Sorrenson sat in his car and ate his Kentucky Fried Chicken.  No one cared if he parked it in the fire zone.  He was the first one to see a fire and run to the pay phone and call it in.  He didn't see his son even if he drove over to the school to watch him get off the bus.  His mother must have driven him in to the back door.
     He called his mother everyday and told her that he was glad to be alone.  He liked being alone in his Chevrolet and he almost never had to keep the car running since all he did was plug in the electric blanket. He took up jogging again.  He still stopped and talked to girls, but he had lost the look of having a million dollars.  The truth was that he never had a million dollars, but he always looked like he might have.  Now, there was no chance.  He was no longer thirty-one.  He was thirty-seven and he smelled.  No matter how many times he went to the Y, he couldn't get the smell off of him.