I didn’t die there in Vietnam amid the whistles and shrieks, nor in loud Zaire, the tiny bullets being swallowed by the blue-green beautiful river, the water pulled by the hot wind into the hotter sky. In Kampala, the man who pushed his pistol through the window of my sky blue VW Bug thought better of it or hesitated as I sped away through broken cement under the smiles of beer drinkers leaning out of slashed billboards. Those hooded figures in the night who rose from behind the ridge and threw me face down in the sand, my death felt pretty near then, the implement of its execution pressed into the pale skin of my neck. What will fate think of next? There are the more ordinary escapes and bruisings — mishaps in automobiles and airplanes, sickness, lost once in the mountains in the cold. It is not so much that I wonder how I will die, or when, or even if, perhaps, I’ve died already and, as they say, this might be heaven or it might be hell. What I want to know is, what I want to know is, just a minute, it’s on the tip of my tongue, excuse me, wait, just a minute.