THE HARRY MANEUVER

       “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.

  Knocking softly on the bathroom door, she opens 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.

                                                        

                                                  NOT MY STORY

                                                       By Leon Berger

 

     Carl Notar had good reason to believe ‘That if it doesn’t kill you, it will make you stronger.’  As a small boy, the calamity of a depression extending to his fortuitous survival during WWII created a matrix that was cautious yet optimistic,

watchful but tolerant. He had learned to ride with life’s punches and now, at four score plus, thought there wasn’t anything he had not experienced, read about or heard. He was wrong, of course.

 

 Carl and his wife Ivy are good neighbors; not perfect, but good.  I wasn’t aware of any personal problems that the Notars might have since all our conversations have been amiable and uncomplaining.  We respected their privacy and they treated us with the same consideration.

 

Miami team when the phone rang.  To my surprise, it was Carl; rarely do we speak on the phone.

 

     “Hey, Lee.  It’s Carl, your neighbor.  If you aren’t busy I’d like to drop over; I have an extraordinary story to tell you.”

 

     “Sure, Carl, come on over.  I’ll put up some coffee.”  I was happy to tune out the Dolphin game.

 

     The coffee was just about done when the bell rang.  I poured the coffee and we settled down in the den.  I wish to emphasize here and now that this is not my story.  It is Carl’ story and I’m going to tell it to you the way he told it to me:

 

     “It was this past Friday and I was driving  north on Boca Rio Road, heading  out to the library on Glades Road, when I decided to stop at the Mobil station and pick up a chocolate bar.  My energy level was low and I thought a DOVE bar would be just the thing to perk up my blood sugar.  The place was jumping as usual since the price they get for gasoline is the cheapest around.  I finally found a parking spot near the air hose and headed for the Food Mart.

 

    “Headed in the same direction, just a few steps ahead of me, was a tall, slim dude, well dressed and walking with a kind of swagger.  He was obviously a Rastafarian, his dreadlocks contained by a knitted green, yellow and red hat.  To my surprise, without turning around, he held the door open for me.  [I have since concluded he must have seen my reflection in the glass door.]  I nodded my head in thanks and said ‘You, sir, are a gentleman.  Let me hold the door for you.’  He smiled, walked past me, and we both went our respective ways.  I for the chocolate bar and he, I could see, went for a soda.

 

         “The line for the cashier was moving slowly, but I was in no hurry, and my thoughts were elsewhere until I felt a tap on my right shoulder.  To my surprise, standing behind me was the Rastafarian, soda in hand. 

 

     “He looked at the chocolate bar I was holding, then said:: ‘I hope you are going to buy a lottery ticket also.’

 

     “’No’ I replied, “I gave that up sometime ago.  The odds are too great.

 

     “He smiled, a great smile, for his teeth were white and perfectly aligned.  ‘Buy a lotto ticket today…now.   I can see a magical aura that surrounds you and I think our meeting was not accidental.  Buy a lotto ticket.  You will not regret it.

 

New York and I have seen my share of scams, but he impressed me with his earnestness so I decided to be a sport and invest a buck.  ‘What’s your name?’ I asked.  He replied ‘Ababa, but you can call me Abe.’

 

     “‘Okay, Abe.  I tell you what.  Anything I win, I’ll split down the middle.  Half for you and half for me. Today is Friday, the drawing is Saturday.  If I have a winner, I’ll be here Sunday at noon.’  We shook hands and I headed for the library.

 

     “Call it a coincidence or a fluke, but on Saturday the ticket hit for four numbers and on Sunday, when I walked into the Food Mart, Abe was there, waiting for me.  When he saw me, he started jumping up and down, shouting ‘I knew it… I knew it… I knew it.’  He paused for a moment, then ‘How much?’

 

     “Abe, all smiles, stood beside me as the cashier counted out sixty dollars and change.  I gave him $30.00, which he took and carefully folded, placing it into a black leather, snap-clasp change purse.  I extended my arm assuming he would shake my hand,   To my surprise, he ignored my outstretched hand but kept peering intently into my eyes.  ‘You are unhappy, my friend.  If it is the $30.00 I will return it to you.’

 

     “’No, no.  The $30.00 is nothing.  If I look unhappy it is because of a personal matter and I must rush home.’”

 

     “’Somebody is waiting for you?  A wife perhaps?  Is she not well?’”

 

     “Before I realized it, I was telling this complete stranger personal information about my wife’ Fibroneuralgia, how she was in constant pain and how all the medications we have tried have been ineffective.  Abe listened intently as I babbled on about the callousness of the doctors and the hollowness of The Golden Years.”

 

     “Have you tried ganja?  Spliff?’”

     “ ‘I don’t know what that is.’”

 

     “Abe shook his head, laughing out loud.   ‘Ah, you white folk never fail to amaze me.  Has your wife tried a reefer, a stick or a joint?’  I was still confused.

‘Hey, man, listen to me.’  Abe was getting impatient.  ‘Has she every tried cannabis….marijuana?’

 

     “It finally dawned on me.  ‘No, I’ve heard that it might be helpful but I never knew where to get it.  Her doctor discouraged us, saying it would be a waste of money.’”

 

      “‘Your doctor is an ignorant man.  I can sell you some.  Even though you are my friend, I must sell it to you.  I’m just a middle man.’

 

     “That’s okay.  How much is it?’

 

     “’$20.00 a bag and I have two bags with me now.’

 

     “’I’ll take it.’ 

 

     “He took me by the elbow and guided me to a corner of the store.  The exchange was made.  I have him $40.00 and he gave me 2 bags of what I assumed was marijuana.  ‘How do I use this?’

 

     “He laughed.  ‘Chop the leaves and bake them into cookies or cup cakes.  If you need more, I will be here next Sunday.’

 

     “We shook hands and I left, all excited.  As soon as I stepped out the door, I was surrounded by three men wearing jackets marked SHERIFF.  The man in the center, shorter than me but muscular, was smiling broadly.  ‘Okay, pop.  You’re under arrest.’

 

     “’Arrest?  What did I do?  I didn’t do anything.’

 

     “’Well, we do have a tape and a video of you buying two bags of cannabis. I know your wife isn’t well so I’m going to give you a ticket instead of taking you in.’

 

     “And that’s where it stands now.  Needless to say, I still haven’t recovered from this incident.  I’m scheduled to appear in court a week from tomorrow.  I have a lawyer who is charging $400.00 per hour with a cap of $5,000.00, money I can ill afford to spend.  I’m depressed and sick about the whole situation.’

 

     “There were tears in his eyes, and for a long moment I was at a loss at what to say.  ‘Is there anything I can do for you?”

 

     “Yeah, there is.  This incident reeks of entrapment that should never have occurred.  One wonders if the Sheriff’s Dept. is primarily interested in looking good statistically while showing little concern for the immorality of this entire incident.  I’m telling it to you because this story has to be told…must be told.  Put it in your blog; send it to your agent. Get it published. 

 

     “And that’s the story…his story. Unbelievable.

 

This is a work of fiction.  Any resemblance to individuals or similar events is purely accidental and unintentional.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

    

 

 

 

 

    

 

    

 

     There was a time when my friends described me as a ‘smart cookie.’  Now, I’ve been told, they (the few that remain) refer to me as a ‘grouchy, ill-tempered man.’  They can say what they want, those miserable backbiters, but I know they’re as wrong as sin.  I’ve survived many decades because I’m smart and I keep sharp by  following one cardinal rule (‘redundant’ you say? Sue me!)  The rule: “Stimulus begets response.”  Oh, poor you, you don’t understand what it means? Ask your 12 year old grand-child because from this point on I will brook no further interruptions. (you nincompoop)     Back to my story.  Those rumors about my disposition are wrong and malicious, and to make my case, I’m going to allow you to access my journal page for today which will describe the prosy minutia that I have to contend with. .  This will permit you to judge for yourself if I’m quarrelsome or, more than likely, a victim of spiteful slander.

Athletic Center which opens at 6:00 a.m.  I enjoy my shower; it’s the shaving I dread.  The junction of my right nostril with my upper lip is a clever ambuscade.  I exercise care but my Gillette is not up to the task and once again I nick the edge of my nostril.  The bleeding is surprisingly profuse but a small piece of toilet paper absorbs the blood and I go about my daily chores.  I could solve the problem by growing a mustache, but my spouse out-votes me 5 to 1.   Sadly, golf equity members also are endowed with a 5 to 1 vote advantage.  Whatever happened to one person, one vote?

     The glass sliding doors are coated with condensation making it necessary to step outside to check the pool.  The heat is oppressive and the only sound I hear is the compressor chugging away.  No alligators.  Perhaps they’re satiated with iguanas and too sluggish to climb the banks of the canal.  The pool filter kicks on and I think that in the next life I’ll invest in FPL.       5:15 a.m…  Time to check the computer.  My spam is overflowing with offers to solve erectile dysfunction.  Whose been peeking over my shoulder?  What do they know that I don’t know?  Has somebody stolen my identity?  If anybody has reason to complain, they should speak to me as woman to man.       One more thing:  If you read my blog, do not expect me to post your comments.  First of all, they’re sophomoric and secondly, I don’t know who you are and I don’t care who you are.  Read my stories, if you will, but keep your adolescent critique to yourself.

Everglades. I can waste a rabid raccoon, but a 17 foot python is probably more than I can handle.  The garage is clear, so I mount my trusty Prius, tighten the cinch and back out.   A push on the button closes the gate to the corral and I head west to the Athletic Center, ready for another day in Paradise.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                          

Leon.”  My brain isn’t in gear at that hour so I bob my head up and down, and they accept the response.  Today the men just stood there, staring at me, expressionless, apparently fascinated by my right nostril which has a piece of toilet paper stuck to it.  By and large they’re good guys; I’ve met a few of them at the club and found them to be dynamic go-getters, always willing to let me buy them a drink.     8:30 a.m…  After working out, I shower again in the men’s locker-room. This definitely cuts down on my Water Utility bill, reducing the rip-off charges described as Facility Fee, Waste Commodity and Restriction Sur Charge.  A bunch of gobbledygook that I don’t understands, but I pay the full amount due. Failure to do so will result in my water supply being cut off.’  . To get to the showers, I pass by the men’s locker room.  Man, this is an experience, recommended only for those with strong stomachs. I won’t go into detail, but it’s impossible to ignore the corpulent, undraped bodies.  What has happened to the men of the Greatest Generation?       9:15 a.m.  A cup of coffee and a bagel with the missus.  Somebody should tell the bakers at the super-market that a bagel is more than a round piece of dough with a hole in the center.  I’ve told my wife repeatedly to buy N. Y. bagels but she countered with a low blow (“You haven/t the teeth anymore for a real bagel.”)  I keep quiet but between you and me, my teeth are loose  because of her chocolate chip cookies.  I’ve tried to find out how she can take all purpose flour and create the equivalent of quick setting cement, but she is sensitive about her cooking so I stay out of the kitchen.  If there is ever a shortage of cement, she can make a fortune converting flour to cement, but, as she says, ‘money is for spending, not for making.’  You can’t argue against such logic; I gave up 56 years ago.     10:30 a.m...I’ve changed my clothes and skimmed through 3 newspapers, each with a different slant on the news. The Wall Street Journal and the N. Y. Times go head to head.  Politics and international affairs are confusing in themselves but their opposing opinions have me sitting on the fence.   I decide to write to the Editor of  the Times about a matter that has bothered me for months.  Apparently they do not understand that the use a hyphen to split a common name (i.e.:   Si- at the end of the sentence and mon at the beginning of a new sentence) is, in effect, decapitating the head of Simon; I don’t care if it’s a common practice. It’s barbaric. If they want to split an infinitive, it’s okay with me, but where do they get off using a hyphen to mutilate \ a common name?   No wonder the kids can’t read or write when they are finished with school.      1230 p.m…  The Club mandates that $1000 be used for food and drink consumption by the end of August so I decide to have lunch at the club.  Man oh man, the vultures are swarming around the buffet table but I clear a path with my elbows.   A few of the diners start to object but when they see the expression on my face, they back off.        The price of the buffet is modest and I’ll never hit the thousand dollar mark that way, so I order a gin martini and settle back and check out my fellow diners.  Some of the men are wearing shorts; a ludicrous sight since the shorts are secured above or below potbellies which highlights their skinny legs.  Too bad they do not permit men to wear muumuus in the dining room.  Their outlandish appearance calls for a second martini.  Habits die hard so I check out the women.  I may be old, but I’m not dumb so don’t expect any comments from me. If you’re that curious, check the women out yourself.     I’m feeling the martinis, and decide to sober up by watching the golfers on the putting green.  Funny, they don’t look any different than I do and yet they have 5 votes to my 1.  I console myself; we are all equal even though some members are more equal than others.     3:00 p.m…  I have an appointment with the Manager of Bank of America and explain to him that the photocopies of the cancelled checks were making me unhappy.  I want to be able to balance my check book without using a magnifying glass and it’s important for me to know who endorses my checks.  He’s being extra solicitous but I have him over a barrel. The pre-merger deal with Merrill Lynch is starting to smell to high heaven and I wasn’t going to take any malarkey from him.  He gives me the usual crap about being a valued customer and he will see what he can do.  Little does he know that I will be asking for a daily progress report.  The previous manager asked for a transfer.  Good luck to him; he seemed to enjoy my daily visits.   If you can’t stand the heat, stay out of the kitchen.  Was it Harry Truman who said that?  Now there is a man I admire.      3:45 p.m…My hair is kind of shaggy so I decide to have my hair trimmed.  Joseph has been taking care of my hair for 15 years and in those years he’s gotten heavy, has varicose veins and is slowed up by tennis elbow, but he has a font of good jokes and will take me anytime I show up…no appointment necessary.  My kind of guy.  As soon as I opened up the door, he walked quickly to me, as if to embrace me but stopped short and said:  “Leon, I can’t take you today.  I just haven’t the strength for you.”     That’s the nicest compliment I’ve received all day.  “That’s alright, Joe.  I’ll see you tomorrow.”       It was time for me to spend some time with my friend Macallan so I head home where I’m greeted by the smell of baking chocolate chip cookies.       I pour myself a double and just about settle down, when the phone rings. I have caller I.D. which is great for avoiding dead-beats.  The call is from my first- born, a sweet, intelligent gal and I pick up the phone on the second ring.     “Hi, Sweetie.”’     “Hi, dad.  How’s it going?”     “Everything is fine, dear.  It’s hot, of course, and we had a brief shower, but all is good.  Mother is feeling fine and there are no alligators in the pool or pythons in the garage.”     “I don’t understand, dad, what’s going on>”    “Sorry, honey, that’s an inside joke.   It’s been an interesting day and mother and I are in for the evening.”     “It sounds good.  What did you do today?”     “I exercised this morning at the A.C.  The usual insomniacs are there before 6:00 a.m. but they’re nice people.  I took a shower in the men’s locker; plenty of hot water and a generic shampoo that’s as good as the perfumed junk we have at home.  You must try it the next time you visit.       I went home, had breakfast with mother and worked on my journal.  I often think that if Hemingway had a computer, he would have doubled his out-put.  Lunch at the club was satisfying; they must have a new chef.       “I had an interesting conversation with the new manager of the B of A; He seemed to know all about me as a long time client, and invited me to drop by as often as I liked.  He enjoys talking to me.       “I saw Joseph the barber and made an appointment have my hair cut tomorrow.Amazing how he’s aged in 15 years, but I wouldn’t think of seeing anybody else.Yup, it’s been a good day. What’s new at your end?”     “The usual stuff. Lou’s in Brazil, the kids go back to school this week and Roberta will be over for dinner tonight.  Everything is under control.  Is mom available?”     “I don’t think so, honey.  She’s in the kitchen making her chocolate chip cookies.”     “Dad, don’t forget to dunk the cookies for at least 30 seconds.  They’re good cookies, I know, but don’t forget to dunk.  Dentures are not the way they are portrayed on television.  You should try and preserve your teeth as long as you can. Do you understand?  Do not forget to dunk those cookies.  Okay?”     “I read you loud and clear honey.  Listen, I got to go.  I think I know how to end my story.  Call me tomorrow.  Okay?  Love you, honey.”

       It occurred to me whilst speaking to my daughter that I am cantankerous (difficult or irritating to deal with*) and certainly a curmudgeon(crusty, ill tempered, usu old man*).  My friends are right, of course, but if anybody took the time to scratch my thorny veneer with a compliment or two, they would discover that I’m just a little old pussy-cat. The persona I display as an ornery grouch serves me well but there is always room for improvement. For example, I have been offered a job opportunity as a doorman at a posh and popular lounge/night-club in

Miami providing I could be convincingly irascible.  I’m working on it; it’s a great job.’  It would be my responsibility to recognize and prohibit the admission of riffraff, and, conversely, to greet and escort the wealthy and well connected through the club’s heavenly gates.

Red Sea.   This would, in a small way, compensate those individuals who were exposed to my alter ego.

*Webster’s Ninth New Collegiate Dictionary, 1987   

     I don’t know where this story will go but I do know that if I just let the words flow, rehash what I previously wrote and resist the impulse to drop the whole damn thing, the words will crank out the first draft and, for better or worse, the finale will miraculously suggest itself.   We’ll see.

     The rain had stopped and all that remained were dark skies and a depression I couldn’t shake, not even with one martini. So there I was sitting at the bar in the club lounge, a solitary drinker, anticipating a scheduled rendezvous with my wife.  

She’s an avid canasta player and after her game, we meet and enjoy a pre-dinner cocktail.  It’s not a bad life-style and lord knows we’ve earned it.

     Anyway, I’m at the bar and in the mirror opposite me, I see some guy is giving me the eye. I check him out:  he’s about 5’ 10”, has a full head of brown hair and the khaki pants he is wearing are fashionably short of his boat-dockers.    I don’t know him and I can’t imagine why he’s interested in me.  If it’s the salmon colored shirt I’m wearing, he’s getting the wrong signal.

     What the hell, he’s getting up and coming over.  I gulp down the rest of my drink and swivel around to face him squarely, fangs bared.

     “Hi” he says, “can I ask you a personal question?”

     I’m starting to boil but before I can think of a suitable answer that won’t get me kicked out of the club, he continues:   “I miss your stories in the VIEWPOINTE.  Did you stop writing?”

     I feel like a fool and grin weakly, hoping my fangs have retracted.  “What makes you think I’m a writer?”

     He squeezes onto the stool next to mine, asking:  “Mind if I sit down?”  Before I can get my mouth in gear, he gets the attention of the barkeep, points a finger at my empty glass and then gestures to both of us.  He is smooth and I’m hooked.  “Come on, I know who you are!”

     “My writing is thing of the past.” I said “I’ve given up on it.”  Anybody who will stand for a drink is entitled to my life story.  Good thing he’s not buying dinner. “I’ve lost the touch; lost the drive, most of all, I have run out of ideas.”

     He swiveled his stool around and stared at me a good 30 seconds, long enough for me to drain my second martini.  “I’ve got an idea for you.  Why not write about me”?

     I can feel the usual irrepressible ‘second martini vacuous grin’ developing and I ask him point blank:  “Why would I write about you?”

 

     “I’m a polydactyl.  Do you know what that is?”

     “Sure, Trudy Monk was murdered by a polydactyl;  Hanibal Lecter was one also.  But you look okay to me.”

     “I have six toes on each foot.  It’s nothing to be ashamed of even though the two characters you mention are far from admirable.  Did you know that serious music has been written to be played with 12 fingers and there are many famous people with extra digits?”

     “Okay, if there is a scent of a story about your 12 toes and I write about it, what’s to stop you from suing me for violating your privacy?”

     “If you don’t use my name, you can write whatever you like and I’ll give you a release that will guarantee you’re off the hook.”

     I could see my wife entering the lounge, and slid off the stool.  “I’ll think about it; thanks for the drink.”  I managed to keep my gait steady as I walked in her direction.  “Hi, Babe.”

      “I can tell by your grin that you started without me.   No more drinks for you.  Let’s go to dinner.”  Waiting to be seated, she asked, as I knew she would:  “Who was that man you were talking to?”

     “Would you believe?  That character thinks I should write a story about him because he has 12 toes.  Actually extra digits are not that rare.   One out of every 500 births produces a polydactyl.”

      “Where did that come from?  Are you sure about your figures?”

     “Yeah, I’m sure.  I once dated a gal with six fingers on each hand. I had to drop her because she couldn’t keep her hands off of me.  It was weird.”

     “You wish.  But that fellow at the bar, if he is who I think he is, there is a story there.”

     “Really?”

     “He gets a pedicure at the same nail salon where I get my manicure.  The manicurists are Korean and don’t speak English…or at least pretend not to speak English.  About two weeks ago, I was getting a manicure and your bar-buddy came in for a pedicure. Once he came through the door, there was bedlam; all five manicurists were speaking at once.   The Korean cackle was ear-splitting.  I later learned that they all wanted to give the pedicure because, in their culture, 6 toes on each foot is a sign of sexuality and passion.

     “When his toes and feet were being massaged, everybody watched fascinated.  The only sound in the room was the hiss of the sterilizer.  I have never seen anything more sensuous.  Yes, my dear, I think there is a story here.”

       “Well Babe, as usual, what you said is foot [sic] for thought.  You certainly keep me on my toes, all ten.

                               ADVENTUROUS COUPLES SEEK PERFECT SPHERE

                                                       BY Leon Berger                                    

August 12, 2010:    

  Two couples, staunch friends and long time residents of Boca Pointe Country Club, embarked on a mission to St. Petersburg, Russia to seek out the reclusive Grigory Perelman, the mathematician who in the year 2003 solved the Poincare conjecture, proving that any three dimensional space without holes is a sphere.

     Three years later, in the year 2006, mathematicians throughout the world finally accepted Perelman’s proof and this year, 2010, Dr. Perelman was awarded a $1 million prize which he predictably refused.    Grisha, as he is sometimes called, is believed to be secluded in his mother’s house, where she attends to his laundry and cooks his meals.

 GENTLEMEN,SINCE NEITHER OF YOU ARE AUTHORIZED TO SPEAK ABOUT YOUR JOURNEY, AT YOUR REQUEST YOUR NAMES ARE BEING WITHHELD.  THERE IS THE SUGGESTION THAT YOUR PROPOSED TRIP IS FRAUGHT WITH PERIL.  WHAT IS SO DANGEROUS ABOUT YOUR TRIP?

ANSWER:   Big money is involved and our adventure will thrust us into an atmosphere where suspicion of Americans is rampant, passports mysteriously disappear and prisoners are fed schav.

DO YOU UNDERSTAND THE IMPORTANCE OF POINCARE’S CONJECTURE?

ABSWER:     We do.  For those who do not, we suggest they read WIKIPEDIA (‘what is a sphere’).  In fact our knowledge of spheres has improved our tennis and golf games.  We come in contact with spheres frequently and appreciate the importance Poincare’s work.    

DR. PERELMAN IS IN SECLUSION, HIDING OUT IN HIS MOTHER’ HOUSE..  WHAT MAKE YOU THINK, EVEN IF YOU LOCATE THE HOUSE, THAT HE WILL SEE YOU?

ANSWER:     We have been dealing with his emissaries and everything is lined up, including a guide to take us to where Grisha is currently residing.  He is definitely interested in meeting with us particularly because of our intention to manufacture a complete line of modified sports spheres. 

TELL ME ABOUT THE MODIFIED SPORTS SPHERES.

ANSWER:     We have blue-prints, calculations and primary models of modified spherical sports paraphernalia.  Creating a tunnel in the spheres which extends from pole to pole changes its aerodynamics.  When the sphere is in motion, air rushes through the conduit, creating new opportunities for skill and enjoyment.   Fortunately the integrity of the sphere is maintained for we have no desire to tamper with forms of nature.  Perelman is said to be intrigued by our theory that a 3 dimensional space with a tunnel is still a sphere.

ARE YOU PULLING MY LEG?   YOU ARE GOING TO CHALLENGE PERELMAN’S WORK WHICH HAS BEEN SCRIUTINIZED AND ACCEPTED BY THE WORLD’S FINEST MATHEMETICIANS. YOU ARE NOT MATHEMETICIANS OR PHYSICISTS.  WHEN DID YOU ARRIVE AT THIS COCKAMAMY THEORY?

ANSWER:    Call it a cockamamie theory if you will, but remember they laughed at Galilei .  In actuality, we did our brain-storming at a round-table in the Main Lounge, Our detailed business plan assures success, but if Dr. Perelman is not cooperative, we will go to Plan B.

WOULD YOU EXPLAIN PLAN B TO ME?

ANSWER;  :  Plan B involves a face to face meeting with the governing  statesmen  of the City of Kiev.  We have a recipe for Chicken Kiev that is made without butter and without chicken but with a great flavor that will knock your pants off.   The imprimatur of the City is important in our marketing plan.

HOW SOON DO YOU PLAN TO LAUNCH ‘CHICKENLESS KIEV’?

ANSWER:    If we get the cooperation of the Mayor of Kiev and if marijuana is legalized in the State of Florida, we will be ready to roll in about 3 months.

I TAKE IT YOU HAVAE SUBMITTED YOUR HYPOTHESIS TO DR. PERELMAN.  WHAT WAS HIS REACTION?

ANSWER;    Yes, we were able to get our manuscript into his hands and he made a minor correction:

  We omitted the accent aigu at the tail end of Dr. Poincare’s name. However he did express interest in

Meeting s and set up  a definite appointment.

THANK YOU GENTLEMEN.  GOOD LUCK AND BON VOYAGE.

August 23, 2010: The four adventurers have returned from their trip, flushed with excitement and as enthusiastic as ever.   Dr. Perelman could not keep our appointment since his clothes were being washed that day and he felt it inappropriate to receive us in his birthday suit. However they  did meet  his mother who was very charming and who graciously provided  permission to use their  proprietary method for stuffing blue cheese into martini size olives which she said “…was the greatest discovery  since sliced pumpernickel.”