can see—I’m a bit at loose ends.”
“Oh yeah, I know how that is.”
Clouds covered the sun, casting a shadow over the man’s face. He was tall, in his early fifties, and you could see the shape of his skull through his tight, thin skin. Wheat-brown hair had receded to the back of his head, and a stiff mustache made a broom across his upper lip. His teeth were yellow and crooked, and his blue eyes gleamed with an unnatural radiance. The overall impression was that of a normally reasonable man struggling to conceal the effects of a bad drug.
Cars passed as they spoke, slowing sometimes to stop and watch. Julian began to feel sleepy. The man lectured, one arm panning across the street; behind him, the row of apartments seemed to hunker like an audience. “So, if you’re new to the neighborhood, I’d recommend that you stop off at the municipal building right away.”
“Mmm?”
“Oh, yes. Let them know who you are.” The man’s voice was clear and strong. He seemed to be making a point of finishing his sentences coherently. “It’s a small community. We like to help each other out.”
Julian laughed. “Well, I could use some helping. I ain’t used to”—he pointed up the road—“all this. I’m a city boy.”
The man blinked, absorbing the information. Julian was aware of something artificial about the whole exchange. The blink meant something. Press to record. What’s your name? Blink. And where do you come from, Julian? Blink. Oh. Blink. That’s fascinating. Blink, blink.
“Well, if there’s one thing I’ve learned from all of my travels, it’s this. People who live in cities tend to find their own way. And most of them fall right to the bottom. But in a small town like this, everyone has his own identity. We all matter. There’s only one barber, one tax attorney. It’s like a situation comedy. We all go to the same bank.”
Julian nodded, impressed. “You sound like a philosopher.”
The other man chuckled. “I am a philosopher,” he said. The word agreed with him in a way that Julian could not understand. They both stepped onto the boulevard. The turf was wet and it squished under their feet. “I’ve lapsed somewhat,” he continued—a cheery song, notes for words. Stopping, he turned in the doorway. “But I’ll give you some advice.” Again, he laughed; his facial expression suggested that he didn’t find himself all that funny. “Number one: always keep plenty of food in the kitchen.
That’s
important . . .” His voice trailed off; he licked his lips, staring over the old man’s head. “Number two’s a freebie: just be careful.”
Julian smiled good-naturedly, feeling a bit put down, not by the words, but by the tone of the man’s voice.
“And number three . . . now listen.”
Julian squinted, ready for the punchline.
“Never get involved with a woman named Gloria. Oh, God!” Turning, the man headed up the stairs. “. . . worst mistake you’ll ever make . . .”
III
A Bad Marriage
Author’s Note
We were giving a conference in St. Louis, a three-day seminar. “Wealth Through Endeavor” we’d called it—lots of speakers, lots of food, no liquor of course. Three days, Friday, Saturday, Sunday. Optional prayer on Sunday. This was 1980; we were trying to phase God out, slowly, in increments, not so you’d notice. I was the main speaker on Sunday, the prime slot. You see, I had quite a reputation in those days. I once had a woman follow me from Albuquerque all the way to the United Arab Emirates. Said she wanted to touch me.
Two in the afternoon, I take the stage. Now, back when I was young, whenever they said my name, I’d start in the back of the auditorium and run right through the crowd. That was how I made my entrance. What did this convey? This said to my audience that I was happy to be there. That I was enthusiastic about sharing their company. Here is a man in a three-piece suit. He is not stuffy. He is not afraid to show his silly side. Crowds
“Oh yeah, I know how that is.”
Clouds covered the sun, casting a shadow over the man’s face. He was tall, in his early fifties, and you could see the shape of his skull through his tight, thin skin. Wheat-brown hair had receded to the back of his head, and a stiff mustache made a broom across his upper lip. His teeth were yellow and crooked, and his blue eyes gleamed with an unnatural radiance. The overall impression was that of a normally reasonable man struggling to conceal the effects of a bad drug.
Cars passed as they spoke, slowing sometimes to stop and watch. Julian began to feel sleepy. The man lectured, one arm panning across the street; behind him, the row of apartments seemed to hunker like an audience. “So, if you’re new to the neighborhood, I’d recommend that you stop off at the municipal building right away.”
“Mmm?”
“Oh, yes. Let them know who you are.” The man’s voice was clear and strong. He seemed to be making a point of finishing his sentences coherently. “It’s a small community. We like to help each other out.”
Julian laughed. “Well, I could use some helping. I ain’t used to”—he pointed up the road—“all this. I’m a city boy.”
The man blinked, absorbing the information. Julian was aware of something artificial about the whole exchange. The blink meant something. Press to record. What’s your name? Blink. And where do you come from, Julian? Blink. Oh. Blink. That’s fascinating. Blink, blink.
“Well, if there’s one thing I’ve learned from all of my travels, it’s this. People who live in cities tend to find their own way. And most of them fall right to the bottom. But in a small town like this, everyone has his own identity. We all matter. There’s only one barber, one tax attorney. It’s like a situation comedy. We all go to the same bank.”
Julian nodded, impressed. “You sound like a philosopher.”
The other man chuckled. “I am a philosopher,” he said. The word agreed with him in a way that Julian could not understand. They both stepped onto the boulevard. The turf was wet and it squished under their feet. “I’ve lapsed somewhat,” he continued—a cheery song, notes for words. Stopping, he turned in the doorway. “But I’ll give you some advice.” Again, he laughed; his facial expression suggested that he didn’t find himself all that funny. “Number one: always keep plenty of food in the kitchen.
That’s
important . . .” His voice trailed off; he licked his lips, staring over the old man’s head. “Number two’s a freebie: just be careful.”
Julian smiled good-naturedly, feeling a bit put down, not by the words, but by the tone of the man’s voice.
“And number three . . . now listen.”
Julian squinted, ready for the punchline.
“Never get involved with a woman named Gloria. Oh, God!” Turning, the man headed up the stairs. “. . . worst mistake you’ll ever make . . .”
III
A Bad Marriage
Author’s Note
We were giving a conference in St. Louis, a three-day seminar. “Wealth Through Endeavor” we’d called it—lots of speakers, lots of food, no liquor of course. Three days, Friday, Saturday, Sunday. Optional prayer on Sunday. This was 1980; we were trying to phase God out, slowly, in increments, not so you’d notice. I was the main speaker on Sunday, the prime slot. You see, I had quite a reputation in those days. I once had a woman follow me from Albuquerque all the way to the United Arab Emirates. Said she wanted to touch me.
Two in the afternoon, I take the stage. Now, back when I was young, whenever they said my name, I’d start in the back of the auditorium and run right through the crowd. That was how I made my entrance. What did this convey? This said to my audience that I was happy to be there. That I was enthusiastic about sharing their company. Here is a man in a three-piece suit. He is not stuffy. He is not afraid to show his silly side. Crowds
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