Adam's Diet

“Adams Diet”

By

R.M. Walters

Two people not yet met on the sea of fate,
Victims of the apple Adam ate,
Search blindly toward their destinies
Beneath God’s surveillance of their tendencies.

It’s called love, this they seek,
And lust sometimes, if into the garden they peek.
A venture with esthetics when plod they on,
Nearing the goal as childhood is gone.

Until time has passed a short distance,
And they have made their remittance,
to adulthood’s passionate flame,
Each then is taken to another name,
When colliding in this mood of stress,
Which is then called marital happiness.

Eventually giving birth to another dove,
Who must cast about blindly for it’s love,
Set quickly to sail upon the sea of fate,
Another victim of the apple Adam ate.

Eternal Toy

Eternal Toy

By

R. M. Walters

There was an old iron bridge where my brother and I
shared adventure and dreamed boyish dreams,
fished for sun-perch, catfish, sharks
and other monsters of the ocean deep,
or sailed majestic ships of broken twig
on the muddy swimming hole beneath the bridge
that was the best of the world’s greatest streams. 

And, tiring of such sport, we often turned 

to the daring feats of circus acrobats amid 

its rusty braces and on its bolted frame, 

or walked a splintered oak plank 

for Captain John Silver (a most fearsome name) 

and -- God forbid! -- practiced 

some few other diabolical schemes.

Near that rusty iron toy stood a towering elm tree

(a sturdy landmark older even than the bridge) 
whose rambling boughs served us other hours of joy 

as we escaped reality by the devious means 

of swaying on its topmost branches in perfect harmony
with the same warm breeze that ruffled our hair. 
And, while hanging in mid air, 
there were, of course, those 
intellectual discussions of a passing cloud, 
the phenomenon of a floating dirigible, 
or the merits of the clapboard church spire 
in the distance that aspired to ethereal proportions. 
Then, changing our attitudes, we mastered with ease 
the engineering marvel of a tree house 
made of borrowed trash and scattered debris, 
or on the most impetuous whim tied rotten 
ropes to its springy branches and like the jungle 
apes swung from limb to limb. 

Leading toward our wondrous playground (my brother’s and mine) 
was a lazy country road that meandered in disorderly fashion 
across pasture and patch and thrilled 
our bare toes with soft warm dust 
or tortured our feet with a cinder or two. 
And it was always a presumptuous fad, 
before the journey was through, 
to leave the road, and, deftly skirting hardened cow dung, 
we frequently challenged Farmer Brown’s ferocious bull 
to a most capricious race; 
then laughed and yelled and chased 
a butterfly back to the road -- just for fun! -- 
and felled a noisy crow or sparrow 
with our trusty slingshots, 
before the trip to our playground was done. 

Later, while returning home at a much slower pace, 
we would waste a little energy 
in a weedy cemetery on a wind swept hill 
and ogle the dates on the lopsided tombstones 
with boyhood reverence 
and contemplate the lonely souls still 
lingering there in ghostly presence. 
Then, afterwards, we would quite placidly stroll 
into a neighbor’s cornfield that ran for acres and acres, 
before it bumped against a split rail fence, 
which we most usually walked like Hindu fakers; 
and shortly, we would jump with uncultured glee 
into our own barnyard enclosure 
and rush toward our creaky old pump to wash 
our heads in protozoan waters -- 
home at last from our adventurous spree. 

Those are days of memories now, 
of liberty in its purest essence, 
of freedom with all its joys, 
of boys just being boys 
while sharing the neighborhood of yesterday 
playing with the most marvelous toy of toys!

Notes on Eternal Toy

What might be considered remotely rewarding are the things you learn about yourself from seeing what your unknown parent thought was good. 

 

I mean he had to believe he was feeling it, right?  

Well the internet is full of this "oh remember when" crap, why not put some up from when this stuff might have been invented way back in the early sixties.

I'm not sure what "boyhood reverence" is.

The mental pictures of him as a boy in the country are kind of nice in a "fantasy childhood" kind of way.  

And it's fun to play Simon Cowell to one's unknown dead father.  

The only other thing that this poem continues to teach me is...

I don't like exclamation points!!!

TW.

In the Laboratory

" IN THE LABORATORY "

R. M. Walters

Ghosts in bottles, Ghosts in cartons - tissue and liquids and
vapors -- real stuff! Enough treasure to be measured
by electronic wrenches. Tiny things taking half baths
in chemical pools, making fools of hidden mitosis. Bones
and crude --skeleton Ghosts -- make the most noise in
centrifuges. But, still, Ghosts to be converted to paper.

Across from me, Alice shakes pee. She has been doing it
all morning.  She is neither discontent or excited.
Her foamy Ghosts are normal.

A formal, young lady goes to bat with a glass pipette --
drops it. It is a demeaning noise, a Ghost without poise.
But her tests are accurate.

No doubt someone has expired. George will be hard to get along
with today. He just came back from autopsy. He is always
that way. He is discontent! Poor George! His Ghosts are
always failures.

I spill blood on my trousers. They're not white now, but
I'll wear them for a while ... wear a stranger Ghost --
Some-body's relative? Whose vital material have I become
kin to? A baby? A mother? A father? A brother? Yours?
Mine? I'm inclined to think so. You part gone, test tube
Ghost with an impersonal number.

Dear Ghost so alone, banished to this ultra-sonic zone
to haunt the microscope, You, I say you and mean it,
You must be kind to us. Oh, well, to put it bluntly,
It hurts like hell to send someone to heaven.

One time or seven -- tissue, liquid, or vapor --
Ghosts take your place on paper.


TW

Intro to Adventures of the Little Voice

This is the first of a series of short-short stories that quickly became my favorites.  They were ironic and dark and when we began to explore these writings as children, they seemed to be welcoming in the way that a page or two of reading seems to be much more inviting when one is Ten or Eleven years old.  

Which leads to the next problem.  I'm afraid that these other stories I remember have been lost.  I don't think anymore of these "Little Voice" stories have survived the years.  I've still got a little more exploring to do, but this may be the only  "Little Voice" story still in existence.

TW.

The Adventures of the Little Voice part 1

The Adventures of the Little Voice

(Story 1)

By

R M Walters

Harry Turntrick was quite a prosperous and ambitious young man. He had a good job, a nice home, a lovely family and many friends. But he also had a whimsical hobby -- he loved to gamble.

For years, “lucky was his middle name. But as the fates often go, he began to lose. He lost the family savings, the family furnishings, he went in debt, lost his job, lost his home, his friends and finally his wife.

Despondent, destitute and penniless, he decided to end it all by jumping off a cliff. Standing at the edge of the biggest cliff in town, trying to muster a last spark of courage to do the job, he was suddenly startled by a Little Voice that whispered encouragingly, “Don’t do it! Try it one more time!”

Surprised, he backed away, quite certain that as the last insult to his dignity he was losing his mind. Shortly, he returned to the edge of the cliff only to hear the strange Little Voice again, “Come on! Don’t give up! Try it one more time!”

Once more he stepped back. He glanced at his feet, and -- low and behold -- there on the ground was a ten dollar bill. The Little Voice exclaimed proudly, “Never give up! Try it one more time!”

Harry Turntrick thought: “well why not. I’ve got nothing to lose.” So he pulled himself together, straightened his rumpled clothes, combed his hair and headed for the nearest gambling establishment.
“Try the roulette wheel,” the Little Voice commanded.

Sure enough, fortune patted pompous Harry on the lucky spot again. He won and won and won some more. At last, he had won enough to pay all his debts, get his wife and home back, and some left over for a fresh start.

He was about to cash in but the Little Voice chided, “Oh, come on! Don’t be a quitter all your life. Try it one more time!

Well why not, Harry Turntrick thought, might as well keep my luck churning.

The Little Voice urged him, “Try number twelve!”

Harry Turntrick smugly pushed his winnings on number twelve. The wheel spun, and the tiny silver ball clicked and clacked and bounced right into the hole marked twelve, only to jerk furiously at the very last instant and come to rest in the hole marked thirteen.

And the Little Voice cried, “Oh! Darn!”

© 2008 All Rights Reserved

The Boss

“The Boss”

By

R. M. Walters

Harry Gallager felt his console suddenly tingle and vibrate with a grinding sound as his blue-glass warning light turned dull red to match the drapes on the foreman’s shack at the far end of the production room.

“Harry Gallager! You’re daydreaming again.” The Boss roared. “We can’t keep production going that way. Dit, dit, dit. Snap it up, fella, or I’ll pull you out of the line.”

“Yes, Sir!! I’m sorry, Sir!” Harry iterated with a clatter worse than an old typewriter.

“That’s fine! Dit, dit, dit! Just fine, Gallager!” The Boss said sarcastically.

These new college kids are the worst bosses we’ve ever had, Gallager sulked. They work you until you’re half-alive, then aren’t satisfied. It sure ain’t like the old days when the old man ran the whole show by himself. But even when the conversion came, things weren’t too bad. The first few kids were all-right guys. They showed a few manners and courtesy once in awhile. They started with manual manipulation and worked up to automatic. But these new kids, wow! Let ‘em get a mike in their hands, and they get to be self-styled dictators! The old man must have slipped a cog or two when he started using them.

“Dit, dit, dit! Harry Gallager” The Boss ordered. “Check your number five key! You’re slipping again. Dit. dit. dit. Your code hole is covered with graphite.”

“Yes , Sir! Harry groaned reluctantly, shivering with the sudden change in rhythm. “Number five key checked.”

“Okay, Gallager! Dit,dit, dit! Your code hole is free again. See if you can keep it that way. You’ll have to run section tzy of batch 00-1, ten-zero as repeat...Dit, dit, dit. Move up and coordinate your speed with Miss Peters. She’ll pull your slack.”

Oh, boy! What a lucky break! Harry beamed, setting the platinum gears and zipping into his preprogrammed section of batch 00-1, ten - zero. I haven’t had a chance to get near Miss Peters for three days. She may be newer around here that the rest of us, but she’s got more understanding about things than some. What woman hasn’t? If I was just a little younger, Harry began to wish. Nah, Wouldn’t work. But, still, she was awful sweet about my scar when she touched it the other day. Maybe she’s the kind of chick which goes for older guys.

“Galleger! Dit, dit, dit. You’re moving up too fast!” The Boss squawked.

“Yes, Sir!” Gallager affirmed with an insipid flash, with a definite tinge of impudence. “Your PA needs adjusting. Your voice is gargling.”

“Dit, dit, dit. A little more tolerance, Gallager! I know about it. Watch your tone! Dit, dit, dit!”

“Yes, Sir!” Gallager purred. “No offense meant.”

Upstairs in the foreman’s shack, Bill Pogue vigorously rubbed his hand across his flattop haircut, loosened his tie, and threw the switch from manual to automatic on the control panel. The he let the tension out of his shoulders and swung in his swivel chair to face his secretary.

“Would you mind seeing if you can reach Dan Nichols in ‘Orders and New Equipment, Miss Cox?” he asked in a high pitched voice. “Don’t send a requisition. Have him come down here.” His tone suddenly went husky. “I want him to see this thing with his own eyes.”

“I’ll stop by there on my way back from my coffee break,” Miss Cox said icily, picking up her purse and walking to the office door. “Will there be anything else, Mr. Pogue?” she said with overtones of insolence.

“Yes. Bring me some doughnuts and a pot of black coffee,” he replied with some insolence of his own, tossing her a half dollar.

Some secretary, Bill thought after she had gone, just because she’s older and been around here longer than I have, she thinks she ought to have my job. I ought to fire her, that’s what I ought to do.

The warning system “bleep-bleeped” on the control panel. No time to sulk now, Bill Pogue thought, swinging back to the control panel. Something’s fouled-up in the production room. Probably Gallager again.

Harry Gallager had closed to within inches of Miss Peters. There was static electricity sparking between their consoles. She cares! Harry decided, getting all giddy with excitement. She really cares!

“Gallager! Dit,dit,dit! Slack off! Slack off! You’re about to overload the whole Batch Ten Track.”

“Yes, Sir!” Harry slowed perceptibly.

“What’s wrong with you , Gallager? Dit, dit, dit! That’s the silliest trick you’ve pulled yet.” The Boss boomed. “I wish you’d learn to obey instructions.”

I’ve been following them a lot longer than you, College Boy.” Harry hissed with deep sarcasm, making a noise like false teeth rattling.

“What’s that, Gallager! Dit, dit, dit. You came through all scrambled.”

“Negative! Just negative!”

“Jones! Pete Jones! Dit, dit, dit. Move up to angle position behind Miss Peters. Let’s

see if we can keep Gallager on the ball.”

“That dirty so and so, Harry stewed, all brains and no heart. Look at poor old Pete. He does more work around here than any ten of us. Can’t he see that Pete’s about on his last legs? Poor old Pete, I don’t see how he puts up with it. He could just blow a fuse and nobody would think bad of him.

“Gallager! Dit, dit, dit. Your code hole is spitting graphite again. Dit, dit, dit! Back off and check 3z, 8-d, and ought-n keys,” The Boss roared, his voice coarse with anger and

exasperation.

“It’s number five key, Sir. Or don’t you remember?” Harry growled.

“I repeat, Gallager! Dit, dit, dit. Check 3-z, 8-d, and ought-n keys. Your number five

key registers clear on on the control panel. Dit, dit, dit!”

“Okay, okay,” Harry flashed back with disgust, flushing 3-z, 8-d, and ought-n keys.

“That’s fine, Gallager! Dit, dit, dit. Your code hole is free again. Take a memo: Dit, dit,

dit. Get your circuits checked before the next shift! And, Gallager! please see if you can stay in line for a few minutes.”

“Yes, Sir! Gallager hissed softly and wanted to say dictator but couldn’t spell it.

That’s great, Turney. Dit, dit, dit. That’s really carrying the old ball for a touchdown,”

The Boss’s voice boomed from a speaker in the rear of the production room. “You’re ten minutes ahead of schedule. Pull out to rest positions and take a break. We’ll have to wait for Gallager’s crew to finish, before we load the next batch, Dit, dit, dit.”

That young punk Turney, Harry glowered. He sure knows how to brow nose the boss. Always finishing early, always trying to make me look bad. Just wait until I get near him, I’ll fix him good. Maybe if I could get decent parts I could run a better schedule than him. Just wait. I’ll whip him and some of these young punks in line one of these days. Then look out. Me and Pete’ll show ‘em a thing or two.

“Now hear this! Dit, dit, dit. Now hear this! The Boss boomed over the PA system in a nonchalant but smart-aleck tone. “Batch 00-1, ten-zero has been completed. All consoles are to return to track-neutral positions and wait for further instructions.”

There was a tremendous rushing sound, a whirr or two, a laggard clatter here and there, and then an almost utter silence in the production room.

Bill Pogue sighed, then swirled away from the control panel and belly busted off his elevated, upholstered stool. These six hours a day are killing , he thought, I must be getting soft. They didn’t used to, but they sure do now. If I could just get more cooperation from the production room, perhaps it wouldn’t be so nerve wracking. But what the heck else can I do? I’ve done everything but punch timecards with them. It’s Gallager’s fault, that’s what it is. It’s he that’s fouling up the works and he’s getting worse. If I don’t get him replaced soon, I’m going to have more trouble than my constitution can stand.

Bill shuffled over to his desk, pulled out his slide rule, tilted his contour chair to rest position, and absentmindedly began to work some simple equations.

Miss Cox came in and sat two packages on the table near the office door. She walked silently to her desk, sat down, searched in her purse for her emery board, and began working on her nails.

Bill scowled at her for several minutes before he asked, “Did you bring the coffee and doughnuts, Miss Cox?” His vice was deep and hoarse.

She jerked the emery board over her right shoulder, like a nervous orchestra conductor giving an up beat, indicating the two sacks on the table near the office door. Her face was expressionless.

Bill frowned and slapped his feet against the floor with a passion. His heels snipped disgustedly against the polished cement floor, as he walked to get his refreshments. He grabbed on of the paper sacks and rattled it furiously for several seconds, before ripping it open. “Ouch!” he cried, after grabbing a plastic cup and setting it down hastily. Casting an embarrassed look at Miss Cox, he said, “Boy, that’s hot.”

Miss Cox giggled but didn’t say anything.

Bill opened the other sack more cautiously. “Miss Cox!” he said with an angry, low-toned grunt, “I distinctly asked for doughnuts. These are not doughnuts. These are caramel rolls.”

“They were out of doughnuts.”

“What? Speak louder! I can’t hear you!” Bill said in definite masculine tones, glaring across the room at the back of Miss Cox’s hairdo.

“I said they were all out of doughnuts,” Miss Cox reiterated in a soft whisper.

“Oh!” Bill said, supprised at the coarseness of his own voice, but nevertheless secretly pleased. “Well, gee-whiz,” he cried, spitting a mouthful of fluid into the plastic wastepaper

basked, bar room style. “This is tea. I didn’t want tea. I wanted coffee, and you know it. Why’d you bring me tea?”

“Tea is better for you! Coffee will tighten your vocal cords and make your voice harsh and uncouth,” Miss Cox said, turning momentarily to give him a wicked little smile.

“Well, I’ll be! Well, I’ll just...I’ll be...” Bill said with profound exasperation, and stomped angrily toward his contour chair.

“Clean up your mess!” Miss Cox said with her back turned again, busy with her fingernails.

“Really, Miss Cox! I mean really!” Bill said, returning to the table and scraping everything into the wastepaper basket. “There! Is that satisfactory?” He asked in a deep voice again, folding his arms against his chest and tapping the tow of one foot against the floor.

Miss Cox nodded her head but did not turn around.

Bill tried again, “I said --”

The telephone interrupted him. Miss Cox answered. “Yes,” she said. “Yes...Yes...Yes!

Huh, huh! Yes. Huh, huh. Yes. Hummmm. Huh. Yes! Yes. All right!” She dropped the receiver in the cradle with a bang. She sawed at her nails with a steady, irritating rasp.

“Harruumph!” Bill cleared his throat. “What was that?”

“I don’t know. Must’ve been a hang nail.”

“Not that! The telephone,” he almost said ‘stupid’ but caught himself in time.

“A message for you.”
“Well--?
“Well what?”
“The message! The message!” Till said, his voice growing hoarse again.
“As soon as you’re ready to take the news,” Miss Cox said calmly, blowing on her nails.

“ I don’t think your nerves can stand it right now.” “You don’t think...You...Miss Cox, if you don’t start being more cooperative, I’m going

to get you fired.” Bill said loudly, his face beet-red with anger.

“You wouldn’t be the first one who’s tried.”

“Huh!” Bill exclaimed in a half-squeak, half-growl. “And I probably won’t be the last,

either!”

“You can say that again.”

“Aw, nuts! I won’t --”

Miss Cox wouldn’t let him interrupt. She went on smoothly, “There’s no doubt about it.

But I’ll be here when a hundred of your kind have come and gone.”

“Miss Cox,” Bill said with a shrill whine, “what have I ever done to cause you to hate me so?”

“Nothing. That is nothing directly,” she said somewhat sneeringly. “By the way,” she added, “Your voice sounds so much better now.”

“Well, what is it that I’ve done then?”

“It’s the way you’re always picking on the older guys in the shop... Gallager in

particular!”

“Gallager! What’s Gallager got to do with the situation?”

“You keep picking on him.”

“Oh, rot... he deserves it and you know it. He should have been retired or replaced before

I came here. He’s worn out, he’s a trouble maker, and he’s as belligerent as they come.”

“That’s not very kind of you. If it wasn’t for Harry Gallager, Pete Jones, and a couple of others, you wouldn’t even have a job. They were the first ones in the productions room when Mr. Gonzales founded this company, and I might add that they were here when things were done manually,” She said with her eyes flashing in open contempt.

“So what!” Bill Pogue tah-tahed. “ I have a masters degree in mathematics. I can get a

job anytime and anywhere I want.”

“Not like this one.”

“Oh, forget it.” Bill said in a hoarse tone. “I can see that we’re definitely going to have a

personality conflict.”

Miss Cox furned her back and worked on her nails.

Bill flopped into his contour chair and let out a tremendous ‘whoosh. “I don’t see why I waste most of my rest periods just trying to be a nice guy to you,” he said shrilly, staring at the ceiling.

Miss Cox held one hand to the light so she could catch the shine on her fingernails. “Want the message?” She said without turning.

“The message? What message? Oh, yes,, the message.”

“That was Mr. Gonzales on the phone. You were ten degrees off on batch 00-1, ten-zero. The whole thing has to be repeated.”

“For cripes sake! Not The Mr. Gonzales! Not The President!”

“Yes! Mr. Pedro Gonzales. The President and founder of this company.”

“Well, why didn’t you tell me sooner,” Bill said, jumping up and running toward the control panel. “ I could have been half finished by now. It’s Gallager’s fault. It’s Gallager’s fault!”

“He also said to tell you not to start production again until he gets here. He wants to see just what’s throwing a monkey wrench into the machinery.”

“Monkey wrench? We don’t use monkey wrenches here!”

“Mr. Gonzales thinks so. I’m sure he’ll be able to demonstrate how and where.”

“Good!” Bill said in a rich baritone. “Maybe I can get something done about Gallager now. How did he find out about 00-1, ten zero? anyway? He’s not usually that close to things.”

“I told him when I stopped in to see Dan Nichols for you.”

“Well, that’s a step forward, Miss Cox. Maybe we might achieve a better relationship after all,” Bill said with jauntiness. “That’s what I call efficiency. We might be able to turn into a team, yet!”

“Don’t be too sure, my friend,” Miss Cox said softly flashing a rare smile. “Just don’t be too sure.” Her smile turned wicked again.

Meanwhile, things were not so placid in the production room.

“Harry, you’re going to catch hell for sure,” Pete jones cracked in a wavery tone. “You should’ve never done that to Turney. The boss ain’t gonna like it.”

“Aw, Pete,” Harry hummed, looking over at the black electronic burn on the right rear of Turney’s console. “You’re getting crotchety in your old age.”

“Just the same, you ought to take it easy. I’m not sure we’re doing the right thing with this organizing business. It’s like we was forming a union or something. We should be more loyal to the old man.”

“If he was here we wouldn’t have to worry about organizing. He was tops. But he ain’t, and we got to go on our own. It’s too bad he had to turn things over to these young punks.”

“Mr. Gallager,” Miss Peters sang in bell-tone syllables from down the line, “Everything is set at this end. We’re behind you one hundred percent. That’s one hundred percent positive.”

“Okay, Miss Peters. Just wait for my signal,” Harry glowed proudly. “I’d a never thought you’d a swung Miss Peters,” Pete Jones chimed.

“Just goes to show you , Pete. Not all these youngsters are brats. I clocked her timer right off. She’s got real class. That’s what she’s got. Do I know how to pick ‘em, or do I know how to pick ‘em?”

“Yea, Harry, you sure know how to pick them.”

Bill Pogue had everything polished in his mind for Mr. Gonzales’ arrival. It was a rare privilege to be able to talk to the guy at the top.

Miss Cox seemed unruffled and unexcited. But when the door to the office opened slowly, she rose, bowed her head, and stood with the utmost reverence.

Mr. Pedro Gonzales flowed in with a graceful limping motion. His whole body seemed suspended in mid air at a ten degree angle from a large hand carved wooden cane. His hair, long, white and flowing, seemed to top a tanned, skinny face like a piece of exploded popcorn. His scientific eyes burned with a precocious intensity, catching the layout of the room in one flicker.

“Seet down, Meese cox,” he said in a soft shrill voice. “So dees ees our Meester Pogue, dee bright young mathematician,” he smiled with supreme benevolence.

“Yes, Sir! Mr. Gonzales. I am he.” Bill said, shaking his head jauntily.

“Well, so our young man grows up,” the old man chuckled. “Your voice ees changing.”

“A little, I suppose,” Bill admitted, dropping his chin somewhat diffidently.

“Do not be ashamed. Dees ees only part of getting older,” Mr. Gonzales said with smiling eyes his voice high pitched and penetrating. “Now, let’s get to dees problem in dee production room. Do you know what eet ees?”

“Yes, Sir!” Bill said, getting down to business. “It’s Harry Gallager. He’s got to be replaced. He just can’t keep up with his work.”

Mr. Gonzales nodded his head sadly. “Dees I cannot believe. Meester Gallager has been with me since I started. He ees one of the best workers.”

“If you like, Sir? I’d be happy to show you.”

“Yes, dees ees the best idea,” Mr. Gonzales said, in his soft shrill voice, winking knowingly at Miss Cox.

They took their places at the control panel. Bill could feel a strange eagerness coming from the old man as Mr. Gonzales commented observantly. “See dee burn on Mr. Turney’s console. He has deed that before to others!” Mr. Gonzales’ voice was quite shrill now with anticipation.

Bill said, “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you, Sir. Galleger is just about as cranky as anything I’ve ever seen. Just watch and I’ll show you. He won’t stay in line more than three minutes. I swear sometimes that he’s got the idea of jumping right into the control room after me. And I mean to tell you that I get a real creepy feeling every now and then. Right here, but down deep.” Bill poked a finger at his belly.

“Please, Meester Pogue,” Mr. Gonzales waved a bony hand. “You should call Meester Gallager, Meester. Perhaps Dat ees dee most part of your problem.

“Yes, Sir,” Bill grunted hoarsely, looking at the old man with some doubt.

“But I don’t think eet ees all dee problem. I have seen dees happen before. Start dee production, please!”

Bill complied. He flipped the master switch on the control panel. “Now hear this! Dit, dit, dit. Now hear this! All consoles resume position for batch 00-1, ten-zero! Dit, dit, dit.” Bill’s voice rang husky and confident over the PA.

Mr. Gonzales, watching Bill from the corner of his eye, shook his head sadly. He said nothing.

Miss Cox got suddenly busy on the telephone.

Down in the production room, Harry Gallager growled and went into position. “Listen to him,” he burned with a vengeance. “The dictator’s at it again. But we’ll fix him in a minute. Me and Pete and the rest of ‘em.”

“Hey, Pete,” he sent on the intercom key, “you ready?”

“Yea, Harry,” Pete tapped his reply. “I’m ready. So’s the rest of the gang. I just wish the old man was here, so’s we wouldn’t have to go through with this.”

“Gallager! Dit,dit, dit.” The Boss boomed. “Wake up, Gallager! I’m not going to put up

with any more rust from you. Dit, dit, dit.”

“No, Sir! Gallager sputtered. “Go swallow your PA!”

“Dit, dit. dit. You’re not coming through clearly, Gallager! Repeat! Dit, dit, dit.”

Before Gallager could answer, Mr. Gonzales reached out with a bony hand and threw the

negative switch on the control panel. Bill looked at him. “Why’d you do that?” he asked with amazement.

“Meester Pogue,” Mr. Gonzales said in his soft shrill voice. “dee problem ees solved. Eet ees your voice. Remember when you started, how I tol’ you that dee voice must alwheeze remain calm and high pitched. You have allowed eet to grow husky, and you geeve your commands with Dit, dit, dit. We did not teach you dees way. Dees machines down dere do not tolerate dee rough voice, even if you speak kindly, wheech you don’t. Dit, dit, dit, ees dee same as cussing them.”

“I forgot, Mr. Gonzales! I just plain forget!”

“Well, eet ees too late now. Dee damage ees done. Meester Gallager and dee rest of dee machines will never respect you now. See Meese Cox. She will arrange your transfer.”

Bill Pogue crawled off his stool like a baby sliding away from the breakfast table. He slumped over to Miss Cox’s desk and took the paper she handed him. “Well, gee-whiz,” he whispered shrilly. “Well, gee-whiz, Miss Cox. you could have told me.”

“I tried to but you wouldn’t listen,” Miss Cox said with a beep look of sympathy.

After Bill had gone, Mr. Gonzales smiled down at Miss Cox. Eet ees always dee same, huh, Meese Cox? Dees Keeds got to get husky voices, and my machines don’t work dees way, do they?”

Miss Cox smiled and shook her head. “No, Mr. Gonzales, they sure don’t .”

Mr. Gonzales turned to the control panel. Slowly, almost feebly, he turned the PA down and flipped the switch. “Duh, Duh, Duh” he said softly and shrilly. Meester Gallager! Meester Jones! Duh, Duh, Duh! Shall we go to work? Duh, Duh, Duh!”

There was a sudden mechanical sigh throughout the production room.
“Yes, Father,” Pete jones buzzed with affection.
“Yes, Father,” Harry Gallager hummed smoothly and contentedly.

© 2008 All Rights Reserved.

Notes on "The Boss"

The story titled The Boss has a few problems.
As a reader, just go with the conventions used and allow the writer to clarify things at the end. They might not be styled with contemporary writing conventions and the usage is going to be unfamiliar to those of us under thirty. But as we say now "It is what it is".

As I go through these stories I'm finding it hard to let things slide. On one hand I want to reproduce the pages as they existed without comment or editing. On the other hand I see the need to make things better. But I'm not convinced that I should take on the role of editor and or re-writer of these stories. I have added bold and italics to make a few things more clear.

If you have any ideas on the use or improvement of these stories I welcome your comments. I'm learning more about my thinking and writing through reading and re-typing this work.
But that doesn't mean it's all good. Some of it is quite dated. The dialog comes from the way people spoke in the late fifties and I'm sure many readers would think it's kind of over the top but that's what made the old Twilight Zone and old radio dramas so great. It's just that nobody does melodrama anymore.

T W.

The Professor Takes Supper

"The Professor Takes Supper"

By

R. M. Walters

The sun burned through the window from the west, crawled steadily across the half-dark room like a burglar's torch stealing along a wall, and splashed hotly against his face. He opened his eyes as he felt the heat, squinted, and defensively turned his head into the shadows. Confused, he stared numbly at the black wall under the window, He had been dozing a lot lately, and he wondered why -- maybe for escape.
For a moment, he rubbed at the warm perspiration, which had collected in his grey stubbly beard, and liked the way the moisture felt against his dry, stiff fingers. Then he glanced out the window at the wrought iron railing, which lent a curtain enclosed privacy to his tiny apartment, and studied the truncated edge of a graying sky over a section of crumbling sidewalk. "These late autumn evenings," he mused out-loud, "they're always so prolonged."
He grunted to his feet and stood suddenly still with a grimace as his legs twinged with the malignant fire of rheumatic pains. Then, stiffly, like a man shuffling across a muddy road, he made his way to the sink in the corner, filled a small saucepan with cold water -- there was no hot water -- turned, and placed the saucepan on the table to his right. He pulled back a chair and sat down.
For a time he surveyed his apartment. It had an odor -- a kind of livable stench -- but damp things usually did. The bed was unmade, the floor needed sweeping, cobwebs hun against the dingy walls, but, at least, there were no dishes to be washed; he hadn't dirtied any. It would be nice, he thought, to have a maid like in the old days, and his mind, drifting like it often did these days, began to wander off to kindlier times.
His body brought him back to the moment. His fingers locked at the joints as the agony of his rheumatic illness shot through his arms and hands. He spent several futile seconds pulling at the hands and massaging the arms, vainly wishing that he could draw a tub of hot water to soak them in. But the bathtub was only a decoration; it didn't work, and the manager wouldn't fix it; he had rented the apartment as is. If the Professor were a swearing man he would cuss about that -- vigorously. The pain dulled somewhat, and he was able to concentrate on the chore at hand.
He flipped the switch on the electric hot-plate, watched the black coil turn slowly red, then put the saucepan on to heat. He reached across the table for a box of tea-bags. It was empty. He frowned disgustedly, shrugged resignedly, pulled his breakfast teacup toward him -- it was made of paper -- removed a soggy tea-bag from that, broke it open, and duped to contents into the saucepan to steep.
Soon the hot-plate hissed and cracked, and a pungent odor of left-over grease smoked-up to permeate the room. It made him hungry. He reached for the peanut butter jar. It was also empty -- not even enough left on the sides to scrape out with his fingers. He exclaimed, "Oh, Frumpity!" and shoved the jar away.
He ran a hand into the cracker box, pulled out a wad of waxed paper, and carefully un-crinkled it. There was but one cracker left, and a dead cockroach was interred mid-center of it. He scowled at the cockroach, brushed it off with a sluggish wave of his hand, and took a tentative nibble, anyway. It didn't taste badly.
As he nibbled, he stared at the calendar hanging in the dark west shadows under the window. Seven more days until his pension check arrived. A man could starve to death in seven days, he reasoned; that is if he didn't do something about it. He glanced at the shelf just to the right of the window and located what was left of his library. Of the four books there, his attention was caught by his last valuable possession -- a first edition of Mark Twain's "The Prince And The Pauper." He suffered an excruciating splurge of temptation. "No," He shook his head, he won't give that up yet. He will save that for a real emergency.
He poured his tea into the soggy paper cup. It was not much more than colored hot water, but felt good going down. He sipped and pondered about how to raise some cash. Then, impulsively, he reached for a deck of cards and contemplated that possibility for a moment. No! That's out, too. Mrs. Cobb would also be broke until the first of the month, her pension check was even less than his. Besides, she was still brooding about the seven dollars he had taken from her last Sunday. How that woman hated to pay her debts, he thought with some disdain. No...Bridge was definitely out.
He glowered at the cards for a while and finally shoved them back by the empty cracker box. He looked west through the window again, as though the endless, depth-less twilight sky with the crumbling concrete horizon would hold the solution to his problem. If it did it showed no sign. There are no miracles for proud people these days, he sighed. Then reaching a decision, he exclaimed out-loud, "Oh, Frumpity! I guess it's down to Aristotle's." He rinsed down the rest of his cracker with the weak tea and struggled to his feet.
He walked to the bed, plucked his brown tweed jacket from the bedpost, and slipped it on. It was now baggy and loose, but that was because he was not as heavy as he used to be. At least the pockets are big," he muttered with a grunt as he settled the coat against his bony shoulders with a series of nervous shrugs, "that's an advantage newer clothes don't have."
His next stop was the shelf in the west corner of the apartment. He reached upward and pulled his plastic cigarette case down, making sure that it still contained the empty foil wrappings of a cigarette package, and fastidiously put the case into the breast pocket of his jacket. Then he took a worn, black leather briefcase from the other end of the shelf, un-zipped it, checked the contents -- the old newspapers were still there -- then eased the zipper shut, for it was fraying badly at the seams. "You've about seen your last days too, old friend," he spoke in a soft whisper, "but you've still got a lot of service in you yet." He tucked the notebook under his arm and left the apartment.
He paused at eye level three-quarters of the way up the steps and looked both directions, right and left, on the street -- his actions were much like a man accustomed to ducking bill collectors. Satisfied, he plodded across the street and into the alley which led to Aristotle's seven block's away.
The sun was now a huge red ball in his face, reaching over the rooftops with hardly enough force to make him squint. There was something sad about it; a twilight somnambulism, perhaps, which was depressing. The air had a cold bite to it, but still hung thick and obnoxious in the narrow alleyway. The persistent drone of flies, busy at the garbage cans, offset the piercing dull cacophony of the pigeons on the fire escapes. The stench of the decaying garbage surrounded him like a parasitic gas, but did not dampen his appetite. The stacato-like scurrying of rats in the trash bins made a kind of nervous oratory which bothered him tremendously; his skin crawled with revulsion. His voice partially tinted with bravado, he whispered outloud, "Where an old man will walk just to save a few steps. But, then, he sometimes has to sacrifice a little pride to progress."
As soon as he stepped through the door of Aristotle's he felt a growl roar through his stomach. It seemed loud enough to be embarrassing. The taunting smell of stale beer only sharpened his hunger.
Joe, the owner-bartender, stood with his fat belly resting against the bar. He was feeding Craver, his pet terrier. He looked up with a scoul, as though bothered by the sudden interruption, but the scowl quickly truned into a grin. "Hi, ya, Professor!" he said spontaneously. Haven't seen ya around for a while. Been working on your book, huh? Ya oughtn't to stay away so long. Wait'll I get this crap out of the can for Craver here, and I'll be right with ya."
The Professor looked straight at the dogfood on the saucer and started to lick his lips, but caught himself in time. The he flinched with contemmp at the slobbering sound of Craver gulping the food wolfishly. He stepped back a few paces in a futile effort to dull the sound. He said, "Take your time, Joe, take your time. I'm in no hurry."
"Ain't dogs something," Joe said, having trouble controlling the shiny spoon in his pudgy hand, as he chiseled loudly at the bottom of the can for the last morsel of dogfood. "They ain't got a bad life at all."
"And they don't have to worry about first-of-the-month pension checks, either," the Professor said without changing his expression.
"Yeh, Ain't they lucky," Joe laughed, tossing the empty can under the bar. "Well, pull-up a stool and make yourself comfortable. What'll ya have? The usual?"
"Nothing right now, Joe. I'll just go on back to a table and catch my breath. Then I'll decide."
"Aw, come on," Joe chided, belching with great force. "Have a beer on me while you're deciding. It'll make ya feel good."
"If you insist," the Professor answered with proper jumility, while surveying the layout of the tables with his back partially turned to Joe.
"Go a head and go on back," Joe said, grabbing a glass from under the bar and shoving it under the tap. "I'll bring it to ye."
The trip had been exhausting. He now felt somewhat nervous and shaky and perhaps a liffle faint. He made it to the table with all the finesse of an old man maneuvering a windy corner on a pair of grutches. It felt good to sit down.
"Aw, why'd ya pick this table, Professor?" Joe asked in a You'll have to excuse the way the house looks tone of voice. "It's the dirtiest one in the joint." He slammed the beer down, picked up the ashtray, brushed some of the ashes away with the edge of his hand, and started back to the bar.
"Oh, just leave the ashtray, Joe," the Professor said in a commanding tone of voice, pulling the beer over in front of himself. "You needn't go to all that trouble for me."
"No trouble. I'll just get a clean one and come right back."
"Forget it, Joe! I would rather you left that one. I don't like things too so-so, if you know what I mean. It makes me feel more at home to have a full ashtray in front of me."
"If you say so, Professor," Joe grunted with an indifferent shrug, as his jouls rippled with a grin.
The Professor opend his mough and started to apologize for sounding too demanding, but chaned his mind and sipped at his beer instead.

"Say, ya know," Joe said, ploppingdown across from the Professor, "I ain't never thanked ya yet for telling me to chang the name of this place to Aristotle's West-end. It sure's n the hell made a difference in business. the college kids from over on seventh street have been busting in here every evening like flies through a broken screen, just like ya said the would. Yes sir, they really go fer the name. I never did realize I was losing so much business. I sure do owe ya for that favor."
"No favor, Joe, forget it. I'm always ready to help a friend. I was sure the students would be attracted by the name. They meet it many times in school, and they, like most everybody in this world, have a propensity for clinging to familiar things."
"Well, ya sure called it right," Joe said. "I sure envy people like you. Ya know what I mean, don't ya? Ya get by in life just by using your brains. It ain't like us guys that always have ta take an scratch fer a buck. I wish I'd been born with your kind of brains."
"Any knowledge is certainly worth having, Joe," the Professor said, taking a large swallow of beer and peering over the top rim of the glass. "But sometimes it isn't worth a cold beef sandwich."
"Hah! That's a good one," Joe exclaimed and affectionately laid an overly fat hand on the Professor's bony shoulder. "You're a card, Professor, a real card. Yacan sure say things different. Belt that beer down and let me get-cha another."
The Professor smiled and drained the glass. "You're very charitable, Joe," he said, "Think I'll take you up on that."
Joe took the glass and did the fat ma's shuffle back to the bar. He returned wit the beer and a bowl of cashews. "I remembered that ya really went for these the last time ya was here," he bragged wit a look of pride. "I just got this here batch in today. Try 'em and see what ya think."
The Professor took a swallow of beer first, before picking at the nuts with his fingertips. "Hmm! Say! These are good, Joe," he sighed expressively. "But, surely, you don't give these away to all your customers..." He reached for more.
"Naw," Joe ansered, bending down witha grunt to pick up Craver. He placed the dog against his stomach and fondled his nose. He elaborated, "I put out pretzels for the kids. Thir tasters wouldn't know the difference, anyhow." He let go of Craver's nose and grabbed a handful of nuts. He shoveled them into his mouth. "These I save fer me and you," he managed to articulate between chomps. "Get away from there, ya crazy little mutt," he suddenly half-laughed. "Craver likes 'em too."
"That's very flattering," the Proffessor said without shoing his disjust, as he watched Joe greedily chew the nuts.
"Aw, hell, ya shouldn't feel that way," Joe said, tossing Craver to the floor. "I owe ya plenty fer stim--, stima--, how ya say it? Helping boost my business."
"I wish you'd forget about it, Joe. It wasn't that much of a favor. Besides, I've always found that when one does a kindness to another, the kindness is always returned...one way or another."
"Well, I'll try to forget it," Joe said skeptically. "I'll try. Say! How's the book coming? He blurted suddenly, tapping the Professor's notebook.
The Professor moved the notebook a few inches from Joe's hand. "Very slow, Joe, very slow."
"Ya ought to be getting it done pretty soon."
"Oh, one of these days, I suppose," the Professor sighed, fondling the notebook for a second. "I don't seem to be making much progress lately, but one can't rush a project of this nature, You know."
"Yeh, I guess it takes a lot of time, all right. Personally , I don't think I'd have the patience myself." Suddenly pushing back from the table, he said, "ell, it's about seven o'clock. You're gonna have to excuse me fer a while, Professor. I gotta get things se fer the kids. They'll be coming in any time now."
"By all means," the Professor said, starting to take a swallow of beer but putting the glass down as he saw joe turn away. "Con't let me interfere with your work."
"You just sit there and keep yourself comfortable." Joe called over his shoulder. "if you need anything, just holler."
"I will, joe, I certainly will," the Professor called back.
A customer came in just as Joe got behind the bar, and the Professor, seeing that his attention was on the customer, reached into the bowl of cashews, grabbed a large handful, and slipped them into his left coat pocket. Craver yapped excitedly and jumped onto his lap. He knocked the dog away with a wave of his hand, and Craver responed with a yelp. He loooked toward Joe self-consiously, afraid that the dog had squealed too loudly. Joe hadn't noticed.
He sipped at the beer and ate cashews. They tasted good. He relaxed and grew slightly drowsy.
After a while, a group of college fellows came in. they were chattering noisily and carring books. They slammed the books down on the bar, hopped on stools, and called for beer. Aristotle's West-end suddenly seemed raucously alive with activity.
The proffessor came alert. He looked at the bowl of cashews and all but emtied it as he put another huge handful into his left coat pocket. He reached into his breast pocket, took out his cigarette case, and laid it near the ashtray. then he cried loudly, "Oh, Frumpity!" and feflectivly stared off toward the wall paper on the west wall.
The college kids truned in unisn and looked surprised. He didn't return their look. After a moment, one got off his stool and walked over to the table. "Excuse me, sir," he said, "hut I thought I just heard you say a peculiar thing."
"Huh? What?" the Professor said in a startled manner, looking as though he were just coming awake. "What did you say, youn man?"
"That peculiar exlamation you made a coule of minutes ago." the kid persisted. "What was it?"
"Young man, you have me at a loss," the Professor said with a serious intonation. "I'm afraid I must have been daydreming outloud. I'm not sure what expression you're alluding to." He reached for his cigarette case, removed the lid, and ran a finger into the empty package, making sure the foil rattled crisply. Putting the lid back on with a motion of utter disgust, he said in an absentminded way, "Oh, Frumpity! I'm out of cigarettes."
"That's the expression I mean," the kid cried with enthusiasm. "Here! Have one of mine!" He tossed a pack of cigarettes on the table and pulled up a chair.
"Well," the Professor said without hesitating, "they're not my brand, but beggars can't be choosers." He smiled and put one in his mouth. "Do you have a light?"
The kid struck a match and lit the cigarette. "Can I buy you a drink?" he asked.
The Professor puffed deeply on the cigarette. It made him dizzy, but it tasted good. He drained the last swallow of beer from his glass and set it down. "Well, I was just leaving but I suppose I could drink one more."
"Hey, Joe! Bring us a beer! the kid called. "About that expression...you've got me curious "
"Oh, yes. Now, what was it?" the Professor said with a frown, toying with the kid's cigarettes.
"Oh, Frumpity!" the kid reminded him, and smiled broadly as though thrilled with the sound of it.
"How ya doing, Professor?" Joe asked, as he put two beers on the table. "Everything all right?" Glancing at the empty nut bowl, he continued, "Those cashews are pretty good, ain't they? I'll bring ya a new bowl."
"Bring some pretzels too, will you, Joe?" the kid asked, handing him a dollar bill.
"Now, what were we discussing, youg man? the Professor muttered, tilting the beer to his lips.
"That expression: 'Oh Frumpity!' "
"Oh, yes." the Professor nodded his head sagaciously. "Now, where did I ever come across it," he went on, looking reflectively off toward the west wall.
"Do you mind if I bring my friend over, sir?" the kid blurted suddenly, getting a little ancey. "He's kinda interested in words, too." "no, not at all," the Professor said.
The kid left the table just as Joe returned wit the cashews and pretzels. Joe put the kids change down and said, "The kid ain't bothering ya, is he, Professor?"
"No, no! Not at all!" the Professor said impatiently.
"Okay," Joe winked and grinned. "Let me know if he does." He walked away.
The Professor moved with a surprising quickness. First, he threw a furtive glace toward the fellows at the bar. Next, he grabbed the kid's change and cigarettesand put them into his right coat pocket. then hurriedly took another handful of cashews and put them into his left coat pocket. He drained his glass, picked up a pretzel, leaned back in his chair and nibbled at it.
"This is Bill," the first kid said, as the two approoached. "I was just telling him about that expression of yours."
"What expression?" the Professor said, fubling with his empty cigarette case again.
The kid turned to Bill and half-whispered, "He's a little forgetful." then he looked at the Professor and said in a louder voice, "You know, 'Oh Frumpity!' "
Bill tossed a pack of cigarettes on the table and said, "Have one of mine!"
The Professor toke one out immediately. "Oh, yes," he said, "I've been trying to remember where I picked that up. Either of you have a light?"
Bill turned and called over his shoulder, "Hey, Joe! Bring us some beer!"
The other kid lit the Professor's cigarette.
"Not so loud, young man, the Professor chastised, exhaling smoke. "He can hear you without shouting."
"How come you wear such a long beard?" Bill asked, retrievieng his cigarettes from the Professor.
The Professor looked at him sharply for a moment: the said without emotion, "It's cheaper than shaving."
"Oh," Bill commented, not meeting the Professor's eyes. "It makes you look like a teacher or something."
"Yeh. It sure does," the other kid chimed in agreement.
"Do you really think so?" the Professor asked, looking away at the west wall. "Well, I'm not much of anything now. I just retired on my pension the first of the year."
"No kidding?" Bill said with sudden interest. "Just taking it easy, huh?"
"Something like that," the Professor said, glancing at Bill again with some dubiosity.
"My uncle George has been getting his for a couple of years," Bill said proudly.
"How come you retired?" the other kid asked.
"I didn't really . I just got too old, and my institution had a mandatory retirement age."
"Well, you still haven't told us where you got that expression," the other kid said, trying to stay with the former subject.
"You're sure lucky, though," Bill said. "A few years ago and you wouldn't have had a pension."
"Yes, I guess you're right," the Professor respoded; the sighed heavily. "I became eligible for the program just seven years before I retired."
The other kid squirmed nervously on his chair. "Give me one of your cigarettes, will you, Bill? I must have left mine at the bar." Turning toward the Professor as Bill handed him a cigarette, he said, "I'd still like to know about that expression."
"Well, to be honest with you, youg man, I'm afrid I'd have to do a little research to trace it."
"How does it go again?" Bill asked.
"Oh, Frupity!" The Professor said with some force.
"It seems like I've heard it somewheres before," the other kid said. "I think it was used by a famous philosopher."
"It might have been," Bill shrugged. "Let's look it up in the library when we go for our nine-thirty class."
"That's a good idea," the other kid agreed. "But we've got timefor one more round of beers before we go. You buying? How about you, Professor? Stand another one?"
"Yes, I believe I could," the Professor said, smiling and looking at the clock on the west wall. "I can see you fellows are excellent students. A library is always a good place to pursue a subject." He took a cigarette from Bill's package.
"Oh, Frompity!" the kid said and laughed.
The Professor laghed too. So did Bill. They signaled for beer and Joe brought it. Bill said, "Oh, Frumpity! It's my turn to pay!"
Joe looked at him curiously. He put the beer down and took a handfull of cashews. He said, "Now, you guys let these nuts alone. They're strictly for the Professor."
"Oh, Frumpity!" the first kid said, and everybody laughed... even Joe.
The two kids gulped their beer, slammed down their glasses, and pushed back from the table.
"Well, we've got to go. See you later," Bill said.
"Yeh!" the other kid said. "See you later."
"Just a minute, gentleman," the Professor said sternly. "It's customary when one receives good service to leave a tip."
"Oh, sure," Bill said, laying a dollar onthe table without smiling.
"Oh, Frumpity," the other kid said with a wide grin, putting seventy cents next to the dollar.
For a while the Professor slumped forward and stared at the clock onthe west wall. He now felt tired and drowsy and a little lonely. In two or three hours, he thought, it won't be seven days until payday, it'll only be six. He looked around. Joe was busy at the fron't of the bar with some new customers.
He glared down at the table top and sighed resignedly. He picked up the dollar seventy cents and put it into his right coat pocket. Bill's cigarettes were still on the table. He put those into his right coat pocket, also. He didn't feel hungry anymore, but he put another handful of the cashews into his left coat pocket...just in case. Then he grunted to his feet, paused a few seconds while the rheumatic pains shot through his legs and subsided, picked up his notebook and cigarette case, and stepped away from the table.
Joe rushed up with a bar rag and started wiping. "Leaving so soon, Professor?"
"Yes, I think I'll head east for a change."
"Say, I couln't help over hearing your conversation with them kids aminute ago. Do you really think they can locate that expression in the library." He winked and grinned knowingly.
"It's possible."
"You're a card, Professor," Joee said, clinking the beer glasses into one pudy hand. "Yes, sir, a real card."
"Goodnight, Joe," The Professor smiled and turned away.
"Night, Professor," Joe called. "Take it easy!"
The Professor stopped with a jurk turned and looked back at Joe sharply. Then his expression mellowed and he said sheepishly, I will, Joe. I will."

-THE END-