By Jim Walter

A short story inspired by

“Green Book”, music and lyrics

by Walter Becker and Donald Fagen

            Once we got married, it wasn’t that we had banished sex from our lives altogether, but we had invited it back about as often as we did my trailer-dwelling cousins from northern Alabama. Occupying herself with her art work, Kara was content with the way things were. I, on the other hand, was ever ready for a good old, sweaty, groin-swelling, chest-heaving roll in the hay. Neither of us had wanted kids, but, as far as I was concerned, that didn’t mean we shouldn’t go through some of the motions.

            We were two creative-types who had found each other adrift in the murky social sea of the late 1980’s. A sea polluted with AIDS, HIV, and STDs—an alphabet soup of lethal reasons to remain celibate or to phone in your desires from the safety of your living room. Kara and I had beaten the odds—we found in each other someone who was not only compatible, but also taintless even when viewed under a microscope. That’s why the news hit so hard.

            She said it was just a little lump, but the doctors had a different name for it: carcinoma with metastasis. Tests and biopsies revealed that the disease had already moved into the lymphatic system and was spreading rapidly. Even the best of all the specialists at Sloan-Kettering couldn’t save her. Before the first morphine drip was hung on the stainless steel pole, Kara was gone.

            I hate funeral homes. The last time I set foot in one was over twenty-five years ago. It had contained my parents, in closed caskets—victims of a house fire while I was away at college upstate. Faulty wiring in an older house, I was told. I was somewhat close with my mother but could just as soon have forgotten about my dad. He was often away and never seemed to have much time for us when he was home. Like Kara, they were both gone far too soon.

            This time around, everyone at the services was warm and kind, just as you would expect. They all looked at me with their weary smiles and sympathetic eyes and always ended what they had to say with, “If there’s anything I can do...” I backed out of preparing any eulogy, but I listened intently as the minister reflected on Kara’s generosity, her creativity, her quirkiness, her intelligence, and her sense of humor. As if he even knew her. I nodded along with everything he had been saying, but I zoned out later on when I noticed the three cute young interns from the art gallery come in late and slide quietly into the back row. The rest of that afternoon was just a stream of indistinct mumbles and tears and pats on the back of my hand.

            The rhythmic bumping along the tracks on the ride back home to the apartment got me thinking how ironic it was: the way I found out about Kara’s killer. We were about to make love. It was going to be a night for the record books. Since my next novel wasn’t due to be released for another five months, I had time to help Kara get ready for her latest opening. After a busy day setting up at the gallery and a quick dinner—haute American cuisine—at PeaceMeals in SoHo, Kara and I still had enough time to grab a cab up to Chelsea Pier, just like a couple of tourists. The warm summer evening breezed around us as we strolled, hand in hand, out over the Hudson as far as the railings would allow us.

            The lights sparkled like strobes on the black water and the chatter of the crowd mixed in like white noise with the strains of music from the nearby roller park. We were having one of those long discussions about art that we loved so much. The deeper the better. We could talk for hours on end about our theories of creativity and inspiration and what we would really be doing if we didn’t have to make a living. Her excitement about tomorrow’s opening must have touched this one off. Once we got home, the intimacy of our conversation carried us into the bedroom.

            I came in first and dimmed the overhead light almost to off. Then, I tossed most of the dozen or so pillows we kept on our bed over into the corner and pulled the soft sheet and comfy spread halfway down. Seized by a brilliant idea, I slipped out for a moment to pour a glass of pinot noir and brought it in for us to share. Kara entered the room and found me sitting on the edge of the bed in the near darkness. She sat down softly in my lap and we finished off the wine in each other’s arms, murmuring some silly pillow talk. After we started necking and got into some deep kissing, the clothing slid off like butter from a stack of hotcakes and we inserted ourselves under the covers.

            I reached over to Kara and as I began to stroke the smooth, flawless skin of her upper arm, I felt her nipple rise up to touch the pulse point under my wrist. Keeping the contact, I drew my hand back until I could cup the fullness of her breast inside my palm and then pressed lightly, making slow circles into the soft flesh with two fingertips. Then I made my unnerving discovery.

            “It’s just a little lump,” she sighed, exasperated with me for making such a big deal out of it. “I’ll make an appointment on Monday so we can find out and put it to rest once and for all. Now let’s try to get some sleep. We’ve got a big day ahead of us tomorrow and I want to be sharp.” I grunted some sort of affirmation and rolled over to my side of the bed. I reached out in the darkness to set the alarm for 7:00.

            Now I wish I could have set it back about twenty years. Life without Kara was like living in outer space: no light, no warmth, no sound and no one to hear you scream. I missed the impromptu, occasionally alcohol-induced brainstorms we used to have right at the kitchen table. Sometimes we laughed till one of us peed. And I can still see Kara, back to me, hunched over her art table, head and hands illuminated by the cone of light beaming down from the lamp that leaned over into her workspace. She would be sketching out flying cows or painting trees that come to life or drawing superhero dogs with capes flapping in the wind. I left her studio area just as if she were still here. Ditto for our bedroom. I learned how to cook for one and how well a TV left on low volume can keep an apartment from becoming one big echo chamber. I learned something else too: No sex was even worse than twice-a-year sex.

            People are living on with transplanted hearts, babies are being born out of test tubes, and there still wasn’t a damn thing medical science could do for Kara. Or for me. Every time a new antidepressant hit the market, it was yanked back off again because of some dangerous side effect. The last time it was—get this—abnormal enlargement of breast tissue in males. I continued to write, but my themes and story lines always circled back to the same three L’s: loneliness, loss, and libido. What spilled out onto the paper were the contents of my heart and my mind; the thematic rut I was in limited the market for my writing, but I didn’t care.

            As time went on, though, I got myself out a little more. One day, riding the train uptown, I saw an overhead ad I had never noticed before. “Dr. Swan’s Mating Service. ‘The date you mate.’ Call 539-MATE. www.swan-mate.com.” Not a dating service—a mating service. Now, unless prostitution was legalized while I wasn’t paying attention, this was an intriguing proposition. The date you mate. I jotted the number down in the margin of the paperback I had been reading and made a mental note to call when I got home later.

            When I arrived that afternoon, I put the grocery bag down on the corner of the kitchen counter, unzipped my carry-all and reached in. I fished around the bottom until I pulled up the book where I had written down Dr. Swan’s number. Don’t think about it—just do it, I told myself as I pressed the phone to my ear for the dial tone. Then I thumbed in the number and heard two rings murmur on the other end. “Dr. Swan’s Mating Service. How may I help you?” the young female voice said.

            “The date you mate,” I responded in a monotone. “What does that mean?”

            “Pardon me? Oh, you mean our slogan. Well, we provide a very special service here, sir. You’ll need to come in for a screening to find out if you’re a proper candidate. If you are, then we’ll explain all about how we do things here,” she said.

            “You’re not just a bunch of high-priced call girls, are you?”

            “No sir, we guarantee that. Everything we do is legal. But what we offer is not for everyone. Would you like directions to our offices?” she inquired. Still dubious but also strangely aroused, I told her, “Okay, but is this expensive?” “We serve a very select group of clients, sir. But our initial consultation is free of charge. Would you still care to hear the directions?”

            “Sure, I guess. What’s to lose.” I groaned.

            “Great. Now, please hold the line while I connect you.”

            Using my shoulder to hold the phone up to my ear, I reached over for a pen and pad. A mechanized voice droned out driving directions from Newark and points north, Staten Island and points south, and, finally, Manhattan. “Crap,” I said out loud. “It’s in Jersey.” I scribbled down the address and then folded my phone in half.

            The next day, I was boarding a bus out of Manhattan and heading for the wilds of New Jersey. A couple of Republican mayors may have pushed the grimier elements off the streets of Manhattan island, but once they got to the river, they stopped pushing. As we came out the other side of the Holland Tunnel and rumbled south, we passed dilapidated tenement apartment buildings, abandoned warehouses, and vacant lots strewn with broken furniture, stoves, refrigerators, and other large appliances. It looked like a yard sale from hell. Maybe it was just me, but the sky seemed to grow darker and the streets dirtier the closer we got to the center of town.

            In the middle of all the squalor stood the bus station. I started to get a case of the willies as I stepped down from the bus and ambled into the center of the station. I was relieved, though, when I saw a huge Asian man dressed in a chauffeur’s uniform. He was standing in a kiosk under a sign for Dr. Swan’s Mating Service. He reminded me of Oddjob from the old James Bond movie and spoke in perfect English as I approached his booth. “Are you here for a ride to the mating service, sir?” he asked. “Yes, I think so,” I answered, looking around the cavernous station like a kid seeing the inside of a circus tent for the first time. “We can leave right away. Do have any bags?” he inquired. “No, I’m just here doing some fact finding,” I told him. “Very good.” he said.

            Outside the station, he opened the door to an old-time stretch Cadillac like I hadn’t seen in three decades. I settled down inside and looked around at the deep burgundy velour that covered the interior. Looking back over his shoulder, the driver informed me, “It’s about a five minute ride, sir. Not a very pretty one, I’m afraid. But you’ll feel right at home when we get to Dr. Swan’s.”

            He was half right. We passed block after block of dark, dingy streets and rundown buildings. Streetwalkers of all colors and sizes strutted up the sidewalk, getting scant attention from the desperate-looking people inhabiting the corners and doorways and front stoops. This is looking like a huge mistake, I said to myself as the Cadillac rolled to a stop in front of a one-story yellow brick building, The dull, windowless structure took up the entire block.

            My driver got out and circled the car from the back to open my door. “This way, sir. Just follow me.” I stayed close behind as he led me to the dark narrow doorway. As he punched the code into the keypad near the door, I noticed on the outside wall a square plaque covered in a greenish patina bearing the embossed words: Swan Laboratories Est. 1962. A sharp, electronic buzz sounded and the heavy door swung open. Bright fluorescent light flooded out of the doorway and assaulted my unprepared eyes. As I squinted for a look inside, my guardian said, “Please come in.”

            I entered an environment worlds apart from what I had left on the outside. I stood motionless, taking it all in. Everything was spotless, gleaming. From the white floor tiles to the white walls to the ten-foot ceilings overhead. It looked a bit like the “clean room” at Intel, except nobody was dressed in the astronaut suits you see in the ads. About a foot below the ceiling, three horizontal stripes of neon lights—red, green, blue—ran along the walls from the lobby and down to the end of both hallways. The reception desk and all the furniture was a combination of chrome bars and clear Lucite® in the same colors as the neon. Voices, footsteps, and the myriad sounds of a typical office reverberated off the hard, shiny surfaces, but took a surprisingly short time for me to get used to.

            “I can help you over here, sir,” the receptionist said, waving me over. She was about 23 and had medium length blond hair, flipped up just off her shoulders. Her eyes were a deep dark brown, and her lips were glossed in a shiny apple red. Offering her hand, she said, “Welcome to Dr. Swan’s.” I spoke up, “My name is Bill Carter and I’m here to check out your service. They told me on the phone something about a screening.” “Third room down. Someone will be waiting for you,” she said and pointed off to her right. “Thanks,”I said and then added, “Is that ‘Ambush’ you’re wearing?” “Why, yes. It’s my favorite. You must have a sensitive nose,” she said, pressing some button on the console in front of her. “Guess so,” I said as I turned to walk down the hall.

            I grasped the chrome door handle, cool to the touch, and opened the door to find a well-dressed man, about twenty-five, seated behind a desk identical to the receptionist’s. He was probably about my height—six feet—and had black hair combed straight back from his forehead and held in place with some sort of pomade. “Welcome to Dr. Swan’s Mating Service. My name is Haines.” He stood up to shake my hand and invited me to take a chair. “You’re Mr. Carter, I believe. Welcome. As you know, there are a few preliminaries we have to cover first to determine if we are the right service for you. May I ask you a few questions?” I told him to fire away. “Will you be paying our fee by cashier’s check, credit card, check card debit, or automatic installments?” he asked. “Just how much is this service of yours?” I inquired. “Why, sixty-five thousand dollars. Is that going to be a concern for you?”

            “Now hold on, I’m not here to buy a Mercedes. I’m just looking to find ‘a date to mate,’ like it says in your ad,” I bristled. “Sir, we feel that you’ll find our product, complete with a lifetime warranty, to be a very worthy and satisfying long-term investment,” he told me.

            “Just what am I getting for my sixty-five thousand? Free sex for life?”

            “No, Mr. Carter,” he went on, “We affirm that you’ll be enjoying fulfilling companionship for the rest of your days. Is that not worth the price of, as you say, a Mercedes? Think about it, sir. Think about why you are here. I really can’t say anything further until you’ve signed the agreement.”

            Damn, I hate these high pressure tactics. Maybe I’d better just bolt while I can. But what if they just leave me to find my own way out of this dirty city? I might not last three minutes out on those streets. I’m such an idiot. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Wait just a minute. Chill out, I told myself. It’s guaranteed. It’s a lifetime of fulfillment, he said. Plus, I haven’t done anything with that bundle of life insurance money I collected after Kara died. And it means I can finally get laid.

            “A cashier’s check will be fine. Is tomorrow okay?” I relented. “Of course, sir. Very good, sir. We’re sure you will be delighted with your choice. Please sign here...” I took the shiny silver pen he offered and scratched my signature on the dotted line. “And imprint here,” he said, holding out a thin box containing a pad soaked in a metallic ink. I indented the damp, spongy pad with my thumb and then pressed the digit in the box next to my signature.

            “Wonderful, sir. Shall we continue? There are few more forms to complete before we initiate our service,” he explained. I spent the next several minutes signing a pile of paper—trade secret non-disclosure agreements, liability waivers, letters of understanding, and a final promissory note. I handed the pen back to Haines once again. He began, “Now, I’d like to explain our program in a little more detail. First, when you return tomorrow with your cashier’s check, bring a bag packed for a three-day stay. We want you to be as comfortable as possible while you are here. Second, please complete these forms at home and bring them with you to go over with The Doctor...” I interrupted, “More forms? What are these for?” Unperturbed, he explained, “We’d like you to describe for us your ideal mate. The perfect woman, if you will. The questions on the sheet will prompt you, but they include areas such as personality, physical features, favorite activities, leisure pursuits, and so on.”

            The perfect woman, I thought to myself. This is starting to get interesting. My skin started to prickle and my thoughts ran to dark, musky places. Haines interrupted my musing, “If there are no more questions, I’ll have your driver come around.” “Uh, sure, fine,” I told him. Haines escorted me out of the building and out to the black Cadillac where Oddjob was standing by the open door. “Good evening, sir,” said Haines as he turned stiffly on his heel and stepped back toward the offices. “See you tomorrow,” I called after him. Making sure I was comfortably inside, my driver tramped around to his door, settled in at the wheel, started the engine and we were off to the bus station.

            Back at home, I mixed a Manhattan, grabbed a pen off the counter, and sat down at the kitchen table. I stared down at the Customer Profile form in front of me. At first I felt like I was applying for a job, but then an odd feeling overtook me: I’m constructing the perfect woman, I told myself, giddy at the prospect. But where do I start? After a few silent moments, I dove in and answered all the open-ended questions, realizing afterward that I had described a carbon copy of Kara. Some imagination I have. The multiple choice questions were much easier, especially the ones on sexual preferences. One in particular got me thinking hard: “Which of the following is your desired arousal scenario?” I circled “fun to fever.”

            The next morning, after gathering up all the papers for the profile, I hunted around for my suitcase. I found it on the overhead shelf in the bedroom closet and stuffed it with a couple days’ worth of casual wear. I got the bag zipped up, and as I lifted it off the bed I stared down at the mocha-colored spread. My head filled with all sorts of scenes involving heavy breathing, sighs and moans and giggles and the whistling sounds made by hands and arms and legs rubbing quickly under the 600-thread count of the cotton sheets. I was ready to take off.

            A quick detour to the bank and then I was again on my way to New Jersey. Not as scary a trip this time, maybe because my mind was occupied with some new thoughts. Oddjob met me at the station and we were back at Dr. Swan’s in minutes. I couldn’t wait to get down to business.

            “Good morning, Mr. Carter,” said the receptionist. “Let me check you in. You’ll be staying in room 3. Here’s your access card. I’ll call someone to help you with your bag so you can get settled. After that, Dr. Swan will see you in his office. Front!” She pressed a button on her console and in seconds a short, skinny, awkward boy in his late teens appeared before me. He stood slightly hunched, probably from all the lifting. His dark hair was buzz cut except for some short bangs left over his forehead and his nose and jaw were pointed and slightly longer than normal. Extending his hand for the access card, he greeted me, “Good morning, sir. Let me take that for you. Please follow me.” He picked up my bag and led me down the stark white hallway that was festooned every twelve feet or so with a signed black and white glossy head shot of a star from yesteryear. We stopped at room 3. As he opened the door, I felt around my pockets for some singles and the bell hop said, “Thank you, sir. But there’s no need. We’re all-inclusive.”

            The room was early Holiday Inn, featuring a double bed with a black enamel headboard, a matching dresser, a melon-hued Formica® table and black vinyl chair, a TV with rabbit ears sticking out of the top like Sputnik, and dark indoor-outdoor style carpeting.  He pointed out the linen supply and the bathroom and then disappeared through the doorway, leaving “Enjoy your stay” floating in the room behind him.

            The bathroom shelf and a dresser drawer absorbed the contents of my suitcase. I picked the profile papers up from the table and slipped them and the cashier’s check into my thin brown valise. I was ready to meet Dr. Swan.

            Swan’s office was just like the others in decor, except for the succession of Stanford engineering degrees mounted on one wall. I handed him the check and the papers and shook his hand. Swan was a small Oriental man in what must have been his seventies. He wore a white lab coat open over his blue plaid shirt. He had thin white hair and his wire-rimmed glasses magnified his eyes to cartoonish proportions. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Carter. I hope you are comfortable here,” he said. “I’m Dr. Swan and I’ll show you facilities and go over all final specifications. Please follow me”

            I trailed Swan through a network of bright, neon-lit hallways and finally to a large, open room about half the size of a basketball court. Inside was all manner of industrial-type machinery: a copper-clad furnace with a small glass-covered opening, yards of flesh-colored material of many shades, stacks of steel and aluminum rods, stitching machines, tons of long, hair-thin fiber in several colors rolled into circular bales, boxes marked “cosmetic polymer, food grade” standing in front of injection and vacuum-type molds, and other contraptions I couldn’t identify. People dressed like surgeons down to the face masks bustled about like ants, stretching, sewing, clipping, carrying materials and maneuvering switches and control arms and buttons, seemingly ignoring the unpleasant din of all the machines and activity. Several wig stands and dress forms, half of them covered and the other half empty, stood in one corner, like in a fashion designer’s studio. Dr. Swan shouted, “This is manufacturing area. Very clean and lifelike down to every detail. Only highest quality.” He motioned to me to follow and brought me back out into the hallway.

            Glad to get away from the noise, I stated as we walked along, “Very interesting. What do you have here, some sort of doll factory?” “No, sir,” he answered, “This is product. ‘Date you mate.’” Stunned, I stopped in my tracks and said, “Wait a minute. I had no idea. Hey, I didn’t come here for some blow-up toy.” “Please be patient. Get whole picture,” he told me, walking on.

            He’s got my check. I guess I’ve got to trust him, I told myself as we moved through a door that read “Cyberware” on the front. The sterile-looking room was filled with computers, large and small, along with miniature circuit boards and memory chips and a team of technicians looking through thick magnifying lenses. They were busily wiring and connecting, their soldering irons flashing and popping with each contact. “Next, we go to programming,” he informed me.

            The sign on the door read, “Personality Introduction.” This lab housed more computers, each with a dozen or so slots for disks to be inserted. The place was silent except for the quiet whir of disk drives and the click of disks being inserted and ejected. “Remember profile you filled out before you came?” he asked. “Uh-huh,” I answered. “We program disks with personality based on information you provide. Build inside every product. Very sophisticated and very accurate. Like human,” he offered. “Like human,” I echoed.

            I heard the soft thump of bass and the cry of a tenor saxophone getting stronger as we approached our next stop. The sign said “Client Synergy.” Dr. Swan pulled the door open and revealed a sight that floored me. I stood, mouth open, and took in as much as I could. It was as if we had entered some huge time machine. Inside was a full-blown night club right out of the fifties, complete with a stage, a dance floor, cozy-looking booths, a long bar with tall stools with round vinyl-covered seats, and a mauve neon sign that glowed the name “Joey’s” on the wall above. A curtain of blue smoke hung down from the ceiling and an elderly man, bent over his broom, was slowly sweeping in the far corner.

            Around the place, there were five or six customers being served by waitresses, each one vaguely familiar. The waitresses were all blondes, each one a knock-out, wearing  dark, tight-fitting uniforms. Once I had an eyeful of them, the shock of this time warp I seemed to be in faded fast. It finally struck me that I was hearing Miles Davis laying out “So What” on the juke box. One couple swayed on the dance floor while a few others cooed at each other, faces nearly touching, in their dark booths along one wall. “Here is where you date your mate,” Dr. Swan explained, “Just like night out. Customers love this part,” he explained. I had to admit that this scene—the booze, the jazz, the beautiful women—would have been a dream date for me too. “We go now. One more stop,” said The Doctor.

            The next room had no name on the door, but it didn’t take long to figure out that it was a wedding chapel, Las Vegas style—complete with candles and red carpeting and a heart-shaped trellis arching over the altar area in front. There were three or four pews and a half dozen or so white dresses and veils of varying lengths and styles hanging from the rear wall. “This place makes some customers feel better, so we keep here,” said The Doctor. “I never saw it used.” I remarked that it certainly seemed real enough. “Oh, yes. Very real,” he agreed.

            We walked down another bright, neon-lined hallway back to Dr. Swan’s office. I was still trying to process all I had seen. Some of it was so bizarre in some ways yet so normal in others. After offering me some tea and a seat near his desk, The Doctor continued, “Now you’ve seen whole picture, but on tour you seemed confused. You have some questions?” “Hell, yeah,” I said. “You build robots for people to date and then they marry them?” “Like I said, not everyone marries. Some just take home. Not our business,” he blithely explained. “Yeah, but robots. That seems so kinky, so unnatural, so last three pages in the men’s magazines,” I retorted. “How natural is condom? Still very popular. Our customers come here for mate, not just sex,” he returned.

            “Okay, okay,” I conceded. “But what about hygiene? Things can get pretty nasty. Will I have to clean mine like a rifle after every time I shoot?” “No. Bodies have all human functions. Eat, drink, self-clean—like we do.” “All human functions?” I asked. “All but reproduction,” he told me. He continued, “For us, body part was easy. Our big challenge is brain. Product starts with same basic ability. Then, we program in personality from customer data. Plus, we install intuitive learning chip. In other words, product has same basic mind, then individual personality, then learns all other behavior from customer. Makes good fit.”

            This blew my mind, but still made me feel better in a way. I inquired, “So, let me get this straight. I can have a mate and choose the way she looks and teach her how I want her to behave and she’s human in every other way except for making babies?” “Yes, yes. Now you see why ideal? Why so popular?” he answered. “One more thing,” he said. “You know receptionist, driver, all waitresses and office staff here? They are all product.” “Every one of them?” I exclaimed, feeling duped yet very impressed at the same time. These were amazing pieces of work. “All product. Very lifelike, very efficient, very nice,” he said. “Very nice,” I repeated.

            “Would you like more tea?” he asked. “No thanks,” I answered. He picked up the profile papers I had filled out and looked each page over, nodding his head. Then, he spoke up, “Fun to fever. You’d be surprised how many choose that trait. Okay, we program personality from this.” “What’s next?” I inquired. “Now is time you choose,” he told me and handed me a book that looked something like a high school annual. It was hard bound with a forest green vinyl cover. “This is your Green Book. Please open,” he instructed.

            I cracked the book open to the middle. It had that freshly printed smell. The page in front of me was filled with nothing but eyes—blue, brown, hazel, periwinkle and, it seemed, just about every color variation in between. They reminded me of marbles, but these could stare back at you. Each entry was identified by index number for specs including color, circumference, material, and dilation rate. At the front of the book, there were several journal-style pages to keep progress notes and personal thoughts and the like. I flipped through a few more pages and found the chapter on torsos. It had the same format as the eye section, but presented a page full of female body portions varying in breast size and midriff length and, of course, belly buttons—both innies and outies. I felt as if I were looking at a page full of Venus De Milos. Other sections included hips and legs and arms and vulvas; it read like a Penthouse magazine for Dr. Frankenstein.

            “So,” said The Doctor, “you make some choices so we can build your ideal mate.” I flipped through the Green Book calling out index numbers while The Doctor took down the data. Suddenly I found at the back of the book pages filled with figures in their entirety, each one a little different in some way—skin tone, hair color, height, etc. I was shocked to realize that I was looking at replicas of the sex symbols of the 1950’s and 60’s: Mamie Van Doren, Jayne Mansfield, Sandra Dee, Edie Adams, Tuesday Weld, Tippi Hedren, Yvette Mimieux, and others. Every one was blond, curvaceous, and not known for her big brains. I felt like I was reading a fan mag during the Kennedy Administration. “What’s this?” I inquired, holding up the book to The Doctor. He said, “Some men like to choose total package. Save time.” “Yes,” I said, “but why these particular women?” “Surveys showed men like this type best. Most like ideal woman,” he told me. “No kidding,” I mused.

            “You finish making choices and we make your ideal woman,” he nudged. On page 147 something snagged my eye. I blurted out, “Never mind those other numbers, Doc. Here’s my choice. I’ll take Marilyn 4.0.” “Nice selection. I’ll write up and send over to Manufacturing. They get started right away,” he said. I had selected a slimmer version of Marilyn Monroe, less hippy, not quite as heavy in the rear. And no beauty spot. As long as I can pick what I want, I said to myself, I’m going to go for it.

            “Very good, Mr. Carter,” The Doctor said. “Twenty four hours from now, you have ideal mate. One more thing. Very important, Mr. Carter. Never EVER show Green Book to mate. Intuitive chip is very powerful. And keep book hidden while here. Just for safety.” I closed the book and slipped it under my arm. “Sure thing, Doc. Thanks,” I said and I headed out of his office and back toward my room.

            I got a quick shower and changed into some fresh clothes. I wondered what they might be playing at Joey’s. There was still time for one drink before they closed. As I entered, the place was almost empty, except for a couple in a side booth. The juke box was playing Henry Mancini’s “Theme from Peter Gunn.” At one end of the bar, the guy I had seen sweeping up earlier was sitting hunched over slightly with a beer in his hand. He was chatting with the bartender. The sweeper’s face was deeply creased in the forehead and around the eyes and mouth. The hair he still had left formed an open ring around his head and was pure white. I chuckled when I noticed the Giuliani-style comb-over he kept to cover his shiny dome. His complexion was medium-dark and streaks of purple shot through his forearms just under the skin. On his left hand, he wore a wide gold band with a large diamond set in the center. Like almost everyone in the place, he reminded me of someone else, but just who I couldn’t quite put a finger on. He didn’t look like a robot, a product, as Dr. Swan would say. Not with that body language. Not with the pain I could see written in his face.

            I claimed a seat at the other end of the bar. “Last call!” the barkeep yelled, much too loudly for the sparse crowd. He stepped in front of me and asked, “What’ll ya have?” I ordered a Manhattan, hold the cherry. As I sipped my sweet, but potent nightcap, I furtively checked out the waitresses. As they came up to return their trays and throw their aprons and barcloths on the pile behind the bar, they all stopped to say something to the sweeper. A couple of them nuzzled up to his face and tousled the strands of hair flopped over his head. Others put an arm around his shoulder and spoke into his ear. They all parted grinning or laughing. As they walked away, he smiled and watched admiringly and then turned back to his drink. Tough job he’s got here, I said to myself.

            Tomorrow night at this time, I’ll be sharing a drink with my ideal mate. The anticipation of meeting someone new triggered a high I hadn’t felt since I fell in love with Kara. Do I give my new mate a name or will she already have one? What will her voice sound like? Will she want to go to bed on the first date? When I remembered that I could teach her to give me whatever I wanted, I started a list in my mind. As I looked around for a scrap of paper to jot more ideas down, the barkeep announced, “Closing time. Everybody out.” The lights came up and I started off to room 3.

            I got undressed and slipped under the covers. Feeling pretty smooth after that killer Manhattan, my head sank deep into the pillow. Suddenly there I was, standing at the front of the wedding chapel facing Dr. Swan. There was a woman on my arm, her face obscured by a white veil. The thin melody of “The Wedding March” was straining out of a cheap boom box somewhere in the room and the pews were filled with people I didn’t know. “Who gives this woman to be wed here today?” asked Dr. Swan. “I do,” said a voice from the first row. I turned to look. The voice belonged to my father, dressed in a shiny black tuxedo. Shaken, with my heart pounding all the way into my ears, I turned to the woman next to me. I lifted her veil and revealed Kara’s face. She stared into my eyes and, without a word, shed her wedding dress and stood naked before me and the rest of the room. “Ready?” she asked with a mad dog’s snarl.

            I woke up with a jolt that sent the covers flying. The clock said 2:30. I laid my head back down on the damp pillow. I told myself I was just overreacting to the strange new world I entered here at the mating service. Too much technology for one day, I said in a whisper and fell back into sleep.

            Next morning, I woke up, got all ready and checked out the coffee shop in the other wing. The place was more like a glorified cafeteria; the coffee was weak and the danish was dry. No wonder they didn’t include this on the tour. The hostess told me they had a small movie theater, a gym, and a reading room in the building, but I was in need of some fresh air. I left word at the front desk that I’d be back in the afternoon and took off for a walk out the front door.

            In the light of day, the area was still shabby, but didn’t look nearly so foreboding. I stayed on the main streets and even recognized a few landmarks from the ride—like Snooky’s bar and the playground that must have been neglected for years. This was no place for a kid to grow up anyway. Most of the people I had seen the day before had evaporated from the streets and the front stoops. Except for one tall, gaunt man leaning in a doorway. He asked me for a cigarette and I told him I didn’t have one.  He sniffed with disdain and looked away from me and back up the street. I kept walking. Walking and thinking about the ideal woman, and the sweeper, and that frightful dream.

            I made it all the way to the bus station and decided it was time to turn back. Before I did, though, I poked my head inside the station. Maybe I could get a bite to eat here. There was Oddjob, sitting at his kiosk, leafing through some magazine. I wondered what might be going through his robot head as he sat there. After all, I knew his secret. Maybe he knew mine too. He had driven probably hundreds of guys like me to and from the mating service over the years. That got me wondering how I trusted myself to be driven around this town by a being with silicon and software for brains. What you don’t know really won’t hurt you, I guess. I nodded over to him as I ordered a sandwich and a soda at the snack bar and then headed out to the street.

            On the way back to Swan’s, I stopped at the little playground. It was run down, but looked safe enough to squat in for a quick lunch. As I munched on the tuna salad, I thought about my mother and my father for the first time in years. They had died so young and, come to think of it, actually weren’t married for as long as Kara and I had been. Does death really  “...do us part?” For their sakes, I hope not, I thought as I finished my sandwich. A couple of kids came by soon after and wanted the swing I was on, so I shoved off back to the mating service.

            “Hello, Mr. Carter,” the receptionist called out as I arrived in the lobby. “Dr. Swan says you can pick up your mate tonight at 11:00. She’ll be at Joey’s. Just be there where she can see you and that’s all there is to it.” My face flushed at the news. This is really happening. You’ve got a new mate, said a little voice inside my head. “Thank you,” I returned. “I’ll be there.”

            To kill some time, I decided to catch the film at the movie theater. Movie closet would be a better term. I was the only one there, but I still felt crowded. Today’s feature was “Kiss Me Deadly,” the classic film noir by Robert Aldrich. As I watched, I figured this may be the only film they play in this joint. All the waitresses here looked like the sexy blonde at Evello’s pool. I fantasized about playing Mike Hammer to his lascivious secretary Velda, but this time around she was blond too. The movie was pedestrian and depressing, but I loved the cars.

            Back in my room, I was too stoked to think about dinner. Instead, I got cleaned up and started leafing through the Green Book. I jotted down a few thoughts I had during my walk. Rather than spend much time in the catalog of limbs and organs and hairstyles, I kept staring at Marilyn 4.0 and wondering how life was going to be with every man’s dream girl. I pictured us walking down the street together with her firmly grasping my arm while she turned the head of every adult male we passed by. I’ve got to remember to walk her over the subway grating. Then, we’d stroll out on the piers at Coney Island and Long Beach and talk about art and movies and stuff. She’s going to be Kara on the inside, Marilyn on the outside, with a side order of nymphomaniac. What a sweet deal!

            When I looked up at the clock, it said 9:30. I must have gotten carried away. Time to hit Joey’s. I clicked off the lights and closed the door behind me. My thoughts were racing and I was halfway through the lobby when I realized I was still clutching the Green Book. A little panicky, I held the book close to my chest and looked around for some camouflage. I found a newspaper on a chair by the front desk and wrapped it around the book. I kept walking until I arrived at “Client Synergy.” I opened the door and entered Joey’s.

            It looked like a typical night. There were three couples scattered around and the juke box was playing Bobby Darin’s “Mack the Knife.” The bartender was staring off into space wiping some highball glasses with his white cloth. I noticed the sweeper in his usual spot at the bar and curiosity got the better of me. I stepped up to him and said, “With all the foxy waitresses they have in this joint, we ought to be at a table.” He smiled and nodded his head and turned it toward me. “Yeah, but they all start to look the same after a while,” he deadpanned. “If you join me over at that table in the corner, I’ll buy you a drink,” I offered.  “I drink free, but I wouldn’t mind a little human company,” he answered. “I’ve got something here I need to keep under wraps,” I explained, holding up the folded newspaper. We ordered our drinks and shuffled over into the corner.

            “You here for a date?” he inquired. “Uh-huh, but she won’t be ready till eleven. I just wanna get a feel for this place,” I explained. “What brought you to Dr. Swan’s?” he asked. I told him, “I lost my wife to cancer not long ago and I saw an ad in the subway. How about you?” He took in a deep breath, “I work here now, but when I first came, I was looking for someone to replace my wife too. Died when our house burned down while I was away at a convention. I died too, in a way.” “I know what you mean,” I commiserated. “No,” he declared. “This is different.”

            He went on, “I restored old cars and sold them for a living.  Loved the styles and loved to drive them, too. I was out at a parts convention in Indiana and I got back into town four or five days after it all happened. I had to read about it in the papers. The bodies were burned beyond recognition and I guess the coroner and the cops figured the other body was me. You see, she and I had had a fight. I should say another fight. I’d never wanted a kid, but we had one anyway. I felt tied down and started to travel a lot. I told her she didn’t appreciate how hard I worked to keep her in a nice house with nice clothes and everything else she always wanted. She said she hated being chief cook-and-bottle-washer and that she needed to do something on her own. I thought she was nuts and I told her she had it made already. Why would she need anything else?” he asked, looking me right in the eye.

            I nodded my head and said, “Uh-huh,” but I had started to feel really nervous and light-headed. My heart was racing and my right leg started bouncing under the table. Something I couldn’t quite explain was going on inside my head. My mind kept flashing back and forth to the past and I strained to keep my concentration on his story. “So, what happened? What about the other guy?” I asked. He continued, “Once the kid was in school and she was home alone, she started to visit the city during the day. I figured out that it was this friend that she knew from one of the bookstores she liked so much in Manhattan. Every once in a while I would hear her on the phone.  They’d be talking about some novel I never heard of and gushing about some scene or another. Laughing and sounding all lovey-dovey. It made me furious, but when I’d bring it up, she’d tell me to leave her at least one part of her life she could call her own and then she’d change the subject  He had no right. No right. I mean, she was a married woman. It served him right to die, the son-of-a-bitch.” His face grew red. Then he took a couple of breaths and continued.

            “Well, once I got this all figured out, it killed me to think about it, but I knew I had to go on and I sorta liked being dead. No taxes, no responsibilities, and nobody to answer to. I disappeared for a while. Dropped out and watched life without me continue, like a fly on the wall. A while later I came back, as a new man with a new name and a totally new life. This time it was going to be the way I wanted it, all the way down the line. First, I wanted a new wife. Dr. Swan fixed me up good—she was a beaut. We got married right here before we went back to my place in Queens.

            “Things started off fine; we had a couple of good years together. But after a while, she started to get quiet, moody. She started talking about having kids. I got Doc Swan to play along. He examined her and convinced her that she could never have any. Then she told me she didn’t like being taken for granted. That she felt like she was only around to cook and clean and look pretty and then lie down flat on her back when I got that look in my eye. She said she just wanted to be treated like human being. Then, one day when I came home off the road, I saw her sitting at the dining room table staring at her page in the Green Book. She must have found it while she was cleaning up and put two and two together.”

            “Yeah,” I interrupted. “The Doc told me they should never see the Green Book. In fact, I’ve got mine right here,” I said, pointing to the newspaper. “Jesus!” he cried and pushed himself away from the table slightly. “You’re not supposed to have that here!” “I know, I know,” I said. “I’ll be careful. What happened next?” “Well, all right,” he continued, “She didn’t say any more about the book, but the next day, I woke up and she was heading out the door. She said she couldn’t take it any longer and that she was leaving me. I begged for her to come back, but she kept on running. I ran after her all the way to the subway hole. She hurried down the stairs and I went down not far behind. I even jumped the turnstile, but by the time I got to the platform, I was already too late. She had leapt out on the tracks in front of the #7 heading toward Manhattan. When I got there, all I saw were pieces. A hand here, a leg there, wires hanging out all over. She must have known there’d be no way to put her back together.”

            “What did you do then?” I asked, engrossed in his story, but very uneasy. “Well, they offered to build me a new one. Lifetime warranty and all. But I told them no thanks. I didn’t trust myself with that intuitive brain chip. If this was the way these creatures reacted to me, I didn’t want any part of it. I had already lost one family and I couldn’t stand to lose another wife. I asked, though, if I could stay on. The girls here all reminded me so much of my first wife—the real one. And, as you can see, there aren’t any kids around here. I’m better off living in the memory than trying to construct something new. Now, I can love ’em all, but I can’t lead them into ruin. The Doc said it was okay and let me hang around and sweep up and do other odd jobs. That’s why I’m still here.”

            “That’s an amazing story,” I told the sweeper. “Really makes you think.” “Yeah, you think, all right. I’ve done a lot and I can tell you this: You can change your name and the town where you live, but you can’t run away from your life forever. And don’t believe for a minute that you can just order these girls—any of them—to do your bidding. They’re too smart for that. If you treat ’em that way, they pick up on it. They’re almost human,” he said as a grim look came over his face. He turned away from me and stared into his half-empty beer.

            I looked around Joey’s to see if the coast was clear. Satisfied, I pulled out the Green Book and opened it on the table. The man looked over at the book and scolded me in a harsh whisper, “What are you doing? Put that thing away!” I shot back, “I will in a minute, I swear. But I’m dying to see the woman you picked. And I want to show you mine.” The man scanned the room and said, “All right, but let’s make this quick.” He leaned over the book and flipped through one page after another until he found what he was looking for. “There,” he said, putting his finger on an image of Edie Adams, but a version with the platinum blond hair toned down a little. “That’s her. She was gooder’n gum and gooder’n candy. So much like my first wife,” he said.

            But then, without lifting his finger, he turned his eyes to me. They seized my own and held them in a soul-piercing stare. His mouth dropped open and his face turned as white as milk. I felt an electric current run back and forth between us that zapped away the rust that had corroded my memory—like a laser clearing away dead tissue on a long-ignored wound. In an instant my eye focused on several details, one after another: the ring, the creases, the comb-over. I was about to speak when he exclaimed, “Look,” stabbing his finger into the picture again and again. He stammered, “You, you, you look a lot like her—especially in the eyes!” I stared down at the page and then back up to him. I saw a huge blue flash before my eyes and then intoned in the voice of a ten-year-old, “Dad?”

            ”Billy? Billy. Billy. Billy. Is that you?” he whimpered, tears filling up his eyes. “Yeah, Dad. It’s me. I...thought you were dead.” He reached out to me and knocked his beer over on the Green Book. We both froze and then scrambled to right the glass and to cover the book back up with the newspaper. We then took another long look at each other.

            I started feeling dizzy and nauseated at the same time. My forehead beaded up and my salivary glands kicked into high gear. My eyes darted away from him to the table, to the door, and then back to the table. I focused on the newspaper covering the Green Book, stood bolt upright, grasped the book and clutched it to my chest. Then I announced, “Dad, I don’t feel very good right now, and I’ve got to get this back to my room. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” “I’m going with you,” he blurted and slowly stood up to follow me. I scrammed away from the table and brushed past a waitress who almost lost her tray in my wake. She muttered something scornful as she watched me slip out the door with my father not far behind.

            I bounded down the white hallway with my arms around the Green Book as if I was in a strait jacket. I streaked across the lobby and loped up to the door of #3. “Hey, I’m not as young as I used to be. Wait up!” my father yelled from back down the hall. Breathing like I was being pursued by a pack of angry Rottweilers, I struggled with the access card, almost breaking it off in the slot. I finally flung the door open and threw the Green Book onto the bed. Then I ran into the bathroom, placed one hand on each end of the toilet tank. “Billy, are you okay?” I heard my father ask as he entered the room. “Fun to fever...Dad? Fun to fever...Dad? Fun to fever...Dad?” echoed in my mind and my vision blurred as the tears welled up. I braced myself to lose my cookies. No such luck. After a few dry heaves, it was all over. I flushed anyway and stared down into the spiraling watery vortex. I wiped my eyes off on my sleeve. Perspiration started to soak through my clothes as my vital signs slowly died back down into their normal range. I turned to see my father sitting on the bed, looking up at me with deep concern.

            I stood near the bed, looking down at my father. I began, “Dad, we hardly ever did anything together. You were always gone or too busy with your cars. Were you ignoring me?” His head fell into his hands as he answered, “I was just out for myself. I never wanted to be a father and then it just happened. Too young and immature, I guess. I thought it was up to your mom to raise you and she seemed to be doing a good job anyway.”

            “I was always waiting for you to come home,” I told him. “And when you did, all I remember is sitting at the dinner table every once in a while, listening to you talk about your job. I learned about guy stuff from our next door neighbor, Barry.”

            “I’m sorry, Billy. I’m sorry. I didn’t know how to be a father. Never grew up really, I guess. But I was ignoring the commitment, not you,” he said still looking at the floor.

            With a severe look, I asked him, “You knew I was still around after Mom died in the fire. How come you never contacted me?”

            He said, shaking his head side to side, eyes cast to the floor, “I don’t know, Bill. I was so shocked and so angry, I thought only about your mother and that other man. Now they were both gone and I was hurt, but I was free. I thought I had it made. I figured you were old enough to take care of yourself by then, so I started my new life alone and...” He looked up at me with a new brightness in his face, “It looks like I was right.”

            “What do you mean?” I inquired.

            “It looks like you did a pretty good job...taking care of yourself,” he explained. I stood there as a strange warmth came over me. I smiled. That was the first time I remember hearing a friendly compliment from my dad. I sat down beside him, looking at him with new eyes of my own. “So, tell me,” he declared, “What have you been doing with your life?” I told him about college and learning how to write and meeting Kara and settling down with her. “Have any kids of your own?” he asked. “No, Dad,” I told him, “I never had a strong urge for that responsibility either. Then, Kara had a couple of tubal pregnancies and that scared us right away from trying. So, it sort of took care of itself.” It astounded me how easy it was to tell him so much and in such detail. I went on,“But now, without Kara, life has been so lonely, it’s unreal.”

            “So, here we are at Dr. Swan’s,” my dad said, sighing in resignation. One second passed. “Omigod. I completely forgot!” I exclaimed. “There’s a mate down there at Joey’s waiting to meet me. I’ve got to do something,” I said as I rose from the bed. “Believe me. She’ll keep. What’re you going to do?” Dad asked. “I’m not sure, but I’ve got to face this,” I told him as I reached for my door card. “Well, you’re not going to do it alone,” Dad affirmed, opening up the door. We left and made our way down the hall to the door marked “Client Synergy.”

            I opened the door and peered in to find most of the tables empty. But nobody was sitting alone. We slinked into Joey’s like we were on a reconnaissance mission and sat down at the first empty table we came to. “Maybe they haven’t sent her in yet. How about a drink?” Dad said. “I sure could use one. It’s been quite a night,” I answered, still recovering from the seismic shock of our reunion. We gave each other a long look, wondering where all the years had gone.

            A sultry woman’s voice shot out at us from nowhere, “The bartender told me one of you boys wanted to buy me a drink.” It was Marilyn 4.0—standing between us right at our table. She was gorgeous but a bit younger than I was expecting. Her eyes were extraordinary. Dad and I gaped at her and then back at each other. She pulled a chair away from another table, guided it in between us and sat down. Leaning over to my dad, she said, “Hey, handsome. What’s a hot guy like you doing here without a date?” I slid away from the table about a foot and took in their interchange. Looking deeply into his eyes, she put her right hand on the middle of his thigh and started working up his leg. “You could drive a girl like me to ask you for a ride home.”

            Leaning away, my dad said, “Now you’re a friendly one, aren’t you?” Eyes locked on my father, I jumped in, “Can I speak to you over there? Alone?” He looked over at Marilyn, held his index finger up and said, “Just a minute.” Then, he rose and followed me to an empty spot near the bar.

            “Bill, what’s the matter? You look like you’ve seen a ghost,“ he told me. “More like a train wreck,” I returned. Then my face reddened and the words started to leave my mouth like automatic weapon fire, “Dad, I just can’t do this. I can’t go through with it. Not after what you’ve told me happened to you, and my dream. And not after what I’ve just witnessed.” “Calm down, boy. Calm down. It’ll be all right,” he told me. “She doesn’t know a thing.  Are you sure this is what you want to do? You’ve made a pretty hefty investment.” Relieved, I squared my eyes with his and said, “Yes, I’m sure. This isn’t right. I don’t want a woman like that. I don’t know what possessed me.” “Don’t worry,” he said with parental assurance. “I can take care of this. You don’t think that all these waitresses work here because it’s the best place in town, do you?  This is where they get stood up. Now let’s go back and get this settled.” I followed him to the table where Marilyn was seated, looking over her nails.

            “That crazy bartender’s at it again,” my father told her as we sat down at the table. “What are you talking about?” Marilyn asked, looking up. “You must be new here,” he said. He always sends the new girls out to the tables with that line on their first night. He thinks it’s a big joke or something. And look, he didn’t even give you an apron. “Are you sure?” she asked, turning her head like a puppy to a new noise. “Sure, I’m sure. I’m the custodian here. That’s my broom over in the corner,” he explained. Pointing in my direction, he went on, “He works here too. We just went over there to decide which one of us was going to tell you.” I held my breath. She looked at me and then back at my father. She paused for a split second, turning up her eyes to take in the new information. Then, she stood up.

            “So what can I bring you two?” she asked. “Make mine a draft,” Dad said. “And bring my partner here a Manhattan, no cherry.” “Coming right up,” she chirped, turning away toward the bar. “And don’t forget your apron,” my father called out to her. “I finally got that intuitive brain chip figured out,” he said as a big smile broke out on his face. I returned the smile and felt the stress flow out of me like a dam had broken. The reality of sitting across the table from my father sank deeper and deeper into me.

            When she returned with our drinks and set them in front of us, Dad said, “Thanks, doll. And that apron looks nice on you, too.” She mussed his comb-over a little and snickered, “You big flirt,” as she turned away. Then, Dad spoke up to me, “Bill, we’ve got a lot of years to catch up on. I’m not sure we can do it all in one night.” “I know, Dad, and that’s why I’ve been thinking...” He cut me off, saying, “I want you to know, when your mom died, I thought once or twice about going back to our old street just for a look. But I never did. Every once in a while, though, I’ll get over to the place in Queens, heh, I guess everybody has to have a home.” “That’s just what I was thinking, Dad,” I told him. “Why don’t you come back with me to Manhattan? I’ve got plenty of room and I’d love the company.” “No, no,” he said, “I’m fine here. The work is steady and the girls are all nice to me and everything.” “Sure, Dad, I know. But how about that human company you mentioned before? I’m human,” I reminded him. “Well...” he stalled.

            “Okay, okay, look,” I proposed. “Take a little vacation. Come and stay with me until we get all caught up. We can go back to our old street and you can show me your place in Queens. Then, if you decide you want to come back, you can.” “Ahhh, I don’t know...” he waffled. “Closing time, everybody out!” the barkeep shouted. “Give it two weeks, Dad. Just two weeks,” I pleaded. The lights came up and showed the frankness in my face. “All right, Bill. Two weeks,” he relented. “Great. Now let’s get out of here,” I declared. “I’ll have to put together a few things,” he said. “Of course,” I told him. “We’ll both get packed up and I’ll meet you in the lobby in about ten minutes. How’s that?” “I guess that’d be copacetic,” he said. “And maybe we can beg that big Asian guy to give us a ride to the bus station,” I said. “You leave him to me,” Dad said. “He owes me a favor.”

            I left the bar and hastened down the hall and through the lobby. I went into room 3 and dumped the contents of the first dresser drawer into my suitcase. Once I emptied the bathroom shelf, I was ready to roll. I grabbed my card and dashed back to an empty lobby. Where is he? Dammit, I said to myself. I don’t even know where his room is in this place. I sat down uneasily and after two or three more minutes, I was ready to get up and scour every hallway in this labyrinth of a building. Just then, I heard a couple of guys arguing their way up the hall. It was Dad, with a small bag in his hand and Oddjob, still in his pajamas, muttering at my father in some strange language. “Took a little more persuasion that I was expecting,” Dad said, winking as they ambled past me. I threw my key card on the receptionist’s board and the three of us went out the front door and into the black night.

            Oddjob opened the garage and got the Cadillac fired up as Dad and I dumped our bags in the open trunk. “We’ll get the door. You just drive,” my dad said with a pep in his voice I had never heard before. We backed out of the garage and onto the dark street. The limo started rolling slowly and picked up some speed as we passed by Snooky’s. The people on the street and in the doorways went by in one long dark blur as we passed in and out of the pools of light from the street lamps.

            Dad closed the clear privacy window dividing the driver from the riders. He turned to me and said, “Okay, son. You can start by telling me about that dream you had.”

©2005 Jim Walter