother answered. The daughter lay sleeplessly in the bedroom, with the flickering light coming from under the door to the living room of the suite.
More than one rower in Cambridge had experienced a dog turd or two whizzing across the stern of his scul , and one of Zajac’s medical-school students—formerly the coxswain of a Harvard eight-oared racing shel —claimed to have adroitly ducked a dog turd aimed at his head. Dr. Zajac denied trying to hit the coxswain. His only intention was to rid Memorial Drive of a notable excess of dogshit, which he scooped up in his lacrosse stick and flicked into the Charles River. But the former coxswain and medschool student had kept an eye out for the crazed midfielder after their memorable first encounter, and there were other oarsmen and coxswains who swore they’d seen Zajac expertly cradle a turd in his old lacrosse stick and fire it at them.