THE  MESSAGE

                  by Leon Berger                       

 It was precisely one year ago, exactly this very same hour that I saw an  ad in Fortune Magazine that changed my life.  The advertisement was cryptic and seemed silly so I ignored it and turned the page.  Or at least I tried to ignore it until curiousity drew me back to the ad.   The precise wording of the ad went like this: ´To the individual with curiousity:You can perform a ritual in your home that will clarify your thoughts and direct you to the pathway of solution.  No obligation.  One time communication only.  Write “Physio”, 
P.O. Box 880093, Boca Raton, Florida

I could not resist any longer and decided to investigate the unusual message.  Fixated with a growing curiosity, I wrote requesting more information. Eighteen days later I received a reply.  In my mailbox was an envelope without any postage affixed and no return address.  The envelope and the message was handwritten, each letter, each word clearly defined and strikingly beautiful. I still have the letter for it is the only evidence I have of my experience, and I quote the unusual message verbatim: “The area of your home that contains an oblong, hollowed-out receptacle which receives heated fluid from an overhead construction is surrounded on three sides by a yellow flowered movable drape.  Replace this screen with one of all white substance and comply with the following directive: 

     “Disrobe completely and enter the hollowed-out receptacle, placing a rubber insulation pad under both extremities. Open the valve that controls the flow of the fluid and adjust the temperature so that it coincides with your internal structural temperature.      “Direct this flow to the encasement that houses your control mechanism.   Secure the white drape so that you will be confined and isolated in the enclosure and as the vapor surround you, close your viewing ports and consider your dilemma.  The solution will be provided.”  It was signed “Physio.”  The terminology used was weird and obviously, somebody was playing a joke on me.  I was puzzled, because I didn’t tell anybody I was going to answer Physio’s ad and yet the writer knew that the shower curtain in my home was indeed a yellow, flowered plastic.   I checked the

    I am a writer currently experiencing ‘writer’s bloc.’  My ‘dilemma’ was that I had created a particularly thorny, threatening situation for my fictional hero and could not logically extricate him.  I was stymied to a point of desperation.      Feeling foolish as I disrobed, I carefully stepped into the shower, standing squarely on the bath mat and made some minor adjustment to the temperature of the water.  The light reflecting off the white curtain was blinding, forcing me to close my eyes, and as I stood there with the water cascading off the back of my neck, a languid feeling of isolation engulfed me.  I felt insulated from all external stimuli as I visualized my literary dilemma.      Amazingly, a flow of ideas penetrated my consciousness, simplistic but practical.  The solution, which now seemed so obvious, was unique and clever.  Was this a coincidence?  Were there physiological benefits from the hot water increasing circulation to my brain?  Was it my focus of concentration?  Had Physio created some self-hypnotic technique that stimulated creativity?      Happily, I opted in favor of Physio’s mystical message, gaining confidence as I explored new literary vistas.  My days and nights are filled with feverish writing, relying on Physio for ideas and energy.  I am hollow-eyed from lack of sleep; I am emaciated for I have no appetite.  I have secluded myself from my friends.  I create and write day and night.  I shower frequently, asking the same question that remains unanswered:  “Should I…must I share this secret of my increased productivity?” 

I am loathe to do so even though my instincts tell me until I do I will have no peace.  I am prepared to pay the price, any price, for writing is now my number one passion.                   

                                            ALMOST A HERO

                                                          By Leon Berger

     Flight 727 out of FLL, scheduled to leave at 3:30 p.m. was ‘delayed’’ and Henry had two hours to kill.  He soon tired of watching the peculiarities of fellow travelers, amused by their various shapes and bizarre clothing, decided instead to read a story by Roberto Bolano which was featured in the August 8^th issue of the “New Yorker.”

     Bolano ‘s previous works had  fascinated Henry.  Having seen his picture on a book jacket, he dressed in a similar fashion: faded blue jeans, bush jacket, dark glasses and a Yankee baseball cap tilted rakishly over a lean face grizzled with a two day stubble. In truth, Henry’s appearance belied his real nature, that of a cautious and introversive husband whose globe trotting was limited to infrequent trips to

     The constant bothersome noises in the terminal interfered with Henry’s concentration.  He put down the magazine and sat quietly for five minutes, eyes closed.  Bored and hungry, he decided to check out the food court.  The odors of grilled kielbasa were irresistible. Against his better judgment he ordered the foot long sausage lathered with mustard and relish, counter-balancing the tray with a frosted Bud.  Half-way through the meal, the bubbling and growling that  issued from deep within his gut attracted  the curiosity of fellow travelers  within a 10 foot  radius.

     Two hours later, 15 minutes airborne, uncomfortably settled up front in business class, Henry unbuckled his safety belt and staggered to the lavatory, obtaining immediate but partial relief.  As he sat there, he examined the narrow confines of his haven, marveling at the many passenger comforts crowded into the claustrophobic space.  The counter and sink were spotless;   tissues, towels and soap dispenser were full.  “What’s this…?”  He shook his head in disbelief for behind the soap dispenser, resting on a tissue, gleaming in the fluorescent light was a full upper denture. “Hard to believe, but some poor schnook is back in his seat without his teeth”    Amused, he determined that he would restore the teeth to its rightful owner. 

     Exiting the lavatory, the wrapped denture in his pocket, Henry approached the Flight Attendant.  “Hi.  Listen, somebody forgot their denture in the toilet.

Could you make some kind of announcement over the inter-com?”

     She stared at him coldly.  “No, I can’t do that; it would only embarrass the passenger.”

     “Can I leave it with you?”

     “No,  I have no provision  for lost items.”

     “Okay, what should I do with it then?”

     “You can put the teeth back where you found it or turn it over to Lost and Found when we arrive at O’Hare.”

       “I would like to speak to the Captain.”

     “That’s not possible.  I suggest you go back to your seat; you are creating a disturbance.  This is an official warning.”

     Henry, momentarily speechless, muttered ‘thank you’ and went back to his seat. The total absurdity of his conversation with the attendant didn’t sit easy with him and the more he rehashed the conversation the more determined he was to return the denture to its owner.  It should be quite simple. The owner of the teeth was undoubtedly a male, assuming a female would have checked her appearance before exiting the lavatory.  So Henry, despite his intestinal discomfort, decided to undertake the humanitarian task of locating a man with sunken cheeks.  With growing excitement at the challenge, Henry stood up. If the attendant didn’t approve, so be it.

      First Class was no problem as he scrutinized the occupants who were dozing or involved with their computers. No sunken cheeks.  The occupants in Tourist class required more careful scrutiny since the light was dim and passengers more numerous.  The cabin noise diminished as the passengers observed Henry working his way up the aisle, examining each male face.  The Flight Attendant, chatting with her male counterpart, was unaware of the growing consternation of the passengers.

      Row by row, Henry progressed up the aisle and when he reached row 22, he sensed victory for the passenger occupying the window seat, seemingly engrossed in reading a newspaper, had the important criteria he was looking for: sunken  cheeks. The man, unkempt and scruffy, continued to read as Henry, a smile on his lips, called out “Sir.”

     No response.  Henry called out again, louder:   “Sir.”   The man ignored him and continued to read.  Was this man deaf?, The tension in the cabin was palpable as Henry, this time leaning over two cowering passengers, attempted to tap the fellow on the shoulder.  Suddenly, unexpectedly, the man jumped up, muttering excitedly as he tried to escape from his seat.  Henry, startled, jerked back, tripped over his own feet, fell heavily, hitting his head on the arm rest of the seat across the aisle.  The cabin was in an uproar as Henry blacked out.

                                                  ******************

    “Henry, wake up.  Wake up, Henry.”

    Henry opened his eyes, confused by his surroundings, unable to comprehend  why an I.V. drip was attached to his arm.  Standing at the foot of his bed, smiling,  was a muscular, heavily built stranger.

      “Who are you? What is this place?”

     “I’m Detective Sommer.  You’re in a hospital with a slight concussion.    Do you remember what happened?”

     Henry closed his eyes; his head hurt. 

     “Yeah, I think so.  I found some false teeth and I was trying to find the owner.”   Suddenly, he remembered.  “What the hell was wrong with that fellow?  His cheeks were sunken.”

     Sommers, no longer smiling:   “Yeah, that’s the story the attendant told me but I had to hear it from you.   The teeth didn’t belong to that gentleman. His cheeks were sunken because he hasn’t had a square meal in two weeks. He bolted because he is an illegal from

       No charges were filed against Henry.  The airline preferred to drop the matter rather than explain how a passenger with crudely forged documents was able to board the plane as a passenger.  The teeth were returned to the airline and Henry’s bush-jacket, wrinkled and soiled, hangs in his closet, suitable attire for the June trip to

AH, WILMA, HOW YOU’VE CHANGED

   By Leon Berger 

      I was physically attracted to Wilma when she wore knee high boots and a quasi-military uniform complete with stun gun hanging low on her waist as she coursed through the galaxy, accompanied by her stalwart companion Buck.

  Suddenly, a scant 60 odd years later, Wilma is a bundle of energy, zigzagging out of Africa destined for the southern tip of Florida where she  satisfied  her insatiable appetite for phone and electric  grids, pool enclosures, beautiful but shallow ficus trees  and of course,  ceramic tiles.  I won’t mention trailer parks;

that’s a given.  Then she was gone, leaving to the hapless burghers the arduous

task of healing the wounds inflicted by this tempestuous vixen. 

     “Harry, what are you doing about having the pool enclosure rescreened.?”

     “We’re on the list.  I figure they will get around to us sometime in January.”

     “What about the roof tile?”

     “You must be kidding?”

     Phone rings.  Lois picks up the phone on the second ring.  “Hello. Hold on,

I’ll get him.”

     “Harry, it’s for you.”

     “Who is it?”

     “He didn’t say, but apparently he knows you.  He asked for ‘Harry.’ “

     “Hello.”

     “Harry, we would like to send a crew over to rescreen your patio. There will  

be no charge for this service.”

     “You’ve  got the wrong guy, buster.  I don’t know who you are but I can

recognize a scam a mile off.  Why don’t you hang up and get an honest job.”

      “Harry, I represent’Physio’.  We have done business before.” 

     “I don’t think so.  I never heard of you.”

     ‘Harry, check page 25 of your journal*”

     “My journal?    Are you sure you have the right party?”

     “Quite sure.”

     “Okay.  Tell me, why am I the lucky recipient of such benefaction?  You did

 say it would be free.”

     “This is going to be difficult, but I’ll try.  Your property came with a  variance that created a geometric anomaly so that the vertices of the polygon…. ..no, this isn’t going to work out.  Think back, Harry. .  You answered our ad at  the turn of the century and constructed a ‘thinking area’ that changed your life .” 

      Harry  struggles to remember. . “Look, give me a minute. I just want to

check this out.”       “Don’t take too long. You have been allotted 30 seconds to make a decision.   30 seconds, no more, no less.” 

     “Lois, quick, get my journal.  You look in the den; I’ll check the playroom.

  There’s something familiar about what this guy is saying.”

        Lois scampers off, but returns obviously flustered.  “What journal, Harry?”

     “My book.  My book.  There’s a story on page 25.  I want to refresh my

memory”

       Lois returns.  “Harry, I can’t find your book.  Where do you keep it?”

     “That’s alright; I found my copy.”  Checks page 25 and reads the title out  loud: ‘The Message’.    Scans the story, a confused expression on his face. 

     “ Damn, he’s right.  ‘Physio’ was the name of the company that placed that

 weird ad in Fortune magazine.  Their company provided information on how to

convert the shower into a ‘thinking area’ and it really worked.” Picks up the  

phone.  “Hello,  hello”.  The line is dead. “ I guess when he said ‘30seconds’ he

meant it.” 

       “I’m surprised you didn’t hang up on him.  You’re the one who always tells

me that ‘there is no such thing as a free lunch’ and that ‘you always get what you

 pay for.’ “

     “Yeah, it slipped my mind.  Lois, I’m going to take a shower.”

      “Harry, it’s 4:30 in the afternoon.  You took a shower this morning.”

      “I know, but this time I’ve got some thinking to do.”

      One-half hour later, Harry, a towel wrapped around his waist, his hair moist, 

and hanging over his forehead, confronts Lois.  “I think we can be proud of the

 way we handled Wilma.  We were resolute and mature in the way we faced the

problems she caused.  We did what had to be done and we are going to resolve the

 problems of the aftermath in the same fashion.  How does that sound?”

     “It sounds good to me, Harry, but tell me did you really require one-half-hour

 in the shower to come up with that strategy?”

______________*SURVIVAL IN BOCA RATON published by Trafford  Publishing 

    I  buried my head in my mother’s skirt. I was frightened. This man, this crazy man was waving a stick as he walked down off the plane. His eyes fixed in our direction. His face looked like a skull and his clothes didn’t fit properly… they were too big. He was shouting at us and leaning heavily on a stick as he limped in our direction.  I started to cry.“Hush, child.  Don’t cry.  That’s your father.”     I was one year old when he left to serve his country. Now he is returning, four years later, shouting, crying and waving a stick. He hugged my mother and then tried to pick me up. I wouldn’t let him. I went limp and crumpled to the floor. My eyes were glued to the shiny silver handle on the end of the stick. He started to cry and my mother comforted him.      This was my father, a troubled, tormented man who spent four years in Santo Tomas, a death camp in the Philippines

     Commandant Yoshikawa never came for his cane; he was executed as a war criminal. My father passed away fifteen years later, broken in mind and body. I stayed at home with my mother and when she died ten years later I inherited everything, including the cane which I kept in an umbrella stand by the front door. For fifty two years, whenever I polished the handle of the cane, I thought of my father and how circumstances beyond our control shape our destiny. I remained a bachelor, acquiring my share of physical problems as I grew older. When spinal stenosis affected my balance, I relied on my father’s cane. It served me well, but always evoking sentimental memories.             In the year 2003, I booked a flight to visit a niece on the West Coast.  Possibly because of an Orange alert, airport security seemed unusually diligent and thorough. I was given a chair, asked to remove my shoes which, together with my cane, was fluoroscoped..  I became concerned for whatever showed up on the screen excited much activity and glances in my direction. A young security guard approached, carrying my shoes.       “Please put on your shoes and follow me.”         “I can’t walk without my cane and what about my flight? I don’t want to miss it.”          “We’ll get you a wheel chair, but I am afraid you are going to miss your flight.”     I was wheeled into a small room adjacent to the Fluoroscopic unit. They placed my cane on the table before me.     “What’s in the cane?”          “I don’t understand what you’re saying?”          “The cane is hollow and there is something in the cane. Show us how to remove the handle or we will have to cut the cane in half.”          “Hold on. You can’t do that, that’s my cane. It means a great deal to me. I don’t know anything about it being hollow or what it contains.”   

      The questions that were rapid and confusing: “Where did you get it?  How long have you had it?  Have you ever served time in prison?”      

      After I explained the circumstances, I could see they were sympathetic, but they had a job to do and they let me watch as they cut the cane. To my amazement hundreds of diamonds, wrapped in cotton batting, came pouring out! An aluminum cane was provided to me and I returned home.  I was no longer interested in going to the West Coast. . I now have a lawyer who assures me that we have a good case; the diamonds should be mine. The Government’s position is that the diamonds were taken from the prisoners and that ownership will have to be adjudicated.

     I’m glad my father never realized what a cruel, calculating bastard Akiko Yoshikawa was. It is obvious to me that his execution prevented him from reaping the benefits of a plan that required crippling my father and pretending to be his savior.

                     GADZOOKS, NOT SAMSA AGAIN

                                                       By Leon Berger

     It was bitterly cold for March, the year was 1915 and depression hung like a shroud over nations involved in the Great War as they tallied the mounting casualties.  Diversion, though temporary, was provided by an electrifying item that appeared in newspapers throughout the world:  a resident of

     This nightmarish event was challenged by many skeptics.  Others, more literate, presented various explanations tied into the philosophy of Sigmund Freud.   Dr. Freud made no comment about this extraordinary event but the

chronicle was recorded by Franz Kafka and the authenticity of the above facts can be verified in a publication entitled THE METAMORPHOSIS.

     Mr. Samsa’s transfiguration occupied the public press briefly, replaced by the tragic events occurring on the Western front, ultimately eradicating the name George Samsa from public consciousness..

     Now, in the fifth year of the 21^st century, startling information of similar significance was brought to my attention.  The facts were revealed to me only when I agreed to protect the anonymity of the persons involved.

     A remarkable event, a striking alteration of an 18 year old American male occurred overnight, observed but not immediately recognized by his parents, who, for their own survival, practiced ‘selective sight.’  This allowed them to ‘not see’ the floor of his bedroom, strewn with clean and dirty clothing, smelling like a wet cat extricated from a clogged sewer pipe.  They, particularly his father, created a protective shield which softened the guttural grunts and unintelligible sounds emanating from their son whenever he wanted food or transportation.  They refrained from asking him to bring out the garbage or to bring in the newspaper, thus avoiding the dismal sight of his sullen, reluctant compliance.  In truth his parents hoped that they had the fortitude to retain their sanity until their pride and joy was accepted by an out of state University.                                

 The metamorphose was recognized on the 9th of June and was   recounted to me by the boy’s mother:

“We were watching television when we heard a deep bass voice calling from the upstairs bedroom:  

     “‘Mother, there is a phone call for you.’”   

     “We were both startled and I whispered to my husband:  ‘Ben, that wasn’t Chet’s voice. Who’s up there with him?  Ben, his face ashen, pointing to the phone, ignored my question.

     “My heart was racing as I picked up the phone, relieved to recognize a familiar voice.  It was my friend Judy who asked:   ‘Phyllis, what’s going on?  I actually had a conversation with your son.  Is everything okay?’

     “I told her that I couldn’t talk to her at that moment but would phone her later and replaced the phone in its cradle.    Then Ben and I, hand in hand, mounted the stairs not knowing what we would discover in our son’s room.  The door was closed; I knocked once and opened the door without waiting for a reply.

     “Chet was at his desk, papers neatly stacked, apparently doing his homework.  The carpet was free from all clutter exposing for the first time in four years two throw rugs on a rich walnut floor.  The closet door, open to view, revealed order and neatness.

     “We stood there, Ben and I, transfixed, flabbergasted and speechless, the silence broken when Chet turned to face us and in a remarkably clear voice asked if he could borrow the car on Saturday.  ‘ I’m taking Lois Roger to the prom and, incidentally, I will need some cash.  Do you think we could work out something if I cut the grass and bring in the firewood?”

     “I heard myself asking if Lois was the young lady who was voted the Queen of the Prom?  ‘Yes, that’s the same Lois, and mother, are you aware of how dirty the windows are.  If you show me how to wash the windows, I can do them this week end.’

     “Later, within the privacy of our bedroom, Ben and I pondered the transformation of our son.  When and how had it occurred?  Would the transformation last?  We agreed the answers were not important; the reality was all that mattered.  We laughed and then cried, energized by the surprising turn of events.”

     After hearing her story, I did some research in the Journal of Neurophysiology and I learned that teen age romantic love can cause a catalytic action permitting out-of-character behavior.

     The everyday sights and familial relationships that George Samsa could no longer enjoy contributed to his bizarre death when a barrage of ripe apples put an end to his life.

      The game for young Chet has not played out yet, but he has all the cards for a winning hand.  If he plays them skillfully it is most likely he will avoid the tedious climb up a dung heap. 

      All names have been changed and any similarity to sons or grandsons is not intended and is purely coincidental.

      By Leon Berger

          One could not ignore the proboscis protruding proud and conspicuous from the otherwise mundane assortment of facial features that served to identify Roget Loude.   This nose, this snout, uniquely long and straight, which Roger viewed at every opportunity, was Roget’s paramount source of pleasure.  Frequently, indeed daily, some stranger would comment that Roget had a striking resemblance to Basil Rathbone.  When Roget wore his deer-stalker and smoked his meerschaum, there was no doubt that he was a living and breathing image of Sherlock Holmes.

      Roget, surprisingly, was content with his life.  It mattered not that he was a 45 year old bachelor living in a rotting  bungalow located on Dixie Highway, where the rumble of the passing  trains rattled the dishes and caused ghost images on his l2” black and white television set.  He enjoyed his work as a conductor on the Tri-Rail, particularly when a passenger’s eyes would open wide in puzzlement, wondering why the face looked familiar.  When this occurred, Roget would whip  out his meerschaum, position himself to reveal the familiar profile, and then he and the passenger, no longer confused, would both laugh heartily. This made Roget happy; life was good.

     Life was good until one fateful sizzling morning in August when Roget, awakened by the persistence of his alarm clock, shuffled into his small, cluttered bathroom and commenced with the performance of his morning chores.

     Not yet fully awake and squinting through red-rimmed bleary eyes, smiling in anticipation as he greeted his reflection:  “Good morning Mr. Holmes.”  Something didn’t seem right.  Clearing the mirror with his towel, his eyes now wide open took in the reflection before him.  What the hell is that?  There, perched on the tip of his nose, a full 1/2 inch in length, was a greenish-gray hair.  Where did that come from?  It wasn’t there last night.  Reaching out, he grabbed it with his fore-finger and thumb and gently pulled. No luck; it would require a more determined effort. The texture of the hair permitted a firm grip and he pulled  and he yanked and he wrenched in every conceivable fashion, using a variety of shoemaker pinchers he had once acquired at a flea market and, in desperation, a clam shucker he found in the kitchen drawer.  Exhausted, his arm aching, confused at the stubbornness of the hair follicle, he called it quits, determined that the next day he would deal with this peculiar transgressor that seemingly defied removal.   

A sleepless night didn’t dampen his resolve, and he called in ‘sick’ as he drove to the Hillsboro HOME DEPOT.  Ignoring the stares of fellow shoppers who seemed fascinated by his nose (or so he thought), he chose a sturdy 8” nickel plated needle-nose pliers as his instrument of choice, and rushed home to extract his unwanted defacement.

     Finally, impatiently, back in his bungalow, he stripped to his waist, washed his nose with antiseptic soap and grabbed the follicle between the jaws of the pliers.

Applying firm and constant pressure the hair came free with a resounding pop but, to Roget’s horror, a greenish liquid came bubbling from his nose, flowing copiously for a full minute, finally erupting in a cohesive mass which hugged the contour of his nose as it traversed downward over his clenched lips, past his chin to drop silently into the enamel sink, absorbed by the detritus that had accumulated year after year.  

     The extraordinary discharge, inexplicable and confusing, left Roget exhausted and he lurched to his bed where he slept soundly for 24 hours, awakening as from a nightmare, frightened and wet with perspiration.   Observing the green stains on the bed-cover, he put his hands up to his nose, repulsed by the slime that had

solidified over-night.  Slowly he walked to the bathroom, ignoring the light switch.   First, he would cleanse himself.  He turned the hot water faucet on waiting the five minutes for the water heater to kick on, and then stepped into the shower, relishing the warmth and comfort before soaping his face repeatedly.   When the water started to turn cold, he forced himself to step out of the shower, toweled himself dry and switched on the light.  He ignored the stained sink and looked at his reflection in the mirror.  A crescendo of moans and groans startled Roget, emanating so he thought, from the unfamiliar reflection in the mirror.   His nose, his pride and joy, was replaced somehow by a diminutive button-nose which dramatically changed his facial features..  Roget sobbed uncontrollably.

He ran from the bathroom, the towel dropping from his body.  Naked, confused, he ran to the entrance door.  Changed his mind, ran back to the bedroom looking into the bedroom mirror.  Staring back at him was a stranger, yet he sensed it was his face.  The reflection was speaking incomprehensible gibberish.  This is madness; it has to stop.  He tried to calm down and forced himself to walk slowly into the kitchen, remembering he had a bottle of Vodka. All the glasses were in the sink, unwashed, nestling with a week’s accumulation of dirty dishes, but a coffee mug could be extracted and he poured himself a drink….and another…and another until, inebriated, he fell to the floor, gashing  his head on a mahogany footstool. .

     At the rail yard, three days later, Roget’s supervisor contacted the local police Department and requested that they check-out Roget’s home. Absent three days from the job without authorization was cause for concern.  This was unlike Roget.

Officer Andrew Buchanan who received the assignment wrote in his report:

  “… When I approached subject’s house  I detected a strong, foul odor in the area of the door.  I received no response to my repeated knocking, so I kicked in the door.  In the dim light, I could see a naked man seated at the table.  There was dried blood on his forehead.  He kept muttering something incomprehensible about ‘a nose, or the nose.’  .I contacted Sergeant Townes who called for an ambulance.  The ambulance arrived at 3:45 p.m. Paramedic Anthony Rizzo checked subject’s vitals and hooked-up an IV; subject was severely dehydrated.   At my request, Mr. Rizzo checked subject’s nose and reported “…no abnormality”….but remarked “…that there was an extraordinary resemblance to the actor Basil Rathbone.”  Subject was transported to the local Community Hospital and was signed in at 4:30 p.m.”                                                                       /s/ Officer A. Buchanan                                                                             Badge No. 2776                                                                                                                                        

Here’ to all those that I love

Here’s to all those that l0ve me.

And here’s to all those that love those that I love

And all those that love those that love me.

                                      Anonymous

Leon Berger, author of ‘SURVIVAL IN BOCA RATON’ graduated from N. Y. U. in l949 and has worked at a variety of jobs ranging  from performing biological assays to determine compliance of medications  with the  United States Pharmacopoeia  and extending to inspections of radiological installations for the Office of Radiation Control in the City of New York  An awakening, dramatic experience changed the course of his life when, while visiting his daughter, he instructed his four year old grandson to ‘pick up your toys.’  The 2’ tall tyke, his chin thrust out defiantly, said” You’re not the boss.”  It was at this moment of truth that Leon Berger vowed that he would become a boss and, together with his wife Myra, formed a pioneer surgical/medical manufacturing company where he enjoyed the fruits of being a boss until the F.D.A. issued a recall on the firm’s key product.  It was then Mr. Berger realized that he was not the boss; the F.D.A. was the boss.  In time Myra and Leon Berger retired to an upscale gated community in

      I love to drink martinis. 

          Two at the very most. 

           Three, I am under table. 

           Four, I”m under the host.  

          Dorothy Parker   

“Harry, are you O.K.?”

“Yeah. Why do you ask? “

“That’s the third bath you have taken in two days, and you have been soaking in the tub now for two hours. Are your hemorrhoids bothering you?”

“That’s very nice, darling. I’m sure Archimedes’ wife asked him the same question when he was in his tub, working out his ‘displacement theory.’ Very nice. I appreciate your confidence.”

“Archimedes never married.”

“He was a wise man. I’m coming out now; brace yourself for some good news.” Harry steps out of the tub, water dripping from his body.

“Harry, look at you. Your skin is all wrinkled like a Shar-Pei dog. No more baths for you until your skin tightens.”

 “Lois. I think I’ve hit on something great.. Finally, I am on my way to recognition and fame. Listen to this…”

 ”I’m kind of busy now, Harry.”

Harry as usual, isn’t listening.. “Did you read about the old lady who was stuck in the bathtub for two days, too weak to get out and unable to phone for assistance?”

“That was six weeks ago.”

“Okay, so I’m a little behind in my reading. But listen to this. I have developed a technique that will enable anybody, especially the elderly, to get in out of a bathtub.”

“Harry, people have been getting out of their tubs for 2,000 years.”

“So they have, but we have no way of knowing how many bathers needed assistance.”

” I hope you aren’t going to put any money into an expensive prototype.”

“No, no, this will not cost anything, It will be my contribution to humanity. Believe me, the elderly and infirm will bless me when they are able to bathe without fear.”

“Okay, I’m listening..” “If the old lady who was stuck in the tub for two days had rolled over, got on her hands and knees, standing up would be easier because the center of gravity would work in her favor. This position puts less strain on weak muscles.”

“That’s it? This is going to make you famous?”

“As famous as Heimlich. Don’t underestimate this idea.”

“I’m surprised Archimedes didn’t think of it. All he did was come up with a ‘floating body displaces its own weight.’ He’s probably kicking himself right now for overlooking this boon to humanity. What are you going to do with this ‘maneuver’?”

“I’m not sure how to handle this. I may write it up and send it to the Journal of the American Medical Association or maybe to the AARP.”

 “That’s not a bad idea, but give it a rest now. Relax and let your skin tighten up.”

The next morning, Lois awakened by the sound of water running into the tub. She knock on the bathroom door, opening it slowly. “Harry, what are you doing?”

“Last night it occurred to me that if Archimedes and I both came up with brilliant ideas while soaking in a bathtub, then perhaps bathing is conducive to creative thinking. I’m checking that out now.”

 “Listen to me carefully, Harry. I want you out of the tub now. If Archimedes is in there with you, I want him out too. Do you hear me?”

 “Yes, dear” he meekly responds as he rolls over on his stomach, gets on his knees and flashes a triumphant smile as he stands up.

                                        Leon Berger