Paul Beckman's a writer working as a Realtor. He works on the Connecticut Shoreline where he lives with his wife Sandra (a source of material) and their dog Lucy (a source of inspiration). Their blended family of five children is all grown, but a couple of them still show up on the doorstep with their laundry.

Email Paul

"We'll grow old together--my hair gray--hers blue--the grand-children will visit and we'll move to a warmer climate for six months a year--she'll take up the piano, learn Sanskrit, arc welding, and auto mechanics. I'll patrol for nooky." - from Open House

Selections:

- A TRUE STORY
- COME! MEET MY FAMILY.
- GREEN GUY, WHITEY, AND RED
- THIS IS NOT SELF SERVICE
- BEAUTIFUL WIFE
- NEIGHBORS
- rage. . . AS AN OPTION
- STRICKLAND'S SISTER
- TWO SHIPS
- WAS IT WALT WHITMAN?
- BUZZZ
- KADDISH FOR SARAH BERNHARDT
- OPEN HOUSE
- YOUNG BEATRICE
- THE B MOVIE FACTOR
- "HIM"
- TWIRLIES FOR GRAMMA
- WILLIS
- HARVEST
- BAM! SQUISH!
- THE POWER

(originally published in PARTING GIFTS)

     Last week I visited my mother in the Jewish Home for the Aged. As we sat in the solarium talking, little by little her friends came by and joined us. Pretty soon I was sitting with a dozen seniors, all women.

     I am fine around women when it's on a one-to-one basis, but as soon as there is more than a couple of women around me I find myself picking and choosing. It happens. I couldn't not do it. I go through a process of deciding which one will be my next lover.

     Selecting her is not a snap decision. There is a method. I study each woman carefully until the cream rises to the top. This happens everywhere-in restaurants, department stores, funerals, bus stops, at Temple - anywhere. First, I eliminate the definite no chances, which is easy. Then I pick the positives. With a guy like me who's not all that discriminating-even in fantasy, the positives can mount up pretty fast. If there are enough positives to select from I don't even bother with the maybes.

     I was looking at these ladies, that's true--but it wasn't them I was seeing. I'm trained--my mind's eye is fine-tuned. I don't have to get off on old women. It was their daughters I was undressing. It's not hard to down-age a person with some practice, and God knows, I have enough practice. A couple of the seniors had to have beautiful daughters. I could tell.

     Molly, sitting to my mother's left, has very shapely legs. They are crossed lady-like at her ankles and I envision her daughter--a young Molly lifting her skirt above her knees showing me alluring thighs. Looking up I see the fullness of Molly's sagging chest and I'm in my world with young Molly unbuttoning her blouse, her full breasts, braless and pointing defiantly at me. Molly and I smile at each other and I see young Molly's mouth--beckoning mine with sparking teeth and natural lips--full and inviting. Just then Molly goes into a coughing jag and the moment is broken. Pass. Who needs this?

     I'm not exactly your soap opera hunk. I am tall and chunky, and a woman once told me that I had an appealingly soft smile. I liked that. Another told me I had a Will Rogers kind of smile. I guess they are the same thing.

     Anna walks in and my mother introduces her . I stand to say hello and her daughter reaches up and touches my cheek. It's a smooth caress. She is gentle and sensual and keeps her hand on my face, moving it slowly towards my mouth, parting my lips and sliding in two fingers. I roll my tongue around them and suck on her fingers separately and then together until she moans and unzips me with her free hand. We're staring at each other. As she reaches into my pants her mother gives my cheek two pats and a pinch and says, "What a handsome boychick." She moves to an empty chair. Erection and all I sit back down. Possibility.

     The scene I play out changes, but this is one of my favorites.

     My shirt is unbuttoned half-way and my gold chain shimmers as it weaves through the thicket of my chest hair. I am talking to a woman-charming her. I carry this all the way through to a bedroom. Then I do the same to the next woman and so forth. Sometimes, even often times, we never get as far as the bedroom scene. She'll make a gesture that I find unappealing and the fantasy will end. Why the hell should I have to put up with an unappealing gesture or expression in my own fantasy? If the chemistry isn't there, why bother to continue?

     When I finally make my selection I proceed to attempt to fulfill my fantasy. It's not unusual for me to end up with a new lover for the night or for a period of time by using this process. After all, I am pretty smooth, plus, I have this advantage of rehearsal. This is not foolproof and at times I go home alone. Sometimes, I never pursue -- I just do the exercise. Who has the time to complete every fantasy? Besides, I love the exercise.

     When it was time to end my visit I kissed my mother and said my goodbyes to the others and left the solarium. While I was waiting for the elevator one of the seniors came up to me. She was slender and wore a turquoise pants suit with the top three buttons opened. I'd been saving her and planning. Rifka's hair was red and curly and she had been sitting quietly two seats from me looking and listening. She was the mother of the most gorgeous daughter. She said, "I know that look in your eye."

     "Look?"

     "That look you had in the solarium. Mine Milton, may he rest in peace, had that same look when he wanted my attention."

     Her beautiful daughter stood naked in front of me, unbuttoning my shirt, and I smiled.

     She looked into my eyes and smiled back. "Come to my room," she said, fluffing her hair with both hands, "and I give you like I gave Milton."

     Young Rifka turned and walked down the hallway. I pivoted and followed.

(originally published in WEB DEL SOL)

     My family is different, wonderful really, but different. They don't ever argue, or correct each other. They never say a harsh word to one another or reprimand another's child--they just stop speaking to each other for very long periods of time. These quiet times are almost never over real injustices, only perceived ones.

     It doesn't take much. A look will do it--or a glance, a raised eyebrow or a lowered lip. A whisper, nod, point of a finger, a nod and a point, a point and a whisper, nod and whisper, or especially nod, point, and whisper. Even a shrug, a gesture, a smirk, laugh or eye roll, a tilt of the head, a quizzical look. Or a stare, a twitch, or a yawn. Even a bad meal (you didn't care enough), a meal too good (putting on airs), instant coffee (good enough for this side of the family), frugality (when it comes to us...), conspicuous consumption (showing off), a hrrumph, or a silent fart (out loud is ok).

     You! Don't worry.They are going to love you. Just be yourself. Don't gush. Sometimes you gush. They hate gush. I think it's adorable personally. No. Never be obsequious--worse than gush. This is not like an inspection it's a simple meeting. Don't worry. If I love you, they will love you. Guaranteed! Don't wring your hands, they will take it as a sign of weakness. No- blase' is no good, inquisitive is ok if it's not like nosy, not indifferent, or too well dressed or attractive (that's high- falutin). Not sloppy-they hate sloppy. Just be yourself. Don't hang on to me. Of course I like it! They will say clingy. Don't stay away. Remote and uncaring - I can hear it now. Stop worrying.

     They will talk about the ones they don't talk to who are not there or even the ones that are there. Trust me on this one. Just nod. Don't let them draw you into agreeing with them because the next thing you'll know they will be talking to each other and not to you. Family. Ah! Family.

     How long? The silences usually range from six months to, well sometimes for ever. Things like shrugs, raised eyebrows and the like are usually only six months to a year unless of course during that time a person is shrugged back at and then this could go on indefinitely.

     Weddings, bar/bat mitzvahs, anniversaries, holidays have no effect. They all go and look through each other and talk about each other. A funeral. Another story altogether. That starts a new slate. There is nothing like a good death to bring my people together. Everybody talks to everybody and no mention is made of past transgressions.

     Oh sure. A new perceived injustice could begin at a funeral. Many do. Perfectly within the rules. Happens all the time. It is very rarely with the same people. That's part of what makes my family so unique.

     Ok. Crisis. It depends. Say someone is hospitalized and it's not too serious. They will go but if the parties are not speaking they will continue not to speak even during the visit. If it is serious they will speak formally and politely while looking at the other person's forehead or ear. Never eye contact. Just in case, God forbid, of a death, they can say "Well at least we spoke."

     Ready? They are going to love you. Fine. You will be fine. Believe me. I know them like I know the back of my hand. Here, spit out the gum before we go in. It will save on chewing cud comments. Pick up your feet when you walk. No. It doesn't bother me. Not to worry! Don't slouch, they hate slouching and if you can remember to sit up in your chair and not talk with your mouth full this will be a breeze. No, you don't do that. I'm just saying, that's all. Of course. You look terrific! Pay no attention to their remarks about being braless or having long unruly hair. No. It's not how I feel. I love you just the way you are. It is not unruly to me-it's natural- the way I like it.

     Please don't whine. Sobbing. No that's no good either. Why don't we just wait a few minutes while you compose yourself. What ever got into you? It's only my family.

(originally published in THE ARTFUL MIND)

     I don't remember if I took Red. If I did I shouldn't take another. The doctor told me just one in the morning and one at night. If I didn't take the red pill how will I know before something happens? I can call the doctor.

     If I call the doctor he will tell me to come into his office and I will have to sit in a room all day just in case I didn't take the red pill. Then, if something happens, he can give me a shot. If nothing happens, he will give me one of his looks, but not one of his lectures.

     He is finished lecturing me. He told me so. "If you cannot handle the few responsibilities that you have," he said gravely, as he twirled his glasses by their stem, "then we will once again have someone handle them for you. Is that clear, Richard? I won't give you any more warnings," he warned. "I will just do it, and then it will be too late, and that will be that."

     I don't want that to be that, so I sat at my kitchen table staring at the little round red pill. It is flanked on the left by the brown bottle that holds the red pills and the label says to just take one in the morning and one in the evening. Must be taken with food, it says. To the right side of the pill is a paper cup with water. I sip the water without taking my eyes off of Red. I am afraid to touch the pill because I might automatically pop it into my mouth and then possibly I'll have taken two red pills. The water cup has been sitting a while. It is soft as I pick it up and the water is warm. No matter.

     I know that before I got out of bed I took the white pill. No water, just brought saliva up from my throat and popped Whitey in and swallowed. Green Guy I took while brushing my teeth, because I always leave a Green Guy on the sink next to my toothbrush before I go to bed. But Red stays in the bottle and I take it after breakfast. Take it only with food the doctor told me. Must be taken with food the pharmacist tells me, and types it on the label. I remember eating the banana and the pretzels but I can't remember taking the red pill.

     I can't sit here all day. I'll take the pill. What's the worst that can happen? I'll get sick, maybe nauseous, or could it be worse? If I call the pharmacist to ask him what the worst thing that can happen is, he will call the doctor and the doctor already said no more warnings. I can tell the pharmacist that I'm calling for my brother but if he asks for my name then I'm screwed.

     I am sure that I didn't take the pill.

     I grab the soft cup of water, push back my chair from the table, and toss Red in my mouth. Just as I lift the cup to my lips I panic and spit the pill out. I can taste the wetted remnants on my tongue and I realize that I don't recall that remnant pill taste from this morning.

     I look at my watch and only forty-five minutes have passed since my usual breakfast time. Make a decision, I tell myself. Make a decision. Did I or Didn't I? Hurry up, I tell myself. Finally in a fit of desperation I pop the pill and wash it down with all the water that's left. Just at that moment I remember. I took Red after the banana and before the pretzels. I never took two reds before. I'm sweating and I have to pee. I run to the bathroom and after I pee I wash my hands and stick my fingers down my throat and lean over the toilet. I will try to throw up Red. Instead I go into a coughing spasm and all I bring up is spittle. My insides hurt from coughing and I keep my fingers deep in my mouth and still don't bring anything up. Of course not, you fool, I tell myself. It's not like a hunk of food--it's dissolved.

     I start to pace around the house, afraid to go out, afraid not to. I continue to sweat and now I start shaking also. I run to the phone and call the doctor. The nurse wants me to tell her what is wrong but I will only speak to the doctor I tell her. She puts me on hold and my hand is trembling so badly that I'm knocking the phone against my head. Finally the doctor gets on the phone and with my voice quivering I tell him what I have done. He listens without interruption and I hear him mumble loudly to someone and he tells me to stay on the phone and talk to him. He asks me how many red pills I took and I tell him that I am not sure. Think, he tells me, and I tell him that I'm not sure but I think that I took Red when I was supposed to, and then forgot and might have taken another and then I forgot again and took another. I'm really not sure, I tell him.

     There's a banging on the door and I tell the doctor that someone is at the door and he tells me to not hang up but to go open the door. I go quickly and open it and look past the man standing there and see an ambulance in the driveway. I rush back to the phone. As I'm telling the doctor that an ambulance is in my driveway and the ambulance guys are coming into the house he tells me that I am still not ready and he hangs up. The ambulance men wrap me very tightly in a blanket and I feel warmer as they drive me off. I listen, but I'm not sure if I hear the siren or not.

(originally published in PARTING GIFTS)

     The Fruitery, a greengrocer's store, occupies the same spot in New Haven since the Banores family first opened it some forty years ago. The current proprietors are third generation Banores greengrocers. However, unlike greengrocer stores throughout the world, and especially the east coast, The Fruitery does not put their wares on display outside the store. They are also not given to window displays.     Inside, signs are posted around the store:

     This is not self service!

     Ask for help!

     Do not touch the produce!

     To make a purchase, the customer stands in front of the desired fruit or vegetable and the Banores on duty asks questions in a tone more suited to a clinic than a grocery-- "What day do you plan to eat this?"--"Do you like your plums soft or hard?"--"Is this going into a salad or will it be served whole?" The Banores then makes the selection accordingly. Time could be saved if each customer were given a clipboard and form to fill out upon entering the store. Perhaps the next generation.

     Many people over the years have reached to pick up an apple or peach only to be yelled at from across the store. "The signs! Read the signs!"

     When I was in high school I worked at The Fruitery but I was not allowed to touch any unwrapped food. I moved boxes into coolers, out of coolers, carried bags to cars, swept up, made deliveries, and touched young Mrs. Banores--and she me, in the back room, while the rest of the Banores family was busy keeping watch on their precious produce.

(originally published in PARTING GIFTS)

     In the parking lot of the racquetball club, the man I had just met in the tournament said, "My wife is very beautiful--you'll meet her--you'll see." He spoke as a man who could not believe his own good fortune. "She is very tall--as tall as I am, and she has beautiful legs. They are very long with incredible calves. She has dark nipples. I love dark nipples. I especially love dark nipples seen through a nurse's uniform. If only I could get her to wear a nurse's uniform. She will do anything for me except wear a nurse's uniform. I don't understand her. Do you want to meet her? Come for dinner. She will make chicken and it will be terrible. She is a terrible cook, but she will insist on cooking for company. I usually do the cooking. I'm a terrific cook. What would you like? It doesn't matter. She will grill chicken and it will be too rare inside and charred on the outside. That's how she cooks chicken. It is the only thing she cooks, and she still can't get it right. She is so beautiful you won't notice the chicken."

     "I'll come for dinner. When?" I ask, concentrating on dark nipples and long beautiful legs and not on raw chicken.

     "Tonight," he says. "Now. Come now. It's already four-thirty. Follow me home."

     "Is this enough notice for your wife? Why don't you call her first?" I ask.

     "After eight years of marriage I know my wife," he says. "It's plenty of time. She doesn't need notice. I'll show you. Just to make you comfortable, I'll call and tell her I'm bringing a new friend home for dinner. OK?" He heads towards the pay phone in the parking lot.

     "Sure," I call after him.

     "Listen," he says when he returns. "Tonight is not good. My wife says she is not feeling beautiful tonight."

(originally published in BLUE BEN REVIEW)

     I want to go back to work. It's been way too long. I'm bored and I feel better. Summer is here and now that I'm taking my medicine I no longer have the problem-the one that caused them to put me away. The Doctor tells me that I'm not quite ready yet and I suppose I must believe him. When I was in school and this happened they let me go back after I told them I was ready.

     Ernie, my neighbor and older brother, is planting pretty little plants and whistling. He took a day off from work to do this. It just means that his wife Carla isn't going to get laid by the gardener or the pool guy today. Someone should tell Ernie. I can't. Ernie thinks I make up everything. He still doesn't believe that I had a date for the junior prom in high school. Amy promised me first, but she went with someone else. I can't talk about that any more. No more. No more.

     Ass in a sling

     titty in a wringer

     that's what happens

     when you tell a hum dinger.

     Ernie and Dad sang it to me when I came home. Now there's only Ernie, but since the sessions with the Doctor he doesn't sing it any more. But I know he thinks it.

     Ernie's whistling. He's dumb and happy-that's the way to be. I wish that I were dumb and happy, then I wouldn't see as much as I see, and have to tell about it. It's hard not to tell, but I won't be better until I stop.

     I'd feel better if I didn't know that I was being watched, or that my phone was bugged. I've always been too smart and aware for my own good. Mom was right. When she was alive she used to say that all the time. "Timothy, you're too smart for your own good." What good does it do me? It doesn't, and I can't help it. And I can't stop. Sometimes I can.

     I watch Carla in her thong bikini bringing cold drinks out to Ernie and I know that as soon as he finishes planting his flowers, he's going to plant Carla. I watch him watching her, and he begins digging like he's getting paid piecework. Carla rubs all over him while he sips his lemonade and then she goes back inside. Ernie takes a flat of pansies and tosses them into the woods behind their house. One more visit from Carla and he'll burn the other plants.

     I like looking at their flower garden. I'm going to start my own today. After breakfast I'll go down to the nursery and pick some plants. They'll be looking at my garden soon.

     That Carla is something. Long brown hair, boobs spilling out in all directions from her bikini top, and just a hint of a little belly. And of course that ass in the thong or the thong in her ass. Whichever. She keeps dropping things and bending over to pick them up.

     I push the shade up a little more to get a better look and I catch a movement and see a light through the Venetian blind in the window of the brick house behind Ernie and Carla's. That's not right.

     Carla slow walks over to Ernie and points to a spot, and since he's already on all fours he nods, and I half expect Carla to pat him on the head and give him a treat. Instead, Ernie grabs Carla and pulls her down next to him, and they go at it right then and there next to the newly planted marigolds. I saw her do the Fedex man there once.

     Carla gets up and looks my way. I know she can't see me but she smiles anyway and then turns and jumps into the pool. Ernie walks to where he tossed the pansies and retrieves them. I drop the shade and quietly place the binoculars back on the floor.

     I make my way though the darkened rooms and turn on the kitchen light. My sister Lisa wants the shades up but I pull them all down. I take out the milk, cereal bowl, spoon and Oreos. Sex makes me hungry. I crumple the Oreos with the squeeze of one hand and when the bowl is filled I add milk. Just as I am sitting down to breakfast the phone rings.

     "Did you get a good show, Timothy? Were you taking pictures or using the binoculars?" Carla doesn't sound angry, but there is a taunting edge to her voice. "Why don't you invite me over to have breakfast with you some morning? I love Oreos too, and I know how to say thank you. One of these days you'll talk to me, won't you, Timothy? You've been naughty. Bye."

     See . . . I knew that I was being watched. I'm not paranoid. I really don't need the medicine. Carla always calls but I don't know how she figures out when I'm watching. She must have bugged the house. Next Lisa will call. She calls me a lot during the day-but always right after Carla's call. I should have waited . . . my Oreos are getting too soggy. The hell with Lisa-I just won't answer the phone until I finish my cereal. She'll yell at me when she gets home, but what else is new?

     The phone. I should count the rings to see how many I can take before giving in. Nope. I won't answer it. I like to eat my cereal lazily, but now I find myself shoveling it in so that I can answer the damned phone and still keep my promise to myself and not answer until I finish eating. Finally, with both cheeks stuffed with soggy Oreos I leap for the wall phone and say, "Mmalllow." The phone clicks and I hear a dial tone.

     I'm washing my breakfast dishes when the doorbell rings. Wiping the milk drops from my chin with my arm I go to the front hallway. The bell rings two more times and I open the door. It's Carla in her bikini. I notice Ernie's car pass by, and he waves without looking.

     Carla stands in the doorway. "Lisa was worried when you didn't answer the phone. She said that I should come over and see if you were all right. Are you all right? You look all right to me. Is that what I should tell Lisa? She'll want to know why you didn't answer the phone. You answered it for me. Were you doing something that you shouldn't have been doing?"

     I watch the pool guy cruise slowly by Carla's house. He spots her talking to me, slows to a crawl and sideswipes the gardener's truck which is parked across the street. Carla doesn't notice -- she's too busy with me. I'm not going to answer any of her questions. She will tell my kid sister anything she wants to tell her anyway. It doesn't matter what I say. It's never mattered in the past.

     Carla pulls her thong up and walks towards her house. The gardener, holding his hoe, steps out from Carla's bushes where he'd been hiding and watches her until she goes inside. He goes to his truck and stands scratching his head at the dent. The pool man comes around the corner in his banged up truck and not seeing Carla keeps driving. He and the gardener wave to each other. I grab my camera and sneak out the back door, hiding from the sunshine, heading for woods and then the hedges, all the time keeping Carla's bedroom window in sight.

     It happens. I was in the check out line at the super market reading the covers of the gossip rags when the first lady in line discovered she didn't have enough cash and held the rest of us up while she went to the courtesy counter to cash a check. Next, a woman with three screaming kids in her cart took turns unloading the cart and unloading on her kids. Another super market person walked over and whispered something to our cashier who then placed a closed sign behind the man's groceries ahead of me. "Closed. Break time," she said, snapping her gum.

     I looked around and the three people behind me scattered to the other open registers and I just stood where I was. Thinking. Thinking about whether I really needed these groceries and thinking about how much crap I'd taken all day from my boss and from my clients. How fitting an end to the day.

     "Tell that guy he might as well move to another aisle," gum snapper said to the man in front of me without so much as a glance my way. Her ear was rimmed with earrings, hair unkempt, and her attitude sucked. I wasn't a person to her. I was an orange traffic cone blocking the path between her and her precious break. The man in front of me turned my way and shrugged a what can you do shrug.

     "Mirsky!" my sales manager, Feldman snapped. "Get in here." The rest of the salespeople pretended not to hear. They kept their heads down as I walked the cubicle gauntlet to Feldman's office.

     "What's up Chief?" I ask, not really wanting to know.

     "Mrs. Crenshaw called and said that you've promised her you'd have an open house for the past three weeks, but you haven't shown up on Sundays. What gives?"

     "I've been real busy." I tell him, putting on my sincere face.

     "Mirsky, don't put on that sincere face with me." Feldman snarled. "Mrs. Crenshaw has lots of friends and she can turn off her referral spigot anytime at all. Open house Sunday. Call her now."

     "But . . . Chief . . ."

     "Now!"

     I began to unload my cart onto the conveyer belt. I was trying to think pleasant thoughts. It wasn't easy. I envisioned myself picking up this check-out twerp and running her through the scanner until her break was over.

     "I'm going on break, Mister, read the sign. The sign's right there. You better put that stuff back in your cart and go to another check out," she said finally acknowledging my presence directly.

     I continued to unload. An eight pack of toilet paper. Why do commercials call it toilet tissue? Is there a second product that I'm not aware of? Dial soap, two six packs of diet Pepsi, . . .

     "What are you doing?"

     . . . a dozen cans of store brand cat food, large bag of Double Stuff Oreos, a loaf of Grossinger's seedless rye, Mancini's roasted peppers, two cans of anchovies, hot dog relish, a half-gallon of 1% milk . . .

     "Hey mister. . . "

     . . . red kidney beans, Campbells chicken rice soup,

     "Hey Mister! . . .

     . . . twenty pound bag of Kibbles and Bits, a red onion, box of frozen White Castle Hamburgers, six comice pears, . . .

     "Are you deaf? I said I'm closed," the checker said as she put the last of the man's things in a flimsy plastic bag.

     Mrs. Crenshaw was the least of my problems. I was supposed to pick up the Wong family at their motel this morning and give them a tour of the area and show them a half dozen homes and I blew it. I woke up with a hangover so bad my hair hurt. I lay down in the tub and left the shower on. I woke lying in cold water an hour and a half late. I called the motel and the Wong's message said that they were going out with a competitive firm-a more reliable one. At one this afternoon Mr. Wong called to tell me that they just put a deposit on a four hundred thousand dollar house. "You were right," he said cheerfully into my voice mail. "When you sent me the pictures you said that I'd love this one best. You said it was perfect and you were right. Thanks, Mirsky. Our new salesman wouldn't have known about it if it wasn't for you."

     . . . Tide, red seedless grapes, romaine hearts, large chocolate Jimmies, two cans of garbanzos, (why do some people buy garbanzos and some buy chick peas?) box of Bachman's Sour Dough Pretzels, large jar of store brand hot chunky salsa, . . .

     "Hey!" yelled the checker.

     . . .jar of Smucker's Seedless Raspberry, six cans of Dinty Moore Beef Stew, cantaloupe, . . .

     "Manager to aisle six. Manager to aisle six."

     . . . bag of frozen peas, two cans of Libbys Corned Beef Hash, package of Egg Beaters, plastic container of crumbled Gorgonzola, three plantains. . .

     "Mr. Wong bought Sue's listing, the colonial on Amherst Drive. Did you know that, Mirsky?" Feldman asked.

     "Oh."

     "We could have had both sides of that transaction, Mirsky. What happened? Weren't you supposed to pick up the Wong Family at the motel?"

     "Shoot. Was that today?"

     "Yes, Mirsky," clenched teeth Feldman said. "It was today. I know for certain because I gave you that referral."

     . . .Koskiosco mustard with horseradish in the drinking mug, two cans of Bumble Bee Tuna in water, a three pack of Bounty paper towels, Colgate mint toothpaste in the stand up container, package of Hebrew National Knockwurst, a six pack of Yoo Hoo . . .

     I initially stopped at the store for cat food and milk. I could have gone to the quick check-out line and been home by now. Principle. That's the name of the game. I'm going to win one today. I caught the checkout girl leaving as I bent over to get the fifty pound bag of kitty litter. I saw her out of the corner of my eye.

     I actually felt the rage subside as I stood there at a checker-less counter loaded with my groceries. Power. I now had the power. I could create a scene with the manager and then he surely would have someone ring me up quickly, or I could just start knocking stuff off of the conveyer onto the floor to show my displeasure, or I could just leave it all and walk out. No way was I going to give them the satisfaction. Just like my co-workers sneaking peaks from their cubicles, I knew I was being watched by customers and employees alike--all of them expecting a show of displeasure of some type. "Screw them," I thought.

     I began returning everything to my cart and when I was finished I backed it up and went to another line. I even surprised myself. The shortest line had three people in front of me. No one turned around to look at me or offer any condolence or encouragement. It was like not making eye contact in New York.

     I left a message with Mrs. Crenshaw on her answering machine apologizing about the open houses but assuring her that I would be there from one to four this Sunday. I canceled my golf game and two hours later Mrs. Crenshaw called and told me that this Sunday was no good because she was having family over. "But I'll expect you next Sunday, Mirsky," she said sternly. I called the guys to resurrect my golf game but they had already replaced me. I walked across the street to the Cafe and had two Bloody Mary's and a bowl of pretzels for lunch and when I came back I listened to my voice mail.

     "Dad, Mom says you haven't paid her in two months and that's why we can't go to the movies and have to use one ply toilet paper," my sixteen year old son David began his message. "I can pick up the check for Mom when I pick up the car tomorrow night. I know you won't mind about the car'cause it's an important date. Thanks."

     "Mirsky, this is your mother. Elaine, the mother of your children called and said you stopped sending her checks three months ago. What kind of creep did I raise? Pay her."

     "Mirsky. This is Mr. Wong. Did I mention to you in my last message that my company is bringing over six more people? Please send more photos so I can give them to the other agent and make their house hunting go quickly also. You have a good handle on our needs."

     "Mirsky. Hey buddy. Mikey here. My cousin's in from Philly--you'll love her. Funny lady. How about Friday night? Call me."

     "Mr. Mirsky. This is T. Robert Pender. You listed my house four months ago and I haven't heard from you since. Are you planning to put a sign up? My other friends have signs up when their homes go on the market.

     "Send a check or I'll call your Mother again," a voice from the past threatened.

     "Mirsky. Feldman here. The deposit check you took last week for the ranch on Forest Rd. bounced. Think of something creative and drop by my office."

     The lady in front of me pushed her groceries toward the cashier and smiled at me as she put the plastic divider down. I began the unloading process again.

     Fifty pounds of kitty litter . . .

     "How many cats do you have?" the nice white-haired woman asked smiling. "I have a tabby and an Angora,"

     "I don't have any cats. My wife is incontinent," I smiled back.

     Her eyes teared and she turned away.

     Anchovies, Bumble Bee tuna in water, Tide, hearts of Romaine, Colgate tooth paste in the stand-up container, a six pack of Yoo-Hoo, red seedless grapes, a large jar of store brand hot chunky salsa . . .

     She was heading towards my aisle with her cash drawer. This ear- ringed, gum-chewing, snotty cashier, was bouncing up and down as she walked and mouthing words to a song. She was obviously renewed and energized by her break. She stood waiting until the woman in front of me was rung through and bagged and only then did she put her drawer into the register. She hadn't looked at me at all. I kept loading. Bachman's pretzels, Smuckers Seedless Raspberry Jam, bag of almost frozen peas, container of crumbled Gorgonzola . .

     Moving her lips as she counted, she finished with the pennies and moved on to the nickels.

     I was sitting at the bar in the Time Out Tavern, a shot and beer joint, when Strickland walked in. I saw him in the back bar mirror. He looked around and then came up behind me and accused me of messing with his sister. I swiveled around. "No," I told him. "I didn't mess with your sister."

     Strickland threatened my knees.

     I didn't need my knees threatened so I did the only thing I could do under the circumstances. I threatened Strickland back. "You won't find my knees, Strickland, I'll poke both your eyeballs out with a cue stick," I said.

     The bar was watchful and quiet now except for the juke, Nancy Sinatra singing her'Boots' song.

     "You threatening me?" he asked. "You're the one that messed with my sister and now you're threatening me? You creep! Why you threatening me? It was you that done the messing."

     Strickland is tough--a lot tougher than I am--but he looked confused. Mean, but confused. He had a good fifty pounds on me and I was scared, but it wasn't noticeable as long as I forced myself to stay in a relaxed position. I knew if I tried to stand I'd be spazzing all over the place.

     I was leaning back with my elbows on the bar and he was but a couple of feet away, standing with his fists balled and eyebrows winged out. He looked menacing. I knew that I didn't.

     "I'll puncture your eardrums, Strickland." I spoke slowly--a little under conversation tone. I had to--otherwise my voice would quiver.

     Strickland's right hand went up to his ear. "If you didn't mess with my sister than who did?"

     "Strickland. My patience with you is about used up," I said, not believing I could say these words at all, much less to a tough like Strickland. "Go find your sister and ask her. You stay here and I'll rip your tongue out. I'm fed up with you," I said even more softly, almost a whisper, as Strickland leaned forward to hear me. He was still covering his ear.

     Strickland rubbed his chin, mumbled something, and left the bar.

     I got off the bar stool, took a table and ordered a pair of beers while every one went back about their business. Strickland's mother came out from the shadows and sat on my lap. She laughed and began kissing my neck.

(originally published in PLAYBOY)

     Elaine told her husband Mirsky that she would like to visit her sister for the weekend. "I haven't seen her for months and she is in crisis," Elaine said.

     "Peaches is always in crisis," Mirsky replied. "But the timing is good because I've just spoken to my brother and he could use a little jolt of brotherly camaraderie himself. I'll take the weekend and go visit Shelley. I can take the train from New Haven since he's only in New York, and you'll be able to take the car to Jersey to be with Peaches."

     "No, that's OK. I'd much rather take the train myself," said Elaine. "You can take the car. I can read on the train, and I would much rather read than drive. I can always catch a cab home from the train station afterwards."

     "If I drive us into the city," Mirsky pushed, "you can take the car from there to Jersey. That way nobody has to take the train."

     "Mirsky," Elaine said, "you know how much I hate to drive in the city. I'll be OK on the train. Besides, living only ten minutes away by cab, neither one of us has to worry about the other's schedule."

     Of course Mirsky knew all this. Otherwise he wouldn't have suggested it. If he thought for a moment that Elaine would have gone along with these plans, he would have devised others.

     "So it's settled," Mirsky said as he and Elaine packed their suitcases on opposite ends of the king-sized bed. "I'll drive in to my brother's place in the city and you'll take the train to see Peaches. This will work out fine because I sense that Shelley is about to go through another of his depressions. Maybe we'll just jump in the old buggy and take off for a couple of days."

     "Why doesn't he come here to Connecticut?" Elaine asked.

     "No good." Mirsky said. "I tried that, but Shelley won't make the trip. He's in a bad way. You probably won't be able to contact us if we're out on the road." Mirsky said.

     "No problem," said Elaine, nodding and adding more to her suitcase. "Peaches is the same way. Maybe I'll try your tactic and get her out of the house, maybe to the south shore or Atlantic City. Something different. So if you call and no one is home, don't worry. We will just be out and about."

     Two hours later, Mirsky, in his red Volvo on Route 95 passed an Amtrak train outside Stamford southbound. Mirsky had no way of knowing that it was Elaine's train, but it didn't matter--Elaine had gotten off at Stamford and taken a cab to the Stamford Marriott where she was preregistered as the Mrs. in Mr. and Mrs. E. Lusting.

     Mirsky didn't notice the Amtrak, nor did he pay much attention to Stamford. His thoughts were occupied by Bernice Ginsberg, his secretary and lover, who was with him as they sped towards New York. She was wearing a new perfume that penetrated his glands and made him want to rip her clothes off. Of course, the fact that he was driving while Bernice lay face down in his lap may have had something to do with this.

     An hour later Mirsky pulled into his brother's garage and he and Bernice took the elevator up to the thirty-fifth floor that overlooked the East River. He dropped their suitcases as soon as they entered the apartment and they made love in the foyer on Shelley's finest Persian rug. Afterwards, Mirsky, still in his birthday suit, went to the bar and poured two scotch rocks with Shelley's favorite and most expensive scotch.

     "Wasn't it lucky for us that your brother had to go away for the weekend?" Bernice asked.

     "Mmm," said Mirsky, nibbling on a well-pedicured toe.

     "It seems that every time you ask him about the apartment, he says yes, because he's heading out of town on a business trip. What luck."

     Mirsky was busy and his ears were partially covered so what Bernice was saying didn't register and moments later she switched from babbling to moaning and all was right with the world.

     "Is your depression easing a bit?" Elaine asked.

     "There is nothing like a good family visit to help cure the blues," Shelley said, passing Elaine the hash pipe. They lay in the whirlpool facing each other with Shelley deep inside her and Elaine's legs wrapped around his back. She exhaled, leaned over and kissed Shelley's red mustache repeatedly. He told her that he loved the contrast of her black hair on her white shoulders. Later, they dressed in jeans and sweaters, went to a pub and sat side by side in a booth holding hands, feeding each other, and saying sweet somethings. They were stoned and giggly and oblivious to everyone but themselves. On the way back to the hotel they stopped every few minutes for some kissing and groping and finally, when they reached their room, they made a mad dash for the king-size bed and undressed each other. Then they made slow love and slept as one.

     Mirsky and Bernice, dressed to the nines, hailed a cab and went to Lutece, where they dined with the beautiful people. After dinner they went to the Carlysle to listen to Bobby short and then back to Shelley's apartment for another marathon session. Mirsky used Shelley's silk ties to bind Bernice's wrists to the bedposts, and when they were both spent, Mirsky lit up one of Shelley's Cuban cigars and stretched out on the living room couch with a snifter of fine brandy in his hand and Bernice at his feet.

     The weekend for Mirsky was perfect, and Bernice couldn't have been happier, as they drove home, passing an Amtrak train at the Bridgeport station. Elaine was on that Amtrak, curled up in her seat, feeling warm and fulfilled and not the least bit guilty.

     Mirsky arrived home a little after nine p.m. as Elaine's cab was pulling away from the house.

     "How was your visit?" she asked. "Is Shelley feeling any better?"

     "You wouldn't believe what this visit did for Shelley." Mirsky said carrying his bag into their bedroom. "But it was tiring for me."

     As he unpacked on his side of the bed, Elaine showered. When he showered, Elaine unpacked. They both got into bed and under the covers at the same time, he, moaning in fatigue, and she sighing.

     "Good night," Mirsky said, turning his back to Elaine and switching off his light.

     "Mmmmn," she mumbled, as she rolled onto her side, away from Mirsky, feigning sleep.

     Just suppose that you are the type of person to harbor a grudge and forty years have passed since a major injustice was perpetrated on you and time has not diminished your feelings of shame at all.

     This individual that caused this life-long embarrassment crawled along the rear of the stage, while you, in all of your sixth-grade nervousness, stood center stage in the school auditorium reciting your declamation. Suddenly a pair of hands appeared through the curtain on either side of your pants and the next thing you knew, midway through Walt Whitman, your pants, both outer and under, are lying around your ankles and the entire world is laughing at you. And the red-headed, gap-toothed culprit takes a grinning bow and flees.

     Some months later he moves away but you never forget his face or the humiliation and over the years whenever you've spotted a red-headed person around your age you plot his demise--sometimes by a quick bullet or a garrote, and sometimes by way of a slow and painful and degrading death. You have experienced dozens of these scenarios and you enter into a trance-like condition that lasts for minutes or just a few wonderfully fulfilling seconds.

     On one of these episodic days, this ne'er-do-well, this bully, this egg-sucking sidewinder, this four-flusher, materializes from your past and appears in the cross-hairs of the windshield of your Mercury Sable on a foggy dark night, on a lonely stretch of road with no other car in sight except for his with the hood up and the emergency lights flashing. Each time your wiper reaches the upright position you see the cross-hair and that red-headed felon standing in your path next to his car, waving his arms trying to flag down help.

     In your reverie you pride yourself on split-second thinking and timing and you turn towards him as if to pull over to help and just ten feet away you punch the gas at that no good stick-it-in-your-guts from childhood humiliator and just before the thud of his body attempting to occupy the same space as your hood you see his eyes and the terror therein and you remember in a fraction of a second the same terror that was caused to you on one sixth grade day. You remember the terror and the humiliation in that nanosecond just before you envision him getting pinballed from your hood to his trunk and imagine him flying awkwardly, limbs askew, back down to earth and then you are aware of the sound of your screeching brakes skidding and your mind begins to formulate your alibi.

     Another exercise--another innocent.

     One cloudy night you are driving home after having gone through four erroneous sightings in as many nights and you are exhausted--the moon and its light are darting in and out of the clouds, and you see an older red-headed priest standing next to a broken-down car by the side of the road and he reminds you of that heinous individual and you wonder if you could wipe out those never ending nightmares and headaches and mind-destroying grudge thoughts by wiping out a look-a-like. After forty years it makes sense and you go around the block knowing full well that it is not him but something has to change so as you turn the corner you start to pick up speed only to suddenly realize that someone has stopped to help your intended victim and redeemer.

     Reflexively you slow down and keep an even foot on the gas and cruise by slowly and look over, only to see the vapid stare of your very enemy looking back at you, grinning his gap-toothed grin, as he helps the priest to his waiting police cruiser.

     One minute I'm standing on a filing cabinet, my head poked up through a moved drop ceiling panel trying to eavesdrop on the meeting going on in the adjacent conference room, and the next thing I know I'm hanging onto a wall rubbing my legs together, attempting to dodge the rubber bands coming at me from one of the suits sitting around the conference table.

     My job is in jeopardy. That's why I was standing on the filing cabinet with my head stuck up through the ceiling--to hear what they were saying about me. I couldn't hear them clearly--I had to try and move one of their ceiling panels too. I'm lucky the conference room is next to my office.

     My right leg itches and the pink insulation makes me sweat and through all of this I can only think of my wife. "If you lose this one, Mirsky," Elaine had said on my first day, "I'm history. I'm not going to support you any longer. Face it. You are not the brightest bulb on the marquee. Do your job--and for once keep your mouth shut."

     I'm in trouble. What the hell is a suggestion box for, if not for suggestions? I just wanted the big boss and the managers to know that they weren't being discreet in their expense accounts--especially with their secretaries. Okay. So I probably screwed up because someone knew my handwriting. I should have typed the note.The least they could do is thank me for trying to protect them. I can be trusted. Maybe I should tell them about Elaine and offer to trade my silence to keep my job. I'd even promise not to use the suggestion box anymore. If I can hear their discussion about me I'll be better able to mount a job-saving defense.

     My leg was really itching and I couldn't bend over to scratch it because I'd make a racket--either knocking the ceiling apart or falling off the filing cabinet. I was standing on one leg and having trouble keeping my balance, all-the-while trying not to sneeze from the insulation while scratching my itchy calf with my shoe. "There must be an easier way," I thought. "If only I could be a fly on the wall."

     The next rubber band almost wings me and I fly off to try and hide behind a curtain but I have no control over my flying and I land on the table. I look up at my boss and he looks as big as the city of Toledo--even though I've never been to Toledo. He rears his open hand back and coming at me from an angle slaps the table trying to squash me. Instinctively I do what all flys do--I fly straight up avoiding his sideward movement and I end up on the back of his chair, unnoticed.

     I'm out of breath and panting my little fly pants and flapping my translucent wings to cool myself off, and then I realize that I'm finally in a perfectly safe position to hear what's going on. I realize that I was able to wish myself into becoming that fly on the wall. Imagine the possibilities. Just the inside information I could glean for the stock market could set us up for life. I wouldn't tell Elaine, though, I'd let her think I'd suddenly become brilliant--found my niche in life. My bosses voice snaps me out of my revelry.

     "Buzzz," is what I hear him say.

     "Buzzz. Buzzz," someone else says.

     "Buzzzzzz. Bz. Bz."

     "Bzz."

     "Bzzz."

     I rang the doorbell and without waiting for a response walked into the Bernhardt's house holding my girlfriend Trixie's hand. I heard a growl and felt a tug on my pants. Instinctively I shook my leg and Sarah Bernhardt, their black mini-poodle darted away as Phyllis Bernhardt, the mistress of both the house and dog, grinned me that dogs-will-be-dogs grin. She kissed me hello and I introduced her and her husband Arthur to my date Trixie. He led us to the kitchen where Butch and Dottie, my dentist and his hygienist wife, had gotten a head start on the wine.

     Once again I made the intros. As we chatted Trixie busied herself picking the cashews out of the nut mix. Trixie wasn't her real name but I always introduced my dates to my friends as Trixie. The Trixies didn't complain--they thought it was cute. My friends were used to me.

     The dog crouched cat-like in the doorway. She got up, trotted over to her water dish but a step away yipped and broke for Butch's ankle. He brought his foot back to kick her and Sarah Bernhardt wisely reversed course back to her water dish.

     Phyllis gently admonished her to be a "good little Poochie" and left to answer the doorbell. Sarah Bernhardt followed. Arthur was beginning his,'I'm sorry about the dog' bit when Phyllis returned with Herb and Joan. Herb was our veterinarian. He had one strand of hair that he had been cultivating for years and wound it into as much of a pompadour as he could. Joan was the resident giggler.

     The poodle came at Herb on the run and grabbed his shoelace. Herb lifted his foot and the growling dog came up off the floor still holding on.

     This was not the Sarah Bernhardt that I remembered. The Sarah Bernhardt of my memories was gentle and loving. Arthur had taught her to cry, bow, and stand on her hind legs and throw a kiss with either paw. And, she was never called anything but Sarah Bernhardt. For some reason the Bernhardts were calling her Poochie now.

     "What the hell is going on with the Sarah Bernhardt?" I asked. Just as Herb began to answer, Arthur yelled for someone to get the door for him. Trixie moved in on the grilled clams, oblivious to the goings-on. I pointed at the dog and shook my fist. Joan giggled. It appeared that I was the only one bothered by the dog.

     Sarah Bernhardt faked my way and went for Herb's ankle, getting the sock and stretching it until she tore a hole. "Be a good little Poochie and leave these men alone," Phyllis begged. "Herb, I'm sorry about your sock. Let's go into the dining room. Dinner's ready."

     Phyllis and her husband Arthur were old friends whom I had lost custody of after my first divorce. Although we saw each other around town or at parties this was the first time in ten years that we had actually socialized intentionally. "What's the deal with Sarah Bernhardt?" I asked Phyllis who was seated to my immediate left. She chewed several small thoughtful chews, swallowed, and with eyes downcast said, "She is not Sarah Bernhardt."

     I watched Trixie eating the orange and onion salad and ate some in self-defense. I remembered the Berhardt's little poodle Sarah Bernhardt being such a nice little puppy. "Really? Not Sarah?" My wine took over. "What the hell happened to Sarah and just who is this little terrorist impostor? Sarah was so lovable. This one is despicable," I said in my best Sylvester imitation.

     Phyllis dabbed at her eye with her napkin, quite delicately. Then, she sighed. A real honest-to-goodness sigh. A follow-up swoon would have not been inappropriate at that moment. Arthur walked around refilling our wine glasses. He put his hand on my shoulder as if to say either, "That's OK," or, "That's quite enough." I knew there was a message but I was damned if I could tell which message it was. Trixie stopped spooning hollandaise long enough to look up.

     Phyllis put her hand on my arm. "When Sarah Bernhardt was ten," Phyllis said softly, "she got very sick and we didn't think she was going to make it-but she did."

     "Isn't it such a helpless feeling when your pets get sick?" Butch joined in.

     " A friend," Phyllis continued, " actually it was Herb, suggested that we consider getting a puppy as both a playmate for Sarah and as her eventual replacement."

     "Oh Herb," interrupted Butch again. "How could you suggest such a thing? You are one sick puppy. . . Whoops . . . Sorry, Phyllis."

     "At first it sounded so calculating but Arthur and I talked it over with the children and decided it was probably best for all of us, including Sarah Bernhardt, and so we did it We got Poochie and they became good friends. Six months later Sarah Bernhardt went to Herb's hospital and never came home."

     Arthur said, "Eventually we got her ashes and buried her in the back yard."

     "Can we talk about something a little more uplifting?" Butch slurred.

     "You could've just brought her to my house," I chuckled. "I've got quite the little pet cemetery going." Ignoring Butch I continued. "My daughter keeps getting pets, they keep dying, she cries, then she goes off to her mother's house leaving me to bury the little critters."

     "What's the latest count?" asked Herb.

     "Two cats, a duck, a couple of parakeets, a guinea pig, a school of goldfish and who knows what else? I haven't been home yet today."

     "Don't forget Fluffy." Joan reminded me.

     "I bought my daughter a dwarf bunny for her birthday a couple of years ago and it just kept eating until it seemed to burst," I explained. "She took that real hard and cried for a week. Alicia, her best friend, asked if we had kept the rabbit's feet to make key chains. That didn't help."

     Even Arthur and Phyllis smiled. Butch drained his wine glass and reached for the bottle. Then Herb said that it was six months before Phyllis picked up Sarah Bernhardt's ashes and buried her.

     "Six months?"

     "Well you see," said Dottie. "I was at Herb's the following week with Spit and Rinse, our Siamese cats, and Herb told me that Sarah's ashes had just come back from the crematorium. Knowing how emotional Phyllis was about Sarah Bernhardt, and knowing that I would be seeing her that night, Herb asked if I would please tell her because he hated to do it over the phone."

     "Why did you wait six months to tell her?" I asked.

     "There never seemed to be the right moment to say, Phyllis, the cake is delicious and, oh by the way, your dead dog is at the vet's waiting to be picked up. I never got around to telling her."

     Phyllis, now smiling, said, "I called Herb for an appointment for Poochie and as I was leaving his office he gave me a box with Sarah Bernhardt's urn and ashes. When I got home I set the box on the counter and we had dinner. Arthur and I talked it over with the children and we decided to bury Sarah Bernhardt in the back yard. After dinner, the children and I stood in the yard watching Arthur dig a grave. Then Arthur got a prayer book and his prayer shawl and led us in saying Kaddish for Sarah Bernhardt. After the memorial service we stood around the grave telling Sarah Bernhardt stories, covered her up, went inside and had dessert and a good cry.

     "Herb, didn't you think it was strange that Phyllis hadn't picked up the ashes sooner?" I asked.

     Phyllis answered for Herb. "He said he figured that when I was ready to deal with the remains I would call him. It's not unusual, he told me, for people to wait long periods of time to pick up the ashes of loved ones."

     "You know," Trixie joined in, "I have some friends that own a funeral home and they have a whole closet full of urns that no one has picked up. Some have been there for years and . . ."

     All eyes were on Trixie waiting for her to continue when Butch said, "That's hard to believe. Really hard."

     "Maybe. But it's true," Trixie said. "I've seen the closet myself. In fact, he may be on his second closet by now. There were urns piled on urns."

     Butch stared hard at Trixie. "That's bullshit," he said raising his voice. "Just bullshit!"

     Dottie, who had been sitting rather detached throughout this discussion, finished her wine and slammed the glass down, breaking the stem. "Well don't you think it's a person's own business if they want to pick up the ashes promptly or not? Really now. Isn't there better dinner conversation?"

     "Sure," said Trixie. "Why?"

     "Why what?" asked Dottie.

     Trixie, taking a forkful of my leftovers, looked bemused. "Why are you asking?"

     "Let's just change the g.d. subject! OK! Let's talk about people who are new around here," she said, patting her husband's hand.

     "What's the big deal?" I laughed, coming to Trixie's defense. "We're just talking about a bunch of cremated animals that people don't give a shit enough to pick up. Probably not just dogs and cats--probably birds and gerbils and snakes and . . ."

     "Enough! Stop already!" Butch looked at me through tear-filled eyes. "What the fuck do you know? Huh? What the fuck do you know? Maybe a guy's too embarrassed to go pick up the ashes. One day it's a month and then all of a sudden it's three years. Did you ever think of that? No! Of course not! You're too busy laughing about dead animal graves and rabbits' feet. How does a guy explain the delay? Maybe. . . just maybe . . . it's not so fucking funny. Maybe a guy can't decide where he's supposed to put his mother's ashes. Bury her in the yard or leave her on the mantel . . or . . or what. Maybe. . . just maybe . . . it's not such an easy decision."

     Butch dropped his head in his arms as Dottie rose and stood behind him stroking his head gently while looking angrily at the rest of us who sat around astonished and embarrassed.

     Out of the corner of my eye I saw Poochie scamper across the room and disappear under the dining room table. We heard a high-pitched growl and Butch jumped up from the table shaking his leg as tears streamed down his cheeks. A black ball of fur went flying across the room.

(originally published in NEXT PHASE)

     It was the third Thursday of the month--our Thursday. Please put Eve on the phone I said to the person who answered my call. When Eve came on, I said, New Haven, and then I gave her the street and house number. Pretty fancy, Eve said and I told her that she was worth pretty fancy and I hung up.

     A few minutes after noon Eve saw my real estate sign in front of the house and my car in the driveway and she drove into the open garage and then closed the garage door. She walked to the front door, rang the bell once, and then walked in, locking the door behind her. I heard the door slam and from an upstairs guest bedroom I called out who's there? Eve bounced up the stairs and yelled back that she was the plumber that I had called and she was there to clean my pipes. An hour later we were dressed and smoothing over the bed when Eve told me she thought she heard a car in the driveway. I hurried downstairs after I saw that it was another salesman's car, and when the door opened with Betsy and Al J. from my office they saw Eve and me each holding an end of a tape measure in the living room.

     Hi guys I said--do you have an appointment to show the house? They told me they did and I introduced Eve to them as Alberta and told them that she was trying to fit her antique furniture in the house but it didn't look good. We'd better leave before your buyer gets here I told them and we did and barely had enough room to get Eve's car out of the garage and past Al J's. Who were they kidding--they had no customer--they were there for a nooner. And in my listing. Talk about nerve. I would straighten this out later, I thought, as I watched Eve turn the corner and head back to work. I drove down to the beach and did me a cat-nap for thirty and then went back to my office. An hour later Al J. and Betsy came in looking a little too put together and Al J. came over to my desk after a bit and said that he was sorry but all his listings were occupied and he should have checked with me first. Good idea I told him.

     It was the fourth Wednesday of the month--our Wednesday. Laura had called first thing in the morning and left a message saying that the house on Opening Hill Road in Madison was not available until two. I let myself in with the lock box key and was waiting in the hot tub when Laura showed up fifteen minutes late. As she undressed to join me she explained that her last appointment had taken longer than she anticipated and she really was sorry but I understood the business and I told her that as long as I understood the business I would give her the business and I did and she did and we did and it was a wonderful fourth Wednesday of the month and afterwards I drove down to the beach and smoked a bone and then went out on two listing appointments and got both listings and all was right with the world. Laura was a freelance appraiser and always knew of an available neighborhood motel. She was also Al J's wife.

     If it wasn't for palm pilots I would have been a dead man long ago. But being the organized individual that I am and cautious too, I have lived multiple lives while still being married to the most wonderful and understanding woman in the world. If she or anyone else were to read my daytimer they would have to decode it and the likelihood of that is remote.

     Elaine, or E as my wife is called, is not only a great companion but she can cook like nobody's business, help the kids with their homework and likes keeping the house neat and clean. Besides that she's a terrific lover, well read, is in tip-top shape and has a tenured job teaching second grade. She also plays the triangle in the local symphony, sings in the church choir, used to be a den mother, and hosts the family for Easter and Thanksgiving dinners every year without complaint. She thinks and says the best about everyone and refuses to engage in gossip. She writes poetry, makes her own clothes, and plants a large garden every year. E never forgets a birthday, anniversary or any Hallmark event and is grateful for any gift she gets for any occasion.

     If any of you think it's easy living with this saint without fucking around then you don't have an inkling about human nature. Perfect. She's too perfect. Even her button nose--that God-given button nose is perfect. And you wonder about my need for variety. Our frequent love-making isn't enough for me, even though it's never the same old same old. I've always been a Tom cat.

     With Elaine my wish is my command. My every need anticipated. Needs I don't know about yet are anticipated. I never am without clean shirts or socks. She doesn't use my razor. She watches sports with me and stays in the bedroom when the guys come over for poker. I don't ask for any of this. Since fifth grade E has treated me like this.

     It was midyear when I moved to town and was escorted to my new class by the principal, who introduced me by putting her arm around my shoulder and resting her massive left boob on top of my head. It was actually an inch or two above but to everyone in the class it looked to be resting on me and to me I thought that an eclipse was occurring. Everyone but E laughed and then the teacher assigned me to the seat next to hers and we've been together ever since.

     We'll grow old together--my hair gray--hers blue--the grand-children will visit and we'll move to a warmer climate for six months a year--she'll take up the piano, learn Sanskrit, arc welding, and auto mechanics. I'll patrol for nooky. I want to scream just thinking about it but it's the second Tuesday of the month and I have to hustle over to Guilford to an old mill that I have listed. I left a note stating what time I'd be there. It will be a quicky because Second Tuesday has only an hour off for lunch and it's a ten-minute drive each way.

     When she gets to the mill she parks her Taurus wagon in clear view next to my car and enters the front door of the mill and doesn't bother to lock the door. The erotic thrill of chance she calls it. She wanders around and climbs the stairs to the office and then spots the desk lamp on and enters without knocking. I'm sitting at the desk with my back to the door wearing only my watch and socks and I can hear her clothes hit the floor one article at a time. Finally she spins the chair around, bends over and kisses me passionately and then offers her breasts to my greedy mouth as I grab her ass. Holding her, we move to the floor where I slide easily into her and we continue to kiss and nibble without ever saying a word. We come together and she leaves a long scratch across my back that I won't feel until later. For several minutes we lie entwined as one, spent and satiated. Finally, E stands and puts on her clothes, fresh lipstick, checks the time, and blows me a kiss as she bounds down the stairs.

     She was forced to step into the red-hot shoes and dance till she fell to the floor dead; just as her mother and her grandmother before her had done on the occasion of their thirty-fifth birthdays.

     The music was still playing as young Beatrice was finally allowed to turn away from her mother lying prostrate on the dance floor. Silently she vowed to never give birth to a daughter when she was older. I'll be the last of a dying breed, Beatrice promised herself, not knowing that her mother and her grandmothers before her had made the same promise to themselves when they were also ten years old.

     Oftentimes when I fight with my girlfriend over the telephone, I end the conversation saying, "I don't want to continue this discussion." And then I hang up before she can respond. She pushes me. She doesn't let up and she pushes me button by button until I get to the brink where I am both wired and forced to hang up, or lose my composure and scream back and say things that I probably will be sorry for. I don't want to hang up, I'd rather discuss rationally whatever the subject matter is, so I try to think only of her beauty--her long blond hair, her slender almost boyish figure--but her outbreaks of illogic and hostility eventually transcend these thoughts and I am forced to hang up.

     She does this to me so often, and always at night, that I have learned how to deal with being wired at bedtime. To come down from this angst and be able to sleep I have developed a method of coping. I first do ten minutes of deep-breathing relaxation exercises, followed by walking two fourteen-minute miles on my treadmill, and then another ten or fifteen minutes more of relaxation breathing while listening to "The Genius of Coleman Hawkins" featuring Oscar Peterson on the piano, Herb Ellis playing the guitar, Ray Brown on bass, Alvin Stoller on drums and Coleman on the tenor saxophone. Directly after this session I drink a half snifter of Grand Marnier, take two Halcions and finally go to bed relaxed. Very relaxed.

     Sometimes Gwen, my sexy and blue-eyed girlfriend, feeling guilty for the torment she has put me through, drives from her home, some twenty minutes away, enters the never-locked house, undresses in the hallway outside my bedroom door and then quietly enters my room where she proceeds to peel back my comforter.

     She then turns my bedside lamp on dim and reads aloud steamy passages from trashy books while she plays with me until I get hard. Even in the low light I can see her small breasts. She knows how to sit for the greatest effect. Then she will masturbate me or drop the book and do us both at the same time while making up her own steamy passages. When she's finished, she will go to the bathroom and bring back a warm towel and wash me off -- kiss and lick me a few times, then cover me up and go back home. This is the only way Gwen knows how to apologize.

     The first part of what I've just said is true and I wish like hell it were not. I am tired of the fighting with Gwen. Very tired.

     The second part is totally a figment of my imagination. It is the way I wish things really were between us. But they are not. Sometimes we don't speak for days after these phone arguments, and neither one of us wants to be the one to call the other and give in, but eventually I usually do. Sometimes, on the rarest of occasions, Gwen will be the one to call, usually on a pretense of something else, and on those occasions her voice will sound like tonal frostbite. I can't deal with that, so that's why it's me that calls.

     There is yet another complicating factor here. This complicating factor is known as the B MOVIE FACTOR. This complicating B MOVIE FACTOR'S name is Angie. Angie is my closest friend and confidante, but not my lover. We have been in each other's lives for many years.

     In every B movie ever made there was the Hero who was always off chasing after some beautiful but worthless skirt. And then there was "the other woman"--faithful secretary, good friend, or co-worker, with the girl next door look about her. You may remember her as the one day-dreaming of a white picket fence, wearing frilly aprons -- hot dinners on the table and back rubs--not headaches, after a hard day at the office. Every person in the theater would be thinking the same thing. "You big lug, look, she's right in front of you. Go to her. She's right there."

     But the big lug never looked past the fast skirt until the last reel, when it hit him like a ton of bricks. "What a fool I've been. Can you ever forgive me?" he asks frilly apron.

     "Of course, you big lug," she says as she stands on her tip toes, wrapping her arms around his neck, and kissing him while bending one knee and dangling her shoe.

     At the end of the movie, the orchestra strings play, and "THE END" is flashed written on a blackboard. The big lug erases it, and his little honeysweet picks up a piece of chalk and writes, "THE BEGINNING." Then they look towards the camera, press cheeks, and the movie is over. Everyone gets up and walks out of the theater with a good feeling. Everyone except for the real-life B MOVIE FACTORS who have been sitting watching the movie alone or with a girlfriend because their big lug is still out chasing the fancy skirt.

     Gwen and I had another one of our battle royals tonight and I, once again, hung up on her and went through my usual routine but with no success this time. Finally, about midnight I called Angie. I woke her and told her that all I needed was to hear a friendly voice, and that now that I heard one I felt better and she should go back to sleep.

     True to form she asked if she could help -- she didn't ask what was wrong. That was the attitude I needed that was missing from my life.

     "Would you like me to come over and tuck you in?" she asked as if reading my script. "Thanks, no." But you'll never know how much your asking means. Good night," I said and hung up.

     Well, B Movie Factor showed up in her nightgown and peeled back my comforter. The nightgown couldn't hide her sexy body. Her breasts swung loosely and her dark hair falling past her shoulders excited me. Angie was shorter and chunkier than Gwen and tonight I found her incredibly sexy. She poured some warm, sweet-smelling oil over me that she had just nuked in my kitchen, took off her flimsy, straddled me, and massaged my cares away . . . all the time talking softly and sweetly. Each time I reached for her she gently pushed my hand away. She massaged my temples, shoulders, chest and then gently rolled me over and massaged my back and ass. I rolled over again wanting her, but B Movie Factor was off me and had me covered up before I realized what happened. That's all I remember. I was probably sleeping before she got out of the room. I didn't hear her car leaving.

     Sometime later that night, I was awakened again by a movement in my bed and realized that Angie had returned to join me. I was sleeping on my stomach and she got under the cover and snuggled up into me. I felt her breath on my arm and neck. She put her arm around me, nuzzled my neck and then seductively and with light pressure from her manicured nails began tracing patterns at my neck and moved down along my back to my well-oiled ass. The raking motion of her nails stopped and turned into a caressing one. She was nibbling my ear and rubbing my ass, and I had a sinking sensation that as good as it felt there was something wrong. I was right. I felt Angie's hand freeze. She stopped massaging. I turned towards her and saw that it was Gwen in my bed and not my B Movie Factor, Angie.

     "Whoops," I thought.

     Gwen was staring at her hands. She began wringing them furiously as if she were trying to get off burning massage oil.

     Gwen and I reacted the same way.

     "AHHH!" We screamed as we pulled away from each other to opposite sides of the bed, each of us yanking at the comforter to cover our nakedness, as if we had never been naked together before.

     Neither of us said a word as we stared at the other. Gwen wiped her hands on the comforter. She then flung it away and got out of the bed. She stalked towards the hallway to claim her clothes. I watched her trim figure, blond hair and long shapely legs exit and felt a stirring as she bent down to pick up her clothes and carry them off. I tried calling after her but was unable to. I was gasping for air. I couldn't catch my breath.

     I heard Gwen's car drive off, tires screeching down the driveway. I reached into my nightstand drawer and pulled out my brown paper bag . . . and as I was breathing into it, trying to get myself under control, I once again thought of Angie. I finally realized what a big lug I'd been. I decided to call her again.

     In my haste I had dialed the wrong number, and a man answered and I quickly hung up and dialed her number again. I dialed slowly and carefully this time so as to get it right, but the same man answered again. "Hello," he said, "hello?" In the background I heard Angie's sleepy voice. "Who is it, honey?"

     "AHHH!" I yelled into his ear before hanging up. "AHHH!"

     The father was angry and sat by himself at the end of the bar. He felt humiliated--having that little slip of an ex-wife walk in on him and the children--yell at him, and throw him out of the house. After all, he was only trying to teach the boy some manners. If she was doing her job he wouldn't have had to say anything. He sipped on his rye and eased the burning in his throat with sips of ginger ale. The father wasn't a drinker, but once saw this scene in a movie and felt like the misunderstood movie character who drank his anger away.

     The boy was five and not quite sure what had happened except that his seven year old sister told him that they probably wouldn't see their father for a while now. How come he asked her. Because you got him mad again and Mom had to come into the living room to stop him from hitting you. The boy wanted to know if they'd get to keep the toys he had bought. I'm pretty sure well get to keep them, but Mom says he really didn't buy them. She says he got them from a Christmas party at work. The boy didn't respond--he was busy twirling his new six-shooter and pulling up his belt and holster that were sliding down from his waist. His sister rocked in the big rocking chair burping her new blond doll.

     The mother, her face pinched with anger, sat at the kitchen table stewing. She sipped on her hot coffee and then got up and added some cold water to cool it down. It's a good thing I was here and listening in on "him" she thought. She was rehearsing her story to tell her sister later that evening. He was going to hit the boy. Over my dead body, I told him, and then I stood between them and stared at him until he turned redder than usual and left--leaving the front door open intentionally, but slamming the screen door hard.

     The father finished his shot of rye and felt his anger dissipate. Probably if I have one more I'll really feel good, he thought. He raised his hand to catch the bartender's eye.

     Why was he yelling at the boy, the mother's sister asked across the kitchen table over coffee and dessert. She had come from work and was wearing a nice blue dress and and high heels. The mother had on her housecoat. The children had finished eating and were playing in the living room. He was yelling because his sister asked him where he got the cowboy hat and the boy must have pointed at his father and said, from him. I'm your father I heard him say, raising his voice to the boy. I know that, the boy said. Well then say I got it from Dad and not from him. The boy didn't understand his father yelling at him and turned to his sister and asked, why is he yelling at me? That's when their father started screaming and threatening to spank him for not saying father. My name's not him, it's Dad. I heard him throwing toys back into the box he had brought and I walked into the living room and stood between him and my son. It's a good thing you were there, her sister told her. Thank God you were there, and thank God you were listening in on the conversation. The mother nodded her agreement.

     The phone rang and the boy yelled that he would answer it. He loved answering the phone. Hello, he said. The caller said, hi, this is Dad. I'm sorry that I yelled at you. You're a good boy and I shouldn't have lost my temper, the father said in a funny kind of voice. Let me speak with your mother. Who is it the mother yelled out from the kitchen to the living room. Who's on the phone? The boy took the phone from his ear and yelled back. It's him. He wants to talk to you. The mother pushed back her chair and in four steps was in the living room taking the phone. She lifted it to speak, prepared for an argument, but there was only a dial tone. She went back to the kitchen wondering what he had up his sleeve now.

     Ruby promised me an unforgettable Christmas if I would go home with her for the weekend to see her family. I went. I was young and horny and figured we'd be able to sneak some time alone. She was my first lover, and besides -- she was a redhead.

     I'd seen enough movies to know how it was done. Her parents would give me the guest room at the far end of the hall, well away from Ruby's bedroom. Their bedroom, of course, would be in between, and they would leave the door open just a crack. After bedtime I would tiptoe down the hall to her room, we would make love until the wee hours, fall asleep wearily in each other's arms, and with the help of her alarm I'd sneak back to my room at five a.m. I would get back just in the nick of time before the family members started their morning bathroom trips.

     The moonlit night illuminated a farmhouse and the remnants of a picket fence. It was after midnight. We dragged our suitcases into the house, dropped them in the living room, and Ruby led me to her bedroom, where we made love and fell asleep. So much for my plan.

     I was awakened by the cymbaling of two pot lids and peeked my right eye from under the covers. "I'm Loretta, Ruby's mom. Breakfast is ready. Are you going to spend all day in bed?" I pulled the cover back over my head and felt for Ruby to shake her awake. I was alone. I peeked out again. "If you don't come out of there I'm coming in," said Loretta, as she provocatively tried to lick her eyebrows. Then she snatched the blanket, leaving me too startled to even try to cover up my morning piss hard-on.

     "Bring your friend," Ruby's mother laughed, throwing me my jeans and winking. She left for the kitchen and I followed, to a breakfast of venison, home fries, eggs and Scrapple. My usual.

     "How do you like your eggs?" she asked, and without waiting for an answer put a plate down in front of me. "Well, tell me, Ruby. Was he a good lay?"

     "Pass the Scrapple," Ruby's father said, as I tried to wish myself invisible.

     Ruby, with her mouth full, said, "Damn good if you're looking for speed and accuracy."

     "Oh yeah -- like your father here." Ruby's mom cuffed her husband on the back of his neck, spilling his coffee on the newspaper. He just grinned a dummie's grin and wiped the mess. Then he lit up another Chesterfield and turned to the sports page.

     "Gramma will be here this evening and she'll take your bedroom Ruby. You two lovebirds can move to the camper in the yard--the power's all hooked up--not that you need any power. Ha ha."

     "You're right, Ruby," I said, lugging our gear into the camper. "This is an unforgettable Christmas and we've only had breakfast."

     "You ain't seen Christmas yet," she said, pulling her sweater over her head. Unsnapping her bra and twirling it, Ruby shimmied in front of me and said, "This afternoon when we decorate the tree is really the start of Christmas for us. We sit around tossing down shots of Jack and watch Daddy try to set the tree up by his lonesome. When the tree is finally up he gets his first drink, but not until."

     "How come?"

     "Tradition. We've been doing this since I was a little girl. Once Daddy was really swacked when he tried to put up the tree, and he kept falling and knocking it over. After that Mom made him quit drinking and go to AA. Now he only drinks on Christmas, and then, only after the tree is up."

     "After the tree is up he has himself a drink?"

     "After he gets the tree up and straight, he sits down and drinks himself stupid while Momma and I decorate. You can help, too."

     "What about AA?"

     "He goes back right after New Year's and stays sober until the next Christmas."

     "He can do that-just drink one week a year?"

     "Yep. But he says he sure does look forward to the holidays. Do you like tree decorating?"

     "I never decorated a tree before; it should be fun."

     "Never?"

     "Nope. Never."

     "How come? Would you rather sit and drink with my dad?"

     "No, I'll do the tree. How come I never decorated a tree? Because Jews don't have Christmas or Christmas trees."

     "Go on. Really? What do you have?"

     "What do you mean, what do we have?"

     "Yeah. What do you have for Christmas?"

     "Nothing. Jews don't celebrate Christmas. I thought you read that library book about Jews."

     "I read some of it, but I don't remember that part about Christmas. I never knew a Jew before except Silverberg from the furniture store."

     "Silverberg?"

     "Yeah."

     "What about him?"

     "Momma always said that Jews sure do know their furniture."

     "She's right. What else did your momma tell you about us Jews?"

     "Jump my bones," Ruby said, peeling off her Tuesday underwear, "and maybe I'll tell you."

     "Gramma, Ruby brought a boy home for Christmas," Loretta said, as she stood behind Ruby. I was leaning on the porch next to the open kitchen window, eavesdropping.

     "She was always bringing something home. When she was little it was stray cats and dogs. I saw the trailer light on and figured she had company. Is he nice?"

     "She went and got herself a Jew, Gramma."

     "Did you go and do that, child?" Gramma asked, shaking her head.

     "I sure did, Gramma, and he's a prize all right," said Ruby, sucking her teeth.

     Gramma said, "How do you know he's a Jew, Ruby baby?"

     "Told me."

     "Shoot. If I told you I was a Martian, would that go and make me one?" scoffed Gramma.

     Loretta stood up and walked over to her mother and put a hand on her shoulder. "He's a Jew, alright, Gramma."

     Gramma, shrugging off Loretta's hand, looked over at Ruby and asked, "Did you feel his head?"

     "Ruby done felt his everything, Gramma," laughed Loretta, slapping her thigh.

     "Well, Ruby," Gramma persisted. "did you?"

     "Of course I felt his head."

     "Did he have them?" Gramma asked, rising, "or didn't he have them?"

     "Not exactly."

     "What do you mean, not exactly? He either had them or he didn't."

     "Well, when he asked me what I was feeling his head for, and I told him I was feeling for horns, he said that before he left home the Rabbi removed them so no one would know he was a Jew."

     "I never heard about them doing that before."

     Loretta said, "He's good for Ruby and she's happy and what's more, he ain't got no call to say he's a Jew if he ain't."

     I nodded and stifled a laugh.

     "If he ain't got no horns, he ain't no Jew. What you got there, Ruby, is one of them fake Jews."

     "But Gramma. I went and got this book on Jews out from the library and it didn't say nothing about no horns."

     "Ptttoo!" Gramma spat on the floor. "Ruby, don't be stupid. That book was probably wrote by one of them Jews and he ain't gonna tell you about no horns. That's how we always have been able to tell. I don't know what's up with your fake Jew, but you best keep him away from me."

     "Gramma, you're in a pissy mood, but you just wait and see what I got you for Christmas. You'll forget all about my Jew."

     Early Christmas afternoon, Ruby's family began arriving laden with presents and bottled cheer. By three in the afternoon, when Christmas dinner was served, everyone was shit-faced. For dessert Loretta brought out the pies, and Ruby's dad stumbled up from the basement with the Mason jars of shine, which the men grabbed and took into the living room.

     Well into the second jar, the men started shouting for the women to come and open their presents. I was "yahooing!" along with the other guys but I didn't know why.

     The ladies filed in. Loretta straddled my legs and pulled my head down to her heavily perfumed bosom, and when I pulled my head up she gave me a long liquor kiss while she rubbed my head. Winking, she got up when Ruby's father yelled, "Presents, girls, time for presents!"

     He was sitting on the floor under the tree, calling out names and passing out presents. I didn't get a gift and then I noticed that none of the men did. One by one, the ladies ripped their packages open and held their gifts up for everyone to see.

     Ruby stood in front of me and held up bright red underpants. "Look! Crotchless! Aren't they beautiful?" I nodded and grinned, drunk but still embarrassed. Ruby opened the gift card. "Thanks, Momma. I just love them! I had you figured for candy pants again."

     "You're welcome, honey. I knew they was you as soon as I saw them."

     As the ladies opened their presents and read the cards, they thanked each other for the gifts. They were all vintage Frederick's of Hollywood, only the cheaper and gaudier versions, each one more suggestive and outrageous than the last. Only Gramma didn't show her present. Ruby whispered in her ear, and Gramma kept her present tight in her hands.

     Ruby put "Don't Take Your Love To Town" on the hi-fi and ran out of the room. The guys quieted down and then Ruby sashayed in, wearing the red crotchless see-thru panties. She danced around, smiling and joking, and finally she spun around twice and sat on my lap. Then she introduced her mother.

     Loretta wore all black. She had spiked high heels, fishnet stockings, and a baby-doll nightgown. She was doing her best bumps and grinds, but her ankles kept giving out from the three-inch heels. She collapsed near a jug and forgot to introduce the next exotic.

     Cousin Betsy came out on her own, wearing a satiny purple nightgown, very modest, but clinging to her body. She wore a knit shawl over her shoulders and kept her arms folded as she modeled. The guys were clearly disappointed but still gave her some "OOH, OOHS." Betsy turned her back and bowed. Her ass was hanging out from the cut-out in the nightgown. She turned around, and hand over hand, pulled off the shawl to show exposed boobs through the openings in the top.

     I liked Christmas.

     After Betsy, the rest of the ladies modeled their latest and everybody had a good time. Finally the big moment arrived--Gramma--introduced by Ruby.

     Gramma came out wearing a robe, which earned her a solid round of boos. She held up one hand, silencing the family, looked my way and said, "I ain't showing nothing as long as that fake Jew is sitting here in this room."

     Ruby tried to talk her into ignoring me, but I saw the crowd turning ugly. I got up and left the house. Gramma made them pull all the shades so I couldn't peek in the window. I sat on the porch drunk and dejected, but finally I got into the basement and snuck back up the stairs.

     I cracked the door a bit and there was Gramma only five feet away dancing around in an orange G- string with two orange twirlies pasted onto her nipples. She bounced up and down trying to get them to twirl, but drink and gravity kept winning out. To get the momentum going, she even tried a couple of jumping jacks. Finally, clasping her hands behind her head, she went around the room shaking her twirlies and laughing.

     Without closing the door, I crept back downstairs and went out to the camper, where I slept until morning. Ruby was still sleeping when I left for the house, hoping to shower away my hangover. I walked through the living room and as I passed the kitchen I looked in and saw the ladies sitting around the breakfast table drinking coffee and gabbing--still wearing their Christmas presents.

     Gramma saw me as I headed for the bathroom, and just before I turned into the hallway she stood up, opened her robe, and shook her twirlies at me.

     Elaine and I spent a weekend in New York City to try and get our lives back on track. Since the kids were grown and out of the house, I'd found more excuses to stay away from home and in the City where I had clients. Elaine felt an emptiness--she told me, that she tried to fill by courses, clubs, and for the first time, a lover. She told me that, too. He was another teacher, also married. We both acted very mature during the conversation. I had a succession of lovers over the past ten years--I chose not to share.

     We walked Fifth Avenue, sometimes holding hands, popping in and out of shops. Trump Tower, Gucci, Tiffany, Steuben Glass -- they all held no more fascination than the black guys scamming the tourists with the three-card monte game or the Haitians selling the fake Rolex watches or the Greeks hawking Kosher Sabrette hot dogs. It was all part of the same circus.

     I was in the city often and Elaine came in three or four times a year, but she could not get the beggars and street people out of her mind. "Don't acknowledge their presence," I told her. "Don't engage in eye contact or conversation and don't slow down. If you do they've got you. And if you don't bite for their pitch they'll go on to the next person. It's all a numbers game for them."

     We walked out of Steuben Glass and sitting down leaning against the building was a young thin bearded man holding a sign that read, "I have AIDS and can't work. Help me feed my family." Elaine dropped a dollar in the baseball hat that sat upside down on the man's lap. A well dressed man in a tuxedo carrying a walking stick walked by and gave the man a push in the leg with his cane, and Elaine reached in her wallet and gave the man another five dollars. I saw it even though I was watching a three-card monte game. The screaming and yelling going on by the players and dealer were code words, I told Elaine when she walked over, and the other black players holding fistfuls of bills were only shills. "They always let the sucker win the first time and then hook him for the big bucks," I said. "Watch. I'll beat them at their own game." The monte dealer was snapping and moving the three cards and bending corners so it seemed impossible to lose, and sure enough, the black man standing next to me won a hundred dollars on his last bet. Then a line of rap went out from the dealer and I found himself pointing at a card for no bet, just for practice and as expected, I found the red jack. I winked at Elaine. The dealer pushed me for a hundred dollar or even a fifty dollar bet, but I just wanted to win twenty for the hell of it and get out. I held out a twenty. The dealer gave me a disgusted look and the monte rap began. I picked the center card, and it was a black jack and I couldn't understand how I lost and that wasn't how the con was supposed to work and despite their pleas and laughter I skulked off to get Elaine who had wandered off and found her dropping some money in a cigar box lying next to a smallish woman who held a sign with pictures of two infants. "My babies need food. Please help!"

     I had seen this same woman before with different signs on different corners, and in fact I once said to her after running into her for the third time in a day, "You're smarter than the others. You always pick the sunny side of the street to hang out on. What a business." The woman never even acknowledged my presence.

     We turned the corner and a well dressed Latino man approached us head on holding his wallet and showing us his driver's license and saying how his car was towed and he needed a hundred and twenty-five dollars to get it back and that he was embarrassed but could we help him out and I, for some unknown reason, dropped a ten in his hand and pulled Elaine away. I was immediately angry at myself and said to Elaine, "see what happens when you slow down for these people -- they get you every time." She patted my hand lovingly because she believed the man's story and was proud of me for being sensitive even though I was now trying to act callous.

     We walked silently, heading towards Fifty-seventh and the Russian Tea Room. I told her how I recognized some of the beggars from different spots and with different approaches, but I didn't tell her about my three-card monte loss. Moments later when she asked me if he won, I told her the truth. She smiled.

     Twice more we passed the man in the tuxedo with the beautiful walking stick. I recognized him from years gone by but chose not to acknowledge him. The man wore patent leather shoes, sported a white carnation, and was impeccable except for the fact that in looking at his face one thought not of tuxedos but of bib overalls, a sprig of straw in the mouth, and a plug of Red Dog. He looked like a Chester Gould character right out of a Dick Tracy comic. He had a face that was close to flat, with almost no profile. His nose was Negro wide and his lips were old lady British thin. His eyes were set about two inches apart and were continually darting about. We had passed him before -- near the Modern, at the Plaza where we had drinks, outside FAO Schwartz and now, as we approached the Russian Tea Room he was standing, talking to a Haitian Rolex seller in front of Carnegie Hall.

     Tuxedo turned and walked inside the Russian Tea Room just seconds before us and handed his scarf and bear's-head walnut walking stick to the hat check girl and was escorted to a banquette where he sat facing the room. The restaurant was crowded and we were led to the table next to the man, and I sat facing the crowd and Elaine sat facing me and the wall.

     "The usual," Tuxedo said to the waiter, who then brought a bowl of tiny black caviar, with crackers and all the fixings plus a frozen carafe of vodka and a martini glass with a twist. He spooned the caviar, chopped egg, and onions onto each cracker very delicately, popped the cracker into his mouth, bit once, and swallowed. Then he followed up with a half glass of vodka.

     Elaine and I had ordered and were sipping our vodka tonics when Tuxedo said to me without turning his head, "You've come a long way, Mirsky."

     "So have you," I said. "I'd ask you how you've been but I can tell."

     He now turned to face me and, putting out his hand to shake said, "Nice to see you." I ignored his hand. He smiled and dropped his hand as if I had not insulted him. Elaine, obviously appalled at my behavior, stuck out her hand to shake and said, "I'm Elaine, Mirsky's wife." They shook and Tuxedo smiled and said, "Willis Turk. Nice to know you."

     "Pleased," she said, looking defiantly at me.

     "What are you into?" Willis asked.

     "Investments," I answered.

     "Teaching," said Elaine, resting her chin on her palm as she looked at Willis. "And you?"

     "I have my hands in a few different ventures," Willis said.

     "Not much has changed in some respects," I said dryly.

     "What kind of ventures?" Elaine asked.

     "Elaine," I said, trying to end this association. "Don't pry."

     "Am I prying, Willis? If I am, just tell me."

     Willis and Elaine were basically ignoring me, but not to the point of rudeness.

     "No, you're not prying, but instead of telling you I'd rather show you and Mirsky. How about it?"

     "I'm not so sure that's a good idea," I said, squirming just a bit.

     "Sure it is," said Elaine. "We'd love to, Willis." Elaine smiled widely.

     "Tell me where you're staying and I'll have my car pick you up at seven in the morning and I'll show you the works. Afterwards we can have breakfast."

     "I don't know," I said.

     "Parker Meridian," said Elaine, taking charge once again.

     Willis finished the last of his caviar and martini and got up, not even waiting for his check. With a quick bow and beady eyed wink he walked away, stopping only at the hat check room.

     Back at the hotel Elaine said, "You were not all that nice to Willis. How do you know him?"

     "We went to school together."

     "Were you enemies? You wouldn't even shake his hand."

     "No, we were friends. As a matter of fact his brother was my best friend, and I saw a lot of Willis and his family."

     "Then what's up?"

     I explained to Elaine that when I was in fifth grade the Turk family moved to town, a couple of blocks away from my house. The school year was almost over and Willis and his younger brother Lathrop were both assigned to my class. Willis was at least two years older than everyone else and much bigger. The second day of school he had a crowd gathered around him in the schoolyard and another classmate was collecting money from the other kids. Anyone who hadn't paid his or her quarter was shooed off, and Willis proceeded to whistle. A large scruffy brown dog came running. With the crowd gathered around him, Willis jerked off the dog, wiped his hands on his pants, took the money and walked back into the school. He pocketed six bucks, and in those days, when Coke was a drink and a dime, Devil Dogs were a nickel, and McDonalds was still a novelty, six bucks was big money. After that morning, Willis Turk always had a crowd, a gimmick, and plenty of walking around money. He also had all the neighborhood dogs following him around.

     "Do you think he's still masturbating dogs?"

     "I don't know about dogs, but you can be sure that Willis Turk is jerking someone off every waking minute of his life."

     "Tomorrow ought to be interesting," Elaine said.

     I looked at her, and she was a bit flushed and looked turned on.

     "You ought to reconsider," I said.

     "No way," she said. "I have an idea. Let's order in and afterwards we can play schoolyard. I'll be Willis and you can be Fido."

     True to his word, at seven sharp, Willis' Town Car was waiting for me and Elaine. We were driven past the Village and through Soho, and the driver pulled the car into a driveway and blew the horn, and a garage door opened and we drove into a very large warehouse. He escorted us upstairs to Willis' office, where there were three large dogs hanging around, and Willis said to Elaine, "I'm sure Mirsky told you of my start in the business world - would you like to see how it all began?"

     Elaine laughed politely and just a little nervously.

     Over in the corner of the office on a marble stand was a large stuffed scruffy brown dog.

     Willis saw me eyeing him. "Yep, that's him." Willis said. "That's Squirt. Roy Rogers stuffed his Trigger and I stuffed mine."

     He led us to the windows, looking down inside the warehouse, and there were people everywhere. "C'mon," he said.

     We walked downstairs and passed groups of Greek Kosher Sabrette vendors getting their location orders for the day from a man standing in front of a city map. There were a couple of dozen Haitians examining suitcases of watches that were sitting on folding TV tables. Off in a large separate room with a glass wall were beggars sitting on folding chairs in front of a man with a pointer and a large blackboard. The blackboard looked like a football locker room at half-time -- X's and O's and arrows and the beggars taking notes. I recognized the AIDS guy and the downcast young lady. There was a quota board, and someone was standing in front of it head down, with one of the instructors, obviously getting reamed out.

     There was a Three-Card Monte Clinic going on with three monte games and two dozen shills waving bills and practicing their coded messages. Beyond that group there was another group loading up on T shirt and scarfs. Against another wall people were loading books into vans and they were being given maps for their turf. Lying in a corner was a group of Salvation Army kettles and a rack of Salvation Army and Santa suits hanging next to them.

     We passed a group of artists making badges and signs and city permits for charity collections, and there was a different group of people role-playing their parts in collecting for these charities.

     There was a time clock with over a hundred cards and a printing press cranking out business cards and flyers. I noticed a rack of costumes at least fifty feet long: Nuns, Hasidic Jews, tuxedos, threadbare clothes, and more. It was a costume shop. There were instruments hanging from a pegboard that could be checked out and played in assigned territories, and leaning against another wall were hundreds of paintings and "starving artist" signs that could be checked out. Willis seemed to have thought of everything. He just walked around and no one paid any attention to him -- everyone just did their jobs.

     He showed us a fleet of vans that were on call to deliver change, product, or bail money when necessary. Two of the vans were refrigerated and they all had made-up company names: PLAZA PLUMBING, FRIENDLY FOODS, ACME ART SUPPLIES.

     We went back up to his office, stepped over one of the dogs, and while Elaine kept looking around obviously amazed, I told Willis how impressed I was with his business acumen. He said that there was a major flaw in the whole program. When pressed, he told us that he couldn't leave for vacation or take a day off because he had no one he could trust to watch over the industry. He said that he'd be willing to take in a partner if he could find one that he could trust. "Interested?" he asked. Elaine and I looked at each other.

     I spoke for both of us. "We appreciate the offer Willis, but this just isn't for us."

     "Do you feel the same way, Elaine?" Willis asked.

     "I said that we weren't interested, Willis," I repeated.

     "Elaine?" Willis asked again.

     Elaine looked over at me and I had a sinking feeling that Willis was winning out.

     "Well, Elaine? Tell Willis." I said.

     Elaine still had not responded, but turned and looked at the stuffed dog for a while and then looked back at me. She turned to Willis who got up from his desk, walked to the door, opened it, and before leaving, looked at Elaine and said, "Pick one."

     When I left, Elaine was still looking at the three dogs as if trying to decide.

     Mirsky rounded the corner and braked to a stop for the red light.

     One ...two...one..., one...two...one, one..........two........one,...one.......two.one. The light changed to green on the last one. It had to--rules are rules, and since he was seven years old these have been the rules that somehow came to be his; to count in order to effect a change. The ending of the count had to coincide with that change. He sped up or slowed his counting to achieve parity. He saw the green light turn yellow and timed his count perfectly. Mirsky was thinking about his birthday present to himself. This was a keystone year and he deserved to treat himself to a top notch gift. Forty years old and doing well, he thought.

     I'm forty years old I'm doing fine. No forty year blues I'm like

     fine wine. Fo-orty, fo-or-ty and

     that ain't baad. Wah wah wah wahhhhh.

     Mirsky sat in his Explorer waiting for a parking spot on the main drag. Those white back up lights on that VW have been on for a while, looks like she's reading her mail. A little toot on the horn will get her attention. I'll give her a minute or so. One...two..one. "Hey, hey, here we go," he said aloud as he put his gear shift in drive while the lady pulled out. He waved her a thanks and almost hit her when she stopped her car to see who was waving.

     I've got me a spot I don't need a dime. The meter's still

     working there's plenty of time. Scooby wah wah

     dooooo.

     Mirsky stood in front of LEATHER ON MAIN and looked in the window. With his office being just across the street he window shopped here often. Those soft leather briefcases with the shoulder straps are really in, he thought. Mirsky visualized himself, hands free, walking along carrying his papers in the light tan one with the flap. Cool. I'd be the coolest Realtor in town.

     I'm so cool-just look my way. Check me out is all I can say. I'm

     so cooool. Dubee dubee dooo.

     Scrunching his toes in his right boat shoe Mirsky decided the leather bag was going to be his gift to himself. He moved on, scrunching his left toes as he walked to even up the scrunching. Too much. He one-scrunched the right toes and they evened out.

     I wonder what my wife and kids are planning for my birthday. My big four oh. As he walked along Main Street Mirsky waved, nodded and said hi to a dozen or more people. Small town living. He crossed at the light and went into the post office and walked around the line of people at the window and up to his mail box. He touched all four corners of the box and then tapped the combo dial three times with his right index finger, and only then opened his mailbox. Stuffed, so stuffed the mail was folded over, and he carried the load to his tall table, one of the four tall tables in the lobby and waited until the person in his spot moved.

     One...two...one..one...two..one...one....two....one...one...t w o. . . one... onetwoone.

     Dropping his pile on the table top, Mirsky began to sort. As he did he scratched his left ankle with his right shoe and then his right ankle with his left shoe. It took three times for a balance. He stacked, sorted, and tossed the junk mail in the recycle bin and walked out and over to his office imagining himself with his mail in his new leather shoulder case instead of in his arms.

     Mirsky walked into MIRSKY HOMES to the familiar tinkle of the door chimes. Margo, at the front desk and on the phone, looked up and nodded. Mirsky walked into his office, put the mail on his desk, and pulled his chair out. He spun the seat around twice stopping it in its usual place and sat down. His message light was flashing, but before listening he grabbed a letter opener and slit open the top and bottom envelopes. Then he pushed the message button on his phone.

     Mr. Halprin, Mrs. Kiner calling. Someone knocked over my For Sale sign. Please take care of it.

     Hey Mirsky, happy four-oh. Spring me from school and I'll help you celebrate. Do it before gym. Pleeease, Dad.

     What gives, Halprin? You advertised a house in Sunday's paper but it was a picture of the house I just bought. Call me at . . .

     Mirsky, honey. Hope you liked my wake-up birthday present--I did. Love you. By the way, don't forget motor vehicles--your license expires today.

     Mirsky pulled up in front of the high school to get Lisa. The school never even asked for a reason when he told them he needed to pick her up early. She came out the door on the run and Mirsky changed his counting, from seeing her come out of school, to touching the car door handle.

     "Hit it Mirsky. Where we going?" Lisa asked as she leaned over to kiss him. She dropped her backpack on the floor and put on her seat belt.

     "Well, honey, there's a lot of places I'd rather go but my license expires today and I have to go to motor vehicles to renew it."

     "Bring me back to school. This wasn't part of the deal."

     "I'll drop you at the mall on the way and pick you up when I'm finished," he said.

     "Nope. I'm with you all the way. You're only the big four-oh once. Well, once, except if you happen to be Aunt Myra."

     "Watch it. That's my older sister you're talking about."

     "Not for long. She's in the subtract mode, so next year you become the older brother. I can't wait for that to happen and then bring out the family album and start asking her questions about you guys and why she was pushing her "older" brother in a carriage, and that kind of stuff."

     Lisa watched as her Dad filled out the license application.

     "Hey, Mirsky, you forgot something," she said.

     "No I didn't."

     "You forgot to check the organ donor box," Lisa told him.

     "I never do," he said.

     "Do you have any idea how many people are waiting for body parts?" she asked. "We had someone from the hospital speak at our assembly a few weeks ago. Like it's not like you're going to need any of your body parts when they start harvesting. That's what they call removing organs and things­-harvesting."

     Mirsky was silent. He knew he skipped checking the box--he never checked the box, but he was in a bind now with Lisa standing over him.

     "Just think, Dad, you'll be giving sight to someone who needs corneas."

     Right toes scrunch, left scrunch, right right scrunch, left left scrunch.

     He wondered, "What happens if I start to breathe after they've taken my corneas? It can happen. Of course it can happen. I could still be alive and in a deep, really deep coma so they'll think I'm dead. Afterwards, I'll have to go on a waiting list for a cornea transplant."

     "And," Lisa continued, "If there's a kidney match, some poor person will be able to get off a dialysis machine."

     Scrunchscrunchscrunchscrunchscrunch.

     "Maybe there will even be a perfect match for your heart. Wow! Wild! My Dad's heart running around in some stranger's body. I wonder if I could get visiting rights. Do you think your corneas in someone else's eyes would recognize me?"

     If Lisa only knew how much her father wanted to run out of the building. But she didn't, so she reached over and picked up the chained pen and checked the donor box.

     "Let's get this show on the road, Mirsky," she said taking his hand and leading him to the bad photo section.

     Mirsky looked into the camera lens and saw workmen taking down the HALPRIN REALTY sign and replacing it with HARVEST REALTY.

     "That will be forty dollars, please," the lady behind the counter said as she held tightly onto his laminated license. "I'd give you a discount if I could," she said. "I'd do it for all people who are organ donors. I personally don't have the stomach for it."

     They exchanged check and license and on the way out Lisa said, "Great picture, Mirsky. You look like Freddie Kruger's second cousin." She flipped his license over and pointed out the bold ORGAN DONOR stamp in the corner. Mirsky noticed it was under the laminate. Stamps should go over the laminate, he thought, not under.

     Margo had seen Mirsky looking into the LEATHER ON MAIN windows twice that day and watched as he took Lisa inside. After they left she called the owner, Seymour, and he told her what Mirsky was looking at and she had him wrap it and she got the seven other agents in the office to share the cost of his birthday gift.

     After lunch together, which Mirsky was too queasy to eat, he dropped Lisa off at the high school so she could ride home with her friends. Trying to take his mind off his body parts, Mirsky drove downtown to buy himself his birthday present. It was gone. "Only minutes after you left someone came in and bought it," Seymour said.

     "Get me another."

     "I can't, Mirsky. It was one-of-a-kind."

     He glared at Seymour and then walked out of the store and crossed mid street to his office. It didn't please him that no one was at the front desk and no one came out to see who was there when the door chimes chimed; so he was totally taken off guard by the yell of "Surprise!" when he passed the empty salesmen's cubicles and got to his private office. By the time he had unwrapped his new shoulder bag and hugged all his agents he'd forgotten about his driver's license. Seymour walked in and asked for a piece of cake. Mirsky hugged him too, and then messed the seventy-year old man's hair and gave him a pretend noogie.

     It was almost three weeks later when Mirsky had to show his license to cash a check that he looked at the organ donor stamp. He had been somewhat able to control his panic attacks over it by not looking at the license since his birthday. He realized what he had to do. "Hey! I'm an organ donor, too," the clerk said. "When my mother died the hospital really went into action," she said with great pride. "They had her eyes in a box on a plane in a few hours and her heart was driven to St. Raphael's Hospital cross town with a police escort, no less."

     Mirsky was in the throes of a panic attack--a major one--the kind with chest pains.

     "Mister, you don't look so good. How about sitting down for a few minutes? You want I should call the organ donor people? Ha. Ha. Just kidding. Anyway, they took clumps of her hair, roots and all, to see if they would take on a bald person. I think they were going to use someone who lost their hair from chemo. I got thank you letters from people who got pieces of Mama. Of course, they didn't come directly to me, privacy you know, but the hospital forwarded them."

     Mirsky woke. He heard the stirrings of the operating room.

     "Quick! Open his chest, we need the heart. The transplant patient is in the next OR." Mirsky's worst nightmare had come true. One... He tried to sit up but couldn't. He blinked his eyes but couldn't see. "Don't bother to sew him up, the lung and kidney team are waiting."

     Mirsky tried screaming. No go. He no longer had his screamer.

     Mirsky woke up again. His wife, Lana, had her hands on his throat--trying to choke him. He shrugged her off and this time he could sit up and see. He was shaking.

     "What's going on, Mirsky?" Lana asked. "You were screaming in your sleep. I was trying to shake you awake."

     Mirsky got out of bed, looked suspiciously at Lana and went into the bathroom to aspirin and cold water himself. Lana followed. Mirsky at first began to cower, thinking she was attempting to kill him for his organs. He then began to think defensively and plan his strategy if she were to attack him again. Finally in the shower both the aspirins and reason took hold. He knew that Lana wasn't trying to kill him and he remembered the nurse in his nightmare having the same voice as the store clerk.

     Lana had left for work so he left a voice message for her at her office telling her that he was okay and that he loved her. When he got to his office he told his secretary to take his messages, that he'd be busy for a while. He turned on his CD and listened to some mellow jazz piano. Mirsky took scissors, masking tape and a pen from his desk. He took his driver's license from his wallet and pushed The New Haven Register away from mid-desk so he could work on his license. The folded paper opened.

     DMV EMPLOYEES ARRESTED FOR SELLING LICENSE INFORMATION. His proof--right on the front page. The article didn't specifically mention organ donors, it was mainly social security numbers, names and addresses, but Mirsky knew that they were trying to shield the public from panicking. He felt justified in his belief that there was a band of organ thieves waiting for this list and no one on it was safe. Somewhere there was an internet chop shop for body parts.

     Now mission driven, Mirsky cut a piece of masking tape to fit over the organ donor spot. He printed--CHANGED MIND! NOT AN ORGAN DONOR!!! Feeling better, he replaced his wallet in his pocket. A few hours later he checked and saw the ink had smudged and the only recognizable word was DONOR. This time he printed it from his computer and Scotch taped it onto his license. It didn't smudge, but after a while the tape loosened and Mirsky had to do it again. Of course, if he hadn't pulled his license out of his wallet constantly to check, and just left it alone, the license, tape and all, would have been fine.

     The DMV story was on the nightly news for months and in the newspaper daily. It only fueled Mirsky's imagination. He was being followed, that's the one thing he was sure of. He often saw the same car a few lengths behind him and there was a couple that sat in the coffee shop by the window. He felt they were sizing him up when he walked in for his morning coffee. He even ran into them at the movies, and once at the post office.

     Mirsky took to varying his schedule and route to work. Lana could no longer count on him to be where he told her he'd be at the time he said, and Lisa couldn't rely on her father to get her to school on time. "Dad takes these wild rides," she told her mother, "he goes down dead-end streets, waits a minute, and then drives back fast as hell. He tells me he's checking out houses or land, but I know he's not." Lisa, for the first time in two years, thought about taking the school bus again. Luckily, her friends wouldn't let her suffer that humiliation so they took turns picking her up.

     Mirsky was scheduled for some minor surgery. His doctor had found a small growth that he wanted checked out. "It'll be quick," Dr. Silver said. "It's an out-patient morning procedure, and you won't feel a thing. Better safe than sorry."

     Mirsky canceled the procedure twice.

     "Mr. Mirsky?"

     "Yes."

     "This is Dr. Silver's office. Please hold for the doctor.

     Mirsky put the phone on speaker knowing that it could be a while. Impatiently he waited for the doctor to finally get around to him.

     One...two...one..one... Mirsky heard the click of the phone over the speaker, twoone. "What the hell is going on Mirsky? I had a call this morning that you canceled again for tomorrow. What gives? I'll tell you what gives. I've canceled your cancellation and you're going in tomorrow or Dr. Morris won't have you as a patient, and he's the best there is in the area. What's going on with you? Tell me. Not now--another time-- I've got to run, but you'd better have your ass at Dr. Morris's office tomorrow."

     Mirsky lay on the operating table he began counting, waiting for the doctor to show. He looked at the operating room nurses, one on each side, giving each other knowing glances. One.. two.. The Darvon and Valium took effect. His tolerance was low and it put him out instead of keeping him awake and sedated during the procedure.

     He came out of his nether world in the recovery room with Lana sitting beside him. She smiled, but he saw conspiracy in her face--conspiracy with the two nurses hovering close by, whispering, just as the nurses had done when his anesthesia was taking effect.

     Under oath he would swear that he saw them holding his wallet and driver's license. They then called over another nurse who quickly made a phone call and then came over to him and marked his body with a black grease pen. "One..two..one. " the nurse said. He knew she was marking the location of his organs, and his last thought, before going completely under, was the cow chart at the butcher shop, the one that showed the side view of the cow with lines all over its body depicting the different cuts of meat. Somewhere there was a Mirsky chart with an auctioneer pointing to his different organs, and the sound of bidding from faceless Doctors' voices in the crowd. He remembered Dr. Morris and Dr. Silver in a bidding war over his appendix.

     "One." "Two."

     Several days later, Mirsky heard from Dr. Silver that the growth was benign, and later that day the couple from the coffee shop walked into his office. They told his secretary that they had inherited an Uncle's house and had been in town for a month or so getting it ready to sell and now it was ready and they wanted to put in on the market. "The people at the coffee shop recommended Mr. Halprin," they told her. He saw his secretary point to his office and pick up the phone to page him. He went out the back door, feeling like Major Major in Catch 22 going out his office window to escape visitors.

     As he pulled his car out of the lot Mirsky realized that there was only one way to stop these goings on. "I'm going to take care of this right now," he said aloud.

     Mirsky stood in line almost fifteen minutes before it was his turn to talk to the woman behind the counter. He timed each person ahead of him.

     One...two....one...one..two..

     When he finally got to the head of the line the woman shook her head at him and nodded towards the lady behind the counter next to her. "No," she said, "you couldn't just step right over to the front of the line. Of all the nerve," he heard her say to the next person in line. This line moved faster. one....two....one......one... In less than ten minutes he was explaining to the lady how he'd lost his driver's license and needed a replacement. She handed Mirsky a form to fill out as she went and sat down at the computer. He finished filling out the lost license application and didn't hesitate a bit when it came to the organ donor question. He checked no and waited for the lady to return.

     One...two.... "Go over there," she said pointing to the Polaroid camera. "Come back to the front of this line with your picture," she said, "no sense waiting longer than you have to." She smiled.

     Mirsky walked up to the front of the line, picture in hand, ignoring a few nasty remarks from others, standing, waiting their turn. As soon as the man being helped was finished he cut in front of the women waiting next in line. He shrugged at her dirty look and turned away.

     My license is new, I have nothing to fear,

     I think I'll go buy me something to wear.

     Scooby dooby doooo. Wah wah wah wahhhhh.

     Right toe scrunch, left toe scrunch--too much right toe--left left--half right--half left left right scrunch together. Full left scrunch. Full right scrunch. Even.

     "Mr. Halprin," the lady said. "Move right in here," the lady said to the dismay of the woman Mirsky cut in front of. Mirsky did and immediately felt line daggers shooting at him.

     "Picture."

     Mrs. Wilks. Her name tag read Mrs.Wilks. She was prim--very prim. She was looking over his application and computer readout. "Mr. Halprin," Mrs. Wilks said sweetly, "you seem to have made a small mistake on your application."

     "Oops," he said. "Did I misspell something?"

     "No. You were marked as an organ donor on your last license which has three and a half years to go, and in this application you checked no under donor. You must have checked the wrong box. "Right?"

     Mirsky says nothing. Being a salesman, he knows that the first one to speak in a negotiation loses.

     Mrs. Wilks must know the same thing. She says nothing.

     One.......

     He looks up at Mrs. Wilks and she is no longer smiling sweetly, not smiling at all. She has suddenly adapted the expression of Miss Barrow, his detention teacher from high school. She draws a line through the no and puts an x in the yes box. She turns the application around, facing him and says. "Initial here, please."

     She spoke first, I should have won, Mirsky thought to himself. Now she should just laminate my license after changing things back and let me go. Mrs. Wilks is pointing at the no box she crossed out. "Please," she says. Her "please" no longer sounds sweet and friendly but more like a Nazi General interrogating a Jewish Realtor. "Please.You vil tell me vich houses are de best buys. Von't you now?"

     Mirsky looks over Mrs. Wilks shoulder and sees a big round clock with a sweeping second hand. He can hear the tick of the seconds. Ch..Ch..Ch.

     Mrs. Wilks remains standing still and prim and gives off an aroma of annoyance.

     Ch...Ch...

     One . . .. twooooo.one . . .scrunch..scrunch..half scrunch...scrunch..half scrunch

     Mrs. Wilks puts the pen down next to the paper.

     Mirsky unsuccessfully attempts a smile.

     Mrs. Wilks looks through him.

     Mirsky stares at the pen.

     Ch...Ch...

     Mrs. Wilks pushes the paper towards Mirsky.

     He now stares at the paper.

     She gives the pen a push.

     Mirsky tries to thwart a panic attack.

     Mrs. Wilks, remaining in her ramrod straight posture, flicks her finger at the pen so it rolls towards the edge of the counter.They both watch it roll, roll past the paper, and over the edge.

     Instinctively Mirsky catches it.

     Scrunchscrunchscrunchscrunch

     With a slightly smug expression, Mrs. Wilks pushes the paper forward again.

     Ch...Ch...

     Mirsky Raises the pen.

     ChChCh

     I've got the pen right here and the

     door's right there--maybe it's

     time to get out of here--

     can do--can do

     Mirsky and Mrs. Wilks lock into a stare. He cracks first, grabs the paper, and in a flurry of hand movements circles no, round and round--crosses out the yes in the donor box--initials both, signs his name, and pushes the paper back to Mrs. Wilks. He shoves the pen towards her and she lets it roll off the counter edge without looking away from him. One...two...one.. She takes his application and picture and walks slowly towards the laminate machine.

     Me and Dad were sitting on the bus stop bench telling knock-knock jokes while waiting for Mom when he pointed to the rooftop of a building where there were several men hand-cranking a crane. They were winding a rope that was attached to a safe. There were two more men in an open window below them trying to pull the safe into the building with another rope. Mom spotted us as she came out of the dress shop and waved and headed for the cross walk. We waved back and then watched the rope break and the safe fall end over end landing right side up on top of Mom. We ran to her but it wasn't until Dad pulled me away that I realized that she was dead. I was eleven years old.

     I go by the name Pincus. That's it, a one word name like Elvis, Madonna, or Judas. That's how I sign my name on each cartoon I draw and it's how I'm referred to in interviews (the few I've given). Pincus--it's how I'm known to the world. If some reporter wants to go digging into my past he can come up with the whole story, name and all--but I'm not volunteering the information.

     I draw a single-panel cartoon. It's called "BAM! SQUISH!" and it's syndicated in over two hundred newspapers in this country alone and I don't know how many more in twenty-two other countries.

     It's a phenomenon. I'm a phenom. It's an aberration of our society that for fourteen years I've been drawing basically the same cartoon: a person or persons are walking, minding their own business, when BAM! SQUISH!, a safe or piano or whatever object de jour falls from above and the reader knows the character is about to be creamed, flattened, pancaked, squished and above all hurt. But this is a comic, so there is never an impact. The falling object is always stopped before that moment. I leave the rest to the imagination. Actual violence would take away from the humor--for most of us anyway.

     I use different locales, sometimes country, sometimes city, and often I use other countries. This year's "Reader's Choice" Cartoon showed two men, musicians, walking down the street. We know they're musicians because one's carrying a large bass and the other a trumpet or some other kind of horn, both in cases. Just above them, free falling, is a man on a stool wearing a tux--tails and all, and he's playing a grand piano, lid up and candelabras in place. He's about fifty feet (that's become my distance of choice) over the musicians' heads and the caption reads, "I can't believe Murray quit. Where are we going to find another piano player on such short notice?"

     That's it. That's the whole cartoon. One single panel. My first published cartoon showed three burglars standing around under a street light talking. They are wearing burglar masks and carrying burglar tools--crow bars, hammers, drills, and sticks of dynamite in their back pockets. Two of the burglars are obviously upset with the third. There's a humongous safe above them and two men are looking out the window of an office building. They are also wearing burglar masks. One man has his hand over his mouth and the other appears to be slapping himself on the forehead. They are both holding the same end of the rope. The caption reads: "What do you mean you left the address at the hideout. Where do you expect us to find a safe at this hour?"

     That cartoon is what started Pincus, Inc. These cartoons are on T shirts, coffee mugs, calendars and even trading cards. They are on whatever object people have paid a license for. They call this a cottage industry. Some cottage. I've been honored as a cartoonist by my peers and given honorary degrees for speaking at college graduations. For some reason BAM! SQUISH! has captured the hearts and minds of people everywhere. Who really knows what's going to become a smash hit? Pardon the pun. I'm an okay artist and while my work is not extremely polished, it's easily understood and recognized.

     I must have gotten the art gene from my mother. How ironic. She was always doodling and making funny pictures to hang around the house--often to get her point across. I remember after trying for months to get my father and me to stop leaving our shoes lying around the house she drew a picture of mounds of shoes blocking the entrance to the kitchen. In the dining room were caricatures of the two of us looking forlorn. We were each holding a knife and fork and sitting at an empty table. Mom was standing by the door. The caption read, "I guess it's shoes for dinner tonight. Who'd like a sandal? Anyone for a penny loafer?" That put an end to our shoe-dropping phase, but Mom kept the cartoon on the refrigerator door for months after anyway.

     How does my father feel about my cartoons? He's never mentioned them. Dad's living in Florida and has been for quite a while. We talk every week, but he never asks me about my work--ever. He hasn't remarried but "keeps company" with Dore, a hot ticket widow from Queens. They have been together longer than he and my mother were. Every once in a while I'll find a message from Dore on my answering machine. "This morning's Pincus with the falling Rabbi was great. I could have plotzed. Oh the power of nine men praying for a tenth to show up for a minion was brilliant." Dore always likes the irreverent ones the best. They also draw the most letters to the newspapers.

     It was the end of May and I was in New York to meet with my agent. He left me alone in his office while he attended to another matter. I looked through his desk drawers and found a pile of Mad Magazines. I had a new respect for Bernie at that moment. His name was really Arnold, but it is my firm and unshakeable belief that any agent worth his salt is named Bernie. I told him that early on and explained to him that if he wanted to represent me he'd have to not only answer to Bernie, but be Bernie in any form of contact with me.

     He laughed. "You guys are all alike." he said. "Do you think you're the only client I'm a Bernie for?"

     "There's others?" I asked. "Who? How many?"

     "You already know too much," he said. "If I tell you any more I'll have to kill you."

     While Bernie was out of his office I sat on his window sill looking down a dozen stories watching a couple argue. They were standing on the corner, the man--head bowed, arms at his side, while the woman was flailing her arms and probably screaming at him because passersby were turning to look at them and some even walked a respectable distance away and stopped to eavesdrop. I watched a taxi speed up trying to make it through a yellow light, while at the same time another cab anticipating a green jumped his red light. They appeared to be playing chicken and were about to collide until at the very last moment one swerved and THWACK! BOOM! the lady with the flailing arms was flying through the air from the running the yellow light taxi, and the man, presumably her husband, was staring down at his shoes, oblivious to what had just happened. Or maybe he wasn't oblivious, perhaps he was keeping his head bowed in prayer giving thanks to whatever Deity he'd chosen to give credit to. Both the woman and the cab ended up on the opposite corner while the other cab sped off.

     I left Bernie a note with some lame excuse for cutting out of our yearly meeting and caught the next Amtrak out of Penn Station to Connecticut and home. That night I drew my three BAM! SQUISH! panels. I always draw them in threes so as to have a reserve that allows me to take time off whenever I choose. I stayed at my drawing board and sketched out a double panel cartoon of what I had witnessed from Bernie's office window that morning.The first panel showed a meek man and an overbearing arm-waving woman and it showed the cabs swerving past each other with one heading towards the couple. "You're worthless, Walter. All I asked you to do was get us a cab. Was that such a difficult request?" The next panel showed the cab on the curb, the woman flying through the air, and the man staring down at his shoes saying, "Yes, dear."

     "THWACK! BOOM!" came to mind immediately and edged out "YOU'RE WORTHLESS WALTER," as the name of the new cartoon. Before the month was out Bernie had it running in almost as many papers as BAM! SQUISH! I continue to draw them both but "THWACK! BOOM!" was twice voted cartoon of the year and Saturday Night Live picked it up for an animated short. It also out paced "BAM! SQUISH!" in the merchandising field and Pincus, Inc. has become really big. I've turned down offers from both Ted Turner and Barry Diller to sell the company.

     My life is good. I have all the trappings; an apartment on Central Park West, an estate in Greenwich, Connecticut and a Villa in Tuscany. I have a beautiful, devoted, fun-loving wife and two bright interesting children. I have respect from my peers and adulation from my fans.

     Last year I went to London to buy my wife a surprise birthday gift--an apartment in the heart of the city. She loves the theater there, and soon the boys will be out of the house and she'll be able to spend more time in England.

     I was in my hotel, tired of being driven around the city all day apartment hunting and didn't have the strength to get dressed and go out for dinner so I ordered up room service thinking how nice it would be to take a long soak afterwards and relax. While I was eating, the phone rang, and the hotel operator told me to hold for a call from the States. She finally connected me and I listened silently for what seemed to be an eternity, and then I screamed. I only remember bits and pieces--screaming until my voice faded away, then screaming silently. I was held down on my bed by many arms and distorted faces until the tranquilizer I was given took hold.

     I was hospitalized for months and never made it back to the States for the funerals. I sold everything but the New York apartment and paid a fortune to buy the one next door, turning it into my studio. Finally, for the first time in a very long time, I sat at my drawing board. I was slow drawing the first "BAM! SQUISH!" but the next two came quickly and easily as did the three "THWACK! BOOMS!"

     I didn't leave the drawing board until the sun was beginning to come up and I had drawn the first of my latest cartoon, "RING! SCREAM!"

     Mirsky put down his glass of Black Opal Cabernet Merlot and picked up his menu. The combination of the small writing, subdued lights, and his being smack into the throws of middle-age vision trauma prevented him from reading it. Frustrated, he closed the menu, looked around the table and saw that his wife and all of his friends except Lenny had half-glasses hanging off the end of their noses. "I'm underdressed," he thought. Lenny, the other glassless person, was at the wall end of the table with his menu stretched out at arm's length held under a wall sconce.

     Mumbling that he was going out to his car to get his glasses, Mirsky pushed back from the table. As if choreographed, the four women at the table whipped off their glasses and held them out to him. "Thanks, no," he said. "I finally remembered to bring them and I'm going to use them tonight."

     "Before you go, tell us one more joke," Louise giggled.

     "When I get back," Mirsky said, turning and walking out.

     He took the back way out of Mangia, etc., and walked to his car in a buoyant mood. Good friends, hopefully good food, fun conversation, and a little slap and tickle before leaving the house made Mirsky feel good. He smiled to himself thinking of the story he would tell Louise and the others when he got back. This was a blusher and the kind of story that keeps popping back into one's mind for the rest of the evening.

     The parking lot sloped left causing Mirsky to walk unevenly. As he walked back he began to feel like his Uncle Harry. Uncle Harry had one leg shorter than the other and walked with a pronounced gimp.

     Mirsky knew that this was his turning point. He could shake off Uncle Harry and stay in his own mind, or allow himself to continue the feeling and absorb Uncle Harry and briefly become him -- somewhat akin to the early impersonators who turned their back to their audience so as to "get in character" and then when they turned around they took on the look and feel of Cagney, Kirk Douglas or whoever.

     He let himself go on. First he felt as if he were in Harry's body and next it was Harry's rattlesnake disposition engulfing him. Mirsky was angry over leaving his glasses in the car -- in fact he was unhappy even having to wear these drug store cheaters. By the time he sat back down at the table he was in an Uncle Harry frame of mind.

     "Well, Mirsky, we've been waiting," Louise's husband Lenny said. "What's your story?"

     Mirsky glared at Lenny and snarled, "Who am I -- your fucking court jester?"

     Uncle Harry would have been proud but Mirsky's friends were taken aback and, sensing that he was in one of his moods, talked around him. When it came time to order, the waiter took the brunt of Mirsky's lip while the others held their menus open in front of their faces.

     While the rest of the party was ordering, Mirsky got up and announced a little too loudly that he was off to "water the porcelain" and left the table. Walking through the lounge to get to the men's room, he stopped and listened to the band and watched the drummer playing softly using only the brushes. The drummer was smiling dreamily -- thoroughly enjoying what he was doing. Pulling up a bar stool, Mirsky sat and listened and watched. Mirsky kept beat with a nodding head, tapping shoe, and quietly snapping fingers. He was no longer feeling Uncle Harry in him and in fact he had begun to feel like Guy, his younger brother, when he first heard the smoothness of the drummer. Guy was always up -- happy go lucky, and also played drums in a band. When the song was finished he went on to the men's room.

     Mirsky came back to his table humming and smiling and saw a somber group. "Who died while I was gone?" he asked. "You know, Louise," Mirsky continued, returning to the old Mirsky, "I was having lunch in the new Chinese restaurant in town the other day, and when I went to the men's room there was a sign that read, all employees must wash their chopsticks before leaving. Bah da boom." Mirsky smacked the table in a mock rim shot.

     Mirsky considered his ability to slide in and out of others people's personas a talent and not a liability or a problem. It wasn't a frequent occurrence, anyway. Mirsky never told anyone he could do this. It was his secret. Not once did he think of it as offensive or schizo as his friends might have.

     At one of his annual Casket Sellers' conventions he had met a woman who had the "Power" also. Stella was a petite brunette, well built, with a top of the line smile. She was number one in the Southeast Region in sales and he was number one in the Northeast. Each noticed something in the other that led to their discussing their similar talents, Mirsky and Stella agreed to let themselves go past "the turning point" each time so they could appreciate another's persons experiences. The only problem was that Mirsky had wanted to get it on with her, but their personality changes kept clashing. Each evening they would hang out in the bar talking and joking, alone or with others, having a great time. When they were alone they often spoke of their "Power" or as Stella called it, her "Talent." Each evening as they strolled lovey-dovey from the bar or patio to one of their respective rooms, one or both of them would end up taking on another personality that turned the other off, so the tryst never took place. One night Stella turned into her mother as they were mid-kiss and almost decked Mirsky for not keeping his tongue in his own mouth. Another night, Mirsky, so excited at the prospects of getting laid, began to feel like his six year old nephew Kevin, and started to sing and skip and run up and down the hall in front of Stella until she caught him and reached down his pants, grabbing his cock. Mirsky, in his Kevin persona, said "phoo," and "yuk," and ran off to his own room.

     It was two weeks following the restaurant scene when Lenny, Thomas, and Alan stopped over to talk to him about his "problem." They were old and dear friends and genuinely concerned. They handed him a paper with a psychiatrist's name and phone number. While his friends were talking to him about his mood swings, he felt himself slipping into a Lenny persona and started to imitate his actions, but somehow quickly pulled out.

     Finally, Mirsky decided to chance it and explain to his friends. "I'm not sick, guys. But I do understand why you think I am and need help. Truly," he said, "you are good friends to come and talk to me instead of just writing me off. Let me tell you what is really going on."

     And Mirsky told them about the "Power," and they looked at each other and at him and he could tell by their silence they thought this was another Mirsky bullshit number. "Nice try, huh guys. OK. I'll make an appointment in the morning," Mirsky told them.

     Relieved, his friends opened up and spoke of the times his personality changed and laughed over some of the more embarrassing and outrageous ones. Suddenly, Mirsky knew how Rabbi Silver felt during one of his counseling sessions. Becoming Rabbi Silver, he steepled his fingers, held them to his chin. nodded appropriately, and spoke softly. He treated his friends as though they were the troubled ones, and thanked them for coming and shook their hands as they left. Then, still as Rabbi Silver, he went upstairs to his bedroom where his wife Elaine was in bed reading. He undressed and as he did so he said a prayer aloud in Hebrew, then dove under the covers saying, "Oymen," as he pushed her nightgown up.

     Mirsky had to make an appointment to keep his friends and Elaine happy, but he knew the shrink would have no better understanding. She would tell Mirsky that he had blah blah syndrome, maybe prescribe medication, and insist on weekly visits until her new boat was paid for. Mirsky would go through with this shrink charade, but he would work real hard on turning this into his advantage.

     Dr. Alice Meyer-Mayer was a few minutes late greeting Mirsky in the waiting room. She almost caught him ripping a coupon for Depends out of Modern Maturity. He had planned to mail it to Lenny. Dr. Meyer-Mayer was tall and thin with high cheekbones and an overbite that Mirsky found sexy. She reached out to shake Mirsky's hand as he stood. "I'm Dr. Mayer-Meyer," she said.

     "Then I must be Mirsky," he announced while admiring her green eyes.

     He smiled at his own wit and she stared at him - then turned and went into her office. Mirsky followed her in and looked around. Couch, two swivel chairs with ottomans, desk, plants, pastel pictures of pseudo-European cities and a bookshelf with a clock tucked neatly to one side. "Yep," he thought. "It's all here."

     "Sit anywhere you're comfortable, Mr. Mirsky," said Dr. Meyer-Mayer. Mirsky walked over to the desk and took her desk chair, turned it around, and straddled it, putting his arms on top and staring at the Doctor. "Just call me Mirsky," he said.

     "OK. Mirsky, any seat but that one, please."

     "But you said sit where I was comfortable."

     "I did, but I didn't mean my desk chair. It makes me uncomfortable."

     "You ought to see someone about that," he said.

     They both ended up on swivel chairs as Mirsky knew they would and Mirsky said, "Dr. Meyer-Mayer, I was just giving you a hard time. I do that when I'm nervous."

     "Are you nervous often?" she asked.

     "Are we starting now?" Mirsky figured her for mid-maybe late thirties.

     "Would you like to start now or would you like to wait?"

     "That sounds like we've started. You can tell me."

     "Mirsky, we started when you walked into my waiting room," Dr. Meyer-Mayer said, her voice a bit on the husky side, but very feminine.

     "Does that mean my fifty minutes began then?"

     "It's only forty-five minutes and no, your time starts when we are in this office."

     "OK. I just wanted to know the ground rules because I'm often early and I'd hate to be sitting reading for forty-five minutes and have you come out and tell me my session is over."

     Dr. Meyer-Mayer laughed. "You are a very funny man," she said. "Are you always on? And don't ask me if this is where we begin."

     "Just tell me why Meyer-Mayer? For one vowel - you make such a deal?"

     "I was a doctor before I got married, so my diplomas and license are in the name Meyer and I couldn't just take my husband's name."

     "Why didn't you just keep your maiden name?"

     "We thought it was too confusing," she said.

     "I think we ought to change seats," Mirsky said.

     "Enough about me, Mirsky, tell me why you are here."

     So Mirsky told Dr. Meyer-Mayer all about his "Power" and his friends' concern. "I wouldn't have any problem if I could control its coming and going," he said. "But it comes on suddenly and sometimes I let it go without even realizing it. The mood swings have my friends and family thinking I'm a schizo."

     "Does this only happen when you're walking?" the Doctor asked.

     "Mostly. Sometimes if I'm standing in the right position and realize that I'm standing the way someone I know stands -- then it can start. It can also start with a gesture.

     "Go on."

     "If I make a gesture, shrug a certain way, or catch myself making an expression the way someone I know would, I can take on that person's persona."

     "What about other positions? Sitting, lying down?"

     "It's happened to me while driving several times. I've turned into my brother Louis, who only has middle fingers when he drives. I try to fight that one off, but he's a strong personality and it's tough."

     "How much of a role does someone's strong personality play in this?"

     "I never gave it much thought, but I guess the stronger the personality, the more I have to grasp on to."

     "And you say your brother Louis has such a personality?"

     "I come from a family of strong personalities."

     "Can they all enter you? Can you become anyone? Explain it."

     "I tried to become my brother Harry once because I was taking a test and I knew he would know all the answers, but I couldn't do it. Although I have done Harry before. I would like to do this on demand as opposed to having it suddenly come upon me. I'd love to be able to control that aspect of The Power."

     "Is this an all male thing or do you do females also?"

     "You make it sound like Vaudeville."

     "So do you."

     "Tushy," said Mirsky.

     "Don't you mean touché?" Dr. Meyer-Mayer corrected.

     "No," Mirsky said. "I don't speak French."

     "Mr. Mirsky, our time is up for today."

     "Don't you mean my time is up?"

     "No, I meant that our time together is up. Would you like to schedule another appointment?"

     "Do you think I need it?"

     "Do you think you need it, is the question."

     "It's not the question," Mirsky said. "It's another question."

     "Same time next week," stated the doctor, holding her appointment book and filling out an appointment card.

     Mirsky, head down, hands jammed into his pocket, was walking across the Green to his car when he let himself become his kid brother Guy again. Mirsky's face untightened and he wore a half-smile. As Guy he was thinking about what a beautiful day it was which wouldn't dawn on Mirsky unless someone mentioned it. He looked for his car and saw a park bench and sat down. Leaning back, with his hands clasped behind his head, Mirsky breathed in the park air. A few minutes later, eyes closed, thinking Guy thoughts, he took another deep breath, only this time the fresh air was mixed with perfume.

     "Is that a magic wand in your pocket, or are you just glad to see me?" asked Louise, sitting down on the bench. Mirsky looked over and smiled. Guy was gone. Louise had her brown hair pulled back tightly and tied with a yellow ribbon, and she wore a tight yellow blouse and an impish grin.

     "Both," said Mirsky.

     Louise took his hand and led him from the bench across the street to the back door of her fabric shop, which was closed for lunch. "Let me show you some new silk I just got in," Louise said, unbuttoning her pants. "Don't forget the wool," Mirsky laughed. "I'd rather see your wool." When Mirsky lifted off Louise's yellow blouse, she was braless as he knew she would be, and he gave each erect nipple a kiss. Then he undressed and they made love between a bolt of pink taffeta and a purplish gabardine. He made love as Mirsky, only eight years younger and even then without inhibitions. When they finished, Louise lay in Mirsky's arm as they both leaned against a Harris Tweed, which Mirsky found a little itchy. "Larry told me about you and the shrink," Louise said.

     "Yeah, well, no problem," said Mirsky.

     "Were you goofing on the guys or can you really become other people?"

     "What do you think?"

     "I think we ought to try this next week and I'll be Camille and you can be Prince Charles," Louise laughed.

     Happily, he was able to stay in his own character the whole time,

     Mirsky continued his weekly sessions with Dr. Meyer-Mayer and also tried to act Mirsky-like when he was with his friends. Strangely enough, it did end up having the side effect that Mirsky had always hoped for. The next week he told Dr. Meyer-Mayer about it.

     "I've reached my plateau, Dr.," Mirsky said, swiveling around to face her.

     "And that plateau is?" Dr. Meyer-Mayer asked.

     "Well, I'm very excited. You've done me a world of good. This whole experience has helped me beyond my wildest dreams, and my wildest dreams are beyond most peoples' wildest imagination - as you well know. I owe a debt of gratitude to my friends and especially to you."

     "Mirsky, I'm really happy that you are so excited, but I don't feel that we have accomplished what we set out to accomplish. You have not rid yourself of this transference problem - all you've been able to do is mask it more successfully."

     "No, Dr., you're wrong. First, it's not a problem. It's me, and it's all because of you. It is what I do, what I want to do, and now finally I am able to understand the Power and keep it coming or tune it out - all because of you. I can do it my way and if that's not cured my name's not Frank Sinatra. Secondly, who is anyone to say that if I choose "The Power" over stamp collecting as my hobby that I'm either wrong or sick? I'm happy and everyone around me is happy. So what's so wrong?"

     Her private phone rang, and Dr. Meyer-Mayer picked up the cordless and walked into another room that Mirsky thought was her bathroom. He got up and poked around on her desk and read snatches of a letter to her from her sister. He came to a sentence that piqued his interest so much that he read it three times and then picked up the letter and sat back in the swivel chair and read the entire thing.

     "I'm sorry, Mirsky," Dr. Meyer-Mayer said upon reentering the room.

     Mirsky swiveled so his back was to her. She sat down and said, "So where were we?"

     Mirsky folded the letter and held it on his lap, swiveled the chair around to face the Dr., and stared at her. She realized immediately that he was taking on another persona. He worked at gestures and movements and adjusted his position in the chair and finally stood up and walked over to the Dr., hovering over her, almost menacingly. His lip curled a little, his eyes semi-drooped, and he said with the slightest of lisps, "Of all the shrinks in all the shrink offices in all the world, I had to pick this one. Listen, Red," he said throwing the letter down on her lap, "you played me for a sucker once and left me holding the bag, but it'll never happen again. I have no more feeling for you than I do for that bird." With that, Mirsky reached down and grabbed Dr. Meyer-Mayer by her arms, hauled her to her feet as the letter fluttered to the floor. He kissed her. He kissed her long and deep, and when he finished, pushed her back down in her chair and said, "So long, Red. You're somebody else's problem now."

     Dr. Meyer-Mayer reached down, picked up the letter, and, with the only strength left in her body, reread the part asking if she still had the Bogart fetish and had she finally been able to convince that prude of a husband to play act the Bogie scenes that so turned her on.

     Dr. Meyer-Mayer's notes to Mirsky went unanswered. Months later, he called for an appointment. (Reluctantly, she gave it to him.] He stood looking out the window in her waiting room and in a few minutes her office door was pushed open and Dr. Meyer-Mayer said, "Come in, Mirsky." He walked in and she was standing with her back to the door, arms folded, looking out the window. Without turning around she asked how he was doing and whether he was using the "Power."

     Mirsky said nothing.

     Dr. Meyer-Mayer turned around and Mirsky was standing there, in a trench coat, collar up, wearing a snap brim fedora, and dangling an unlit cigarette from the corner of his mouth.

     "Mirsky," said Dr. Meyer-Mayer with great surprise.

     Mirsky took the cigarette out of his mouth and flicked it across the room. "See here doll," he said. "I told you never to call me Mirsky."

     A tear trickled down the doctor's cheek, and she ran to Mirsky and hugged him.

     "Listen, Red. Don't go getting all mushy on me," Mirsky said as he flipped his fedora on to her desk. "And remember, this is my regular time from now on. Got it?"

     "Got it," said Dr. Meyer-Mayer.

Paul's collection of short stories, Come! Meet My Family and other stories, was published in 1995. He's had dozens of his stories published in magazines including, Playboy, Other Voices,  Parting Gifts, The Writers' Voice, Onthebus, The Connecticut Review and of course Web Del Sol. He has received four nominations for a Pushcart Prize for his fiction. Paul is currently interviewing agents and publishers to handle his latest collection of short stories.