Who Am I This Time?

"Life is like a train wreck, but If you stay seated and remain calm, you'll get through the worst parts.

Reid Laurence

"One - two - three - four..., the referee shouted, and as Kelsey watched and listened from his prone position on the floor of the boxing ring, the bright heavy duty lights in the ceiling seemed to blur together and the words in the count grew more and more distant, until finally, there was nothing. When the ringside doctor arrived at Kelsey's side, it was already too late. "He's not out, said the doctor. "He's dead.

"Oh shit, said Kelsey. "What happened? Did I win? My heads killin' me.
"No Kelsey, I'm afraid you didn't win that time. But on the subject of your head, continued a mysterious voice. "It won't hurt for long. The pain you're feeling is only a memory of the pain you felt just before you died. Give it a little time, it'll go away.
"Whaddaya mean, died? I'm alive ain't I? I'm layin' here talkin' ta you plain as day. What is this place anyway? It's just a bad dream ain't it. Well, it's time ta wake up now. Enough's enough. I got things I gotta do, like finish off that bum Calzone.
"Joey Calzone is the new WBA middleweight champ Kelsey. I just thought you should know. I'm sorry to have to tell you like this.
"No he ain't! I don't know what you're talkin' about, but that belt's mine. I earned it. You don't know the half of it. A lotta blood, sweat an tears went inta that damn belt. It's mine I tell ya. Mine! said Kelsey, as he stood up and pressed the thumb of his right hand to his chest, in an effort to claim ownership of the title he'd lost.
"Have it your way Kelsey. Whatever you want to believe, it doesn't matter now anyway, but sooner or later, you'll have to come to terms with it.
"Come ta terms with what? Who are you anyway? C'mon out so I can see ya. I'm tired a talkin' to a voice.
"I'm going to leave you for a while Kelsey. Leave you to your own thoughts, but before I go, I want you to start thinking of who you'd like to be this time around. It's all up to you Kelsey, whoever you want to be.
"What are you talkin' about! I'm Kelsey Leonard, that's who I am. I'm middleweight champ a the world that's who! You hear me?! yelled Kelsey, angered and shaking his clenched fist in the air.
"You'll catch on, said the voice. "In time, they all do.

After a long period of self study - finding no need for food or sleep or conflict of any kind, stubborn Kelsey Leonard finally came to the conclusion that life had indeed changed for him, and he realized that the life he was now living, wasn't really life at all as we know it, but a waiting room. A waiting room of infinite space and time. A place in which to rest for all eternity if he so desired, or a place where one could gather their thoughts, uninhibited by other people, or the common petty things that create jealousy, greed and hate in us all. This was the place where Kelsey took up residence for many, many years - which by his standards - were nothing more then a few passing moments and this was the place where Kelsey finally found himself. Striped of the need to prove himself or right any wrong, he finally realized that he wasn't Kelsey Leonard at all, but a combination of many who had come and gone before him, and many were the memories that took up his time in this refuge. So many memories of people great and small, so many accomplishments, achievements and acts of kindness and cruelty that at first, he became baffled by their sheer numbers. But upon all this time to reflect, he came to the conclusion that the voice he'd first heard after his untimely death, had come to him with a reckoning of truth, and the decision to move on, or to stay where he was lay only in himself. He was finally, the master of his own destiny.
"So, came the voice again, after many years of solitude. "Have you made any decisions yet?
"Like what? replied Kelsey.
"Concerning your future of course Kelsey, what else?
"Yes, I have.
"And...
"And I'd like ta go back.
"Fine, but you cannot go back as Kelsey Leonard. That life has already been lived to its fullest extent. Who - or what, for that matter - would you like to go back as? A dog, a cat, a king, a laborer, what then shall it be?
After a brief pause in deep contemplation, Kelsey finally answered to the voice he came to think of as his caretaker. "I wanna be smart, he said, almost defiantly. "I wanna be real smart. Kelsey, he was alright for a tough street punk, but in school, he was a first rate loser. Yes sir, I know what I want. I wanna be a doctor. I wanna discover some new medicine, an help people like no other. I thought about it for a long time, an now I'm sure. That's who I wanna go back as, a great doctor. No more clobberin' morons in a sweaty, smelly boxin' ring. No more.
"Very well then, replied the caretaker. "You'll have your wish, but it may take some time. There are many, many spirits here I must attend to. For now, visit with them if you like. Share your thoughts and stories of your past, but one day Kelsey, there will come a time when all this will change and the bright light of the sun will shine upon your face once again, this I promise.
"Thanks Mac, answered Kelsey. "I'm startin' ta miss all those things I used ta take for granted. Sunny skies, warm air, all that stuff. But I can wait. I got time.
"Yes indeed, replied the voice of Kelsey's caretaker. "You have time. Lots and lots of time. Good-bye now Kelsey. You won't be needing me anymore, for now at least.
"Be seein' ya.

"Doctor Cohen, you're wanted in emergency, announced the faceless voice over the intercom. "Doctor Cohen, you're wanted in emergency...
"Oh shit, said David Cohen, as he looked up from the corned beef sandwich he was eating. "This thing was too high in fat and calories anyway. Wonder what happened this time?
"That's half the fun isn't it Dave, replied Tom Kirkpatrick, another doctor on the hospital staff. "Not knowing what the hell to expect until you get there. Don't worry about the other half a that corned beef, I'll find a good home for it.
"I bet you will, answered David, as he stood up from the lunchroom table, neatly pushed his chair in and prepared to leave. "I can always count on you.
"That's the spirit tiger. Give 'em the ol' one, two, said Tom, standing up, while playfully taunting David in a boxing stance. Smiling, and still chewing a mouthful of his lunch, Tom raised his fist as if to catch David off guard with a right hook, but countering, David blocked with his left arm and swung through the air with his own quick, right hand. Stopping his fist before it came to its intended target. "Gotcha that time, remarked David.
"Somehow, you always do, replied Tom. "I don't understand it. Did you ever box for real, when you were a kid or something? You seem to have a natural affinity for it.
"Nope, never have, remember? We've been all through this before.
"Yeah, I remember. It just seems really strange if you ask me. Uncanny even. Oh well, continued Tom. "You'd better see to your patient. If you need me, page me okay?
"You're the first one I'll call, said David, as he walked from the lunchroom table, out the doorway and into the corridor of the modern, state-of-the-art hospital.
"What have we here? asked Dr. Cohen, as he leaned over a small boy who'd just arrived. A makeshift bandage loosely covered a wound on his head, which was still bleeding profusely and as the doctor began cutting the bandage to remove it, the boy flinched with pain. "Easy there champ, no one's going to hurt you. I just want to see what's going on under your bandage here...hmmm, he continued, "that's quite a nasty cut you've got there. How did it happen?
"I was ridin' my bike an some kid threw some kinda shiny disc at me. They're buildin' a new house in my neighborhood an I bet he found it there, in with a bunch a junk the carpenters left. It sorta whizzed right through my front spokes, an came up an hit me right in the head.
"We're just lucky it missed your eye. You'll be okay. What's your name anyhow?
"Donny, answered the boy. "I'm ten. I'll be eleven in July. I wanted my brother to go beat him up but he wouldn't.
"You mean, beat up the boy who threw it? That's not a real good thing to do you know.
"I know, but that boy who did it...he's a real bully. He always picks on kids. He deserves it. My dad went lookin' for him, continued the boy, "but you know, my dad's not gonna beat him up.
"Donny, replied Dr. Cohen. "I just want to say one thing about that, and then I'm going to put a few stitches in that cut of yours but don't worry, you won't feel a thing, I'll numb the pain for you. In my many years of experience Donny, remarked the doctor as he filled a syringe with a topical pain killer, "and I do have a few years on you. If there's one thing I've found to be true, it's that violence isn't always the best answer to violence. Do you understand?
"Yeah, I understand, said the boy. "But I can't help it. I get so mad, I just wanna bash him one.
"I know Donny, answered Dr. Cohen, purposely talking to the boy to keep him from focusing on his wound as he injected the numbing agent under his skin. "A lot of us feel that way sometimes. It's tempting to seek revenge on someone who's hurt us isn't it.
"It sure is doc.
"But it's not always the best way to resolve an issue Donny, unless there's just no other way. I would never tell you not to defend yourself, but reacting out of contempt, that's another story. Do you know what the great french general Napoleon once said? asked the doctor, as his deft hand worked to put the sutures into place.
"No, what'd he say?
"He said that those who live by the sword, shall die by the sword. And you know what that means to me? continued the doctor, closing the wound and helping the boy to his feet as he finished his sentence. "To me it means simply that what goes around, comes around. If you hurt too many people Donny, you'll only end up getting hurt yourself. You see?
"Yeah, I see.
"I hate to admit it Donny, but it darn near took me a lifetime before I realized that. Take it from me, it's true. Now lets go find your mom in the waiting room. What do you say?
"Okay.
"How do you do? asked Dr. Cohen, as he and Donny approached a woman who he assumed to be the boy's mother. She had an open magazine in her hands, and her attention was focused on a man seated next to her. A man who David believed was Donny's father, given the amount of attention she was giving him and the affable way she spoke. "You must be Donny's mother. I'm Dr. David Cohen, he said, offering his hand to the woman in an effort to introduce himself.
"Oh, she said, bluntly. Looking up for just a passing moment as the smile she'd been wearing suddenly turned to a frown, and the gum she incessantly chewed suddenly grew stale in her mouth, setting the tempo for her new mood, in keeping with her character. "Glad ta meetcha. How'd Donny do? He didn't talk your ear off did he? I swear, he's always talkin' my ear off, ain't that right Donny?
"No ma, that ain't right at all. I didn't talk his ear off, honest.
"Don't you talk back ta me young man, admonished Donny's rough edged, young mother. "If I have ta tell your father, he'll box your ears off.
"All I know is, Mrs..., began Dr. Cohen, searching for a last name.
"Cagliari. That's my name.
"Mrs. Cagliari then, Donny was a perfect gentleman, and a very brave one too I might add.
"Oh yeah? That's news. Anyway, thanks for patchin' him up. What do I owe ya?
"The nurse's at the service desk will help you there, I just thought I'd deliver Donny to you. I didn't want him to have to make the trip alone.
"What? asked Donny's mother, keen for an argument. "What are you tryin' ta say? I'm a bad mother? Is that it?
"Why no Mrs. Cagliari. Not at all, answered the doctor. Looking down at his watch, David searched for a reason to excuse himself. "I didn't realize what time it was. I really have to run now, but it was very nice meeting you, he said, forcing a smile as he looked on at Donny's mother, who'd slowly lost eye contact with him more out of anger then anything else. Then, turning to Donny, the doctor reached out his hand to give him an affectionate pat on the head, along with some parting advice. "You take it easy now champ, he said, "and remember what we talked about, okay? Take care now, he added, ruffing up Donny's light blonde hair before turning to walk away.
As the doctor slowly turned to leave the waiting room, he could hear Mrs. Cagliari questioning Donny, anxious to find out exactly what it was they'd talked about, as if it were some issue of great importance. "What'd he say to you? she asked him. "You tell me, she continued, taking him by both arms to get his complete attention and to scare him into giving her what she wanted. Looking back over his shoulder, Dr. Cohen couldn't help but notice the pitiful expression on Donny's face, as their eyes met one last time. It seemed to say, look at what I have to go through. Is it any wonder I feel the way I do. Turning away, he pushed the door open and entered the long corridor, clearing his mind as best he could to deal with the remainder of the day.

After his obligations had been fulfilled for the day, Dr. Cohen was just about to put his feet up and relax at home when suddenly, the phone rang.
"Do you know what time it is? asked the caller.
"Yes I do, answered David. "It's time for some potluck and eight hours of sack time if people will let me.
"Nope, replied the voice on the phone. "How'd you get through school with an attitude like that?
"I didn't know it was deficient Tom. Just where is my attitude at fault?
"I'll tell ya where, said Tom Kirkpatrick. "You're missing out on a world of fun, that's where.
"That's a matter of opinion Tom. Right now, sleep is the only thing I feel I'm missing out on. I'll see ya tomorrow.
"No, no! You're not getting away that easy you big baby you. Sleep is for children, I prescribe adult fun for you mister and you're gonna take your medicine. I'll be there in half an hour. After Tom finished giving his advice, he hung up the phone, got into the small imported sports car he'd only lately been able to afford and drove off down the road headed for David's condominium. David lived in an impressive neighborhood in a part of town where very little violence ever occurred. Violence, thought David, was a product of poverty and of those who feel less then satisfied with themselves and their surroundings. At least he felt, that was the usual pattern, or course of events among the many disturbed patients who David came into contact with on a nearly daily basis. It was mostly poor neighborhoods which fostered such unspeakable violence, but wealthy people were not exempt from such fatalities. Suicide and death from drug overdose was an apparent flaw in the middle and upper middle classes that ran deep. So much so, that he found nearly as many fatalities in any given situation, either with money or without.
Just as David was finishing dinner, a knock came at the door. Knowing who it must be, he took his time in answering it.
"Who is it? he asked smiling, knowing full well who it was but nonetheless, determined to make Tom wait in return for the way he'd been pushed into going out against his will.
"It's your new neighbor, came a female voice from the opposite side of the door. "I just moved in one floor above you.
"Oh, hello, replied David, opening the door to reveal a very shapely new neighbor. "I remember seeing you around the building. Come on in, he added. "What can I do for you?
"I didn't want to bother you, but I was in the middle of making cookies when I realized I was out of sugar. I guess I'm not very good at keeping track of things am I?
"Nonsense, replied Dr. Cohen. "It could happen to anyone. Besides, who am I to judge you? Half the time, I can't even find matching socks. Why don't you have a seat and relax while I get you the sugar. How much do you need?
"Just a cup would be great. Thanks so much. Do you mind if I ask you a question? she said, as David turned and walked toward the kitchen.
"What's that?
"I can't help showing my curiosity. I hardly ever see you around, she added. "Do you mind if I ask what keeps you so busy? If I'm being too nosy just tell me.
"I don't mind. You're not being nosy. I'm a doctor, he replied, as he closed the pantry door and looked around the kitchen cabinets for a coffee cup. "But I haven't always been a doctor you know.
"Pardon me? asked his pretty guest. "I'm not sure I understand.
"Oh gosh, I've worked every two-bit job you can think of to try and help my parents with the cost of medical school but I'll tell you, being a doctor keeps me pretty busy, and you wouldn't believe some of the things I see. You name it, he said, walking back into the living room where his guest sat patiently waiting. "I've seen everything from stab wounds and bullet holes to motorcycle accidents and...
Interrupted by the doorbell in mid sentence, David put the cup of sugar down on a table beside his guest, excused himself and walked to the door to answer it. "Who is it? he asked, smiling all the while. "As if I didn't know, he said, opening the door to reveal his good friend, Tom Kirkpatrick.
"Wow, said Tom, as he laid eyes on David's new guest. "Don't just stand there, introduce me.
"Okay, okay, replied David. "Don't lose your cool. We haven't even gotten that far yet, have we, Miss...?
"Adams, answered the girl. "Joanne Adams, and I'm very glad to meet you.
"Likewise, replied Tom. "I'm glad to meet you too. I was just feeling sorry for all-work-and-no-play David here when I walked in and found you!... David, he said, as he turned from Joanne to Dr. Cohen. "The Lord works in mysterious ways doesn't He?
"He certainly does Tom. You know..., continued David, reflecting on some long since, buried memory. "I remember the time when I...
"Hey, interrupted Tom. "I got a great idea. Why don't the three of us do the town? Did you have anything planned for tonight Joanne?
"Not at all, she replied. "Unless you consider making cookies a priority.
"Cookies are fine but they don't take the place of a good steak, answered Tom, "and I know just the place where we can get one. How long will it take you to get ready? he asked Joanne.
"All I have to do is get my coat.
"Fine. We'll meet you downstairs in five minutes. How's that? continued Dr. Kirkpatrick.
"Sounds like a plan, responded Miss Adams, as she picked up the cup of sugar David had given her and gracefully walked to the door. "It's not every day a girl gets to go out with two doctors, she said, with one hand on the handle of the open door. "How lucky can one girl get?
"Holy cow! replied Tom, as the door closed behind Miss Adams. "How lucky can two overworked bums get? I swear, good times just run after you Dave.
"Yeah right, said David, putting on his coat and walking toward the door. "Every ten years or so anyway.

When the threesome arrived at Shannon's, a nightclub Tom often frequented, it was nearly eight p.m. Looking around, David couldn't help noticing the crowd gathered around a piano player who was singing an old Frank Sinatra song from nineteen sixty-five called; How Old Am I? As David caught the attentive eye of the hostess, the song's lyrics filled every room of the club and very little else could be heard above the unknown but handsome crooner...
"...If I make you happy today, I'm the perfect age,
as for tomorrow...turn the page.
"What a pretty song that was, remarked Joanne, turning to meet David's eyes. "I never realized that time was an issue to a man like Sinatra.
"It's important to all of us isn't it? he answered. "We only have so much of it to try to live out our dreams.
"You sound like you're one of those, better have fun while you can type of people.
"I am, replied David. "After a while in my profession, you just learn to accept the limitations of a life span. Their conversation made brief by the seating hostess, David turned his attention away from Joanne. "How many in your party sir? she asked.
"Just us three, he replied.
"Hmm, she uttered, looking down at a list of various names she kept. "I've got a booth just about ready. How would that be?
"Terrific, said Tom. "We'll take it. Is it close to the stage?
"Practically on it, answered the hostess, smiling at her own jest. "Just give me a name and I'll call you when it's ready.
"Cohen, said David. "Dr. Cohen.
"Very well Dr. Cohen. You can make yourself comfortable at the bar if you like, but I don't think we'll need any more then five minutes to get your table ready.
"Great, said Tom. "That's a good idea. I could use a blast off the old cork, couldn't you Dave?
"I suppose. Just one to be sociable wouldn't hurt.
"Oh c'mon Dave. You gotta learn to loosen up a little. You know, continued Tom, taking Joanne by the arm and leading her to the bar. "The Jewish people were never known for their drinking habits.
"Probably better known for their lack of it, then a propensity for it, interjected David.
"There you go old man, that's just the point I was trying to make.
"I can see where this is going, replied David, pulling out a bar stool for Joanne and himself. "He's always trying to get me to booze it up.
"Well, it wouldn't hurt you to have a little fun sometimes, that's all I'm saying. A man just can't live by the book every day of his life. You've got to take the time to stop and smell the roses, or life will just pass you by. Am I wrong or what? I mean, is work all we have to live for?
"Okay Tom, replied David. "You made your point. I'll have two, how's that? Two drinks but that's my limit. I've got to get up early tomorrow you know old man, he continued. "This isn't just about my heritage or the way I was brought up. You try waking up at six with a hangover.
"Touche Dr. Cohen. Here, just to show you what a right guy I am, this round's on me, said Tom, motioning to the bartender. "What'll it be? And don't say sarsaparilla, I've heard that one before.
"Scotch on the rocks.
"Make that two, said Tom, as the bartender listened to his order. "Joanne, he continued. "Forgive me. I didn't mean to be rude. What would you like?
"Oh, don't worry about it. Make mine a whiskey sour.
As the bartender turned away to make their drinks, Tom struck up a conversation with Joanne to try to get to know her. She was a good listener, he thought, as he talked about the hardship of being a physician at a big city hospital. It's "not for squeamish people, that's for sure, he said, stressing all the accidents he'd seen; injurious suicide attempts that didn't conclude in death, or even attempted murder, any of which were not pretty sights and some, left terrible memories in the minds of not only the victims, but also in the doctors who tried to save them, only to bring them back to a world where waking hours have been known to turn to living nightmares. "It's a wonder, explained Tom, "Dave and I can sleep at all sometimes, isn't it Dave?
"You got that right, answered Dr. Cohen, beginning to feel the effects of the first few sips of alcohol he'd taken, making his attitude more brash and his speech just a little less capable. "To tell you the truth Joanne, I take a little sleeping pill before I go to bed, just so I won't wake up in the middle of the night wondering why I go through what I do. It's not just the unnatural sights I have to look at from time to time, but the lawsuits are just crazy. Some doctors can't afford their insurance any more and get sick of the whole thing. It's a terrible thing to watch your life's dream of being a physician go down the tubes with someone's loved one who you just couldn't save. But try to explain yourself to a grief stricken spouse or relative who'd sooner turn their sorrow to vengeance then hear you out.
"Wow, spoke Joanne. "I guess I never stopped to think about all the rough spots you guys have to try to smooth over. I just knew when I was a kid that medical stuff wasn't for me. The sight of blood and all...you know what I mean?
"I know exactly what you mean, answered Tom. "It's a big load a crap sometimes, isn't Dave? he continued, now feeling the effects of the drink he'd just finished and becoming more familiar in his mood with each passing moment. "But let me just add that it's next to impossible to try to tell what somebody else is going through without actually going through it yourself. I know you understand. It's occurred to all of us at one time or another, and I don't mean to belittle you, you're a very nice girl. I just always felt that way about my own problems or anyone else's for that matter. It's all just a bunch of talk, no matter how explicit we can get. It's our problem anyway. I'm sure you have your own crap to deal with, but all I can do is just sit here and try to understand what you're going through, never having lived through it myself.
"Thanks Tom, said David smiling. "I'm enjoying your philosophical insight.
"Don't mention it. Anytime I can be of service, just ask.
Just then, as Tom finished speaking, the hostess called David's name over the restaurant's intercom...Dr. Cohen, she announced. "Party of three, your table's ready. Dr. Cohen, she repeated, "your table's ready.
"Well, said David jokingly. "Either that means our table's ready or we're wanted in emergency again. Which do you think?
"You can go to emergency if you want, I'd rather eat. By the way, continued Tom, as the hostess arrived to show them the way to their table. "They make a great burger here served on dark bread, you really should try it.
"Can I get onion rings? asked Joanne.
"Oh yeah, one of the best parts of the meal, replied Tom. "They come in big blocks right out of the fryer. I prescribe an order with dinner.
"Good for your heart too, I'm sure, quipped David, as the three prepared to leave the bar and walk to the booth which was by now, completely cleared and waiting for them.
Following the hostess, with his drink in his hand, David noticed a large overweight man sitting off to the side of the narrow aisle they walked along. He noticed him as the man cocked his head and seemed to scrutinize David with one, wide open eye. The watchful man was well dressed - in a dark colored suit with a neatly pressed white shirt - and when David returned his glance, he raised a glass he'd been holding and took a sip from it, as if to prepare himself before saying or doing something. Whichever the case was anyone's guess, but the man's body language was as transparent as the glass he held.
"Dirty Jew, murmured the man, as David walked by his table.
"Huh? What? asked David, shocked by the sudden assault and unsure of what he thought he heard. "Did you say something?
"I said 'dirty Jew', repeated the man, as he pushed his chair back to rise slowly to his feet in front of David. "Why would you want to eat here anyway? Can't you see? Everyone here is white. Expecting David to brood over what he'd said, the large man merely pushed the sides of his suit coat back and rested his hands on his waist as if to ask, 'why are you still here breathing my air?'
Looking back at Joanne and Tom who were standing just a few feet behind him, David set his drink down beside the stranger's, and acted as if he were in no rush to react in any way at all. Then, with the same air of surprise that the stranger had acted on in an effort to abuse and humiliate, David started swinging. It wasn't the type of thoughtless, reckless display of barroom brawlers, but the well planned and efficiently executed attack of someone who knew what they were doing. A hard right hook - which sent the man's head reeling to one side - followed by the equal and opposite force of David's left. This second impact cost him a broken nose and immediately, blood dribbled from his nostrils revealing the damage of the bitter shock. But no sooner had David's torso recovered from twisting in the direction of its force - as a vector with magnitude and direction traverses its path - he drove his right fist to the solar plexus, in the pit of the man's gut, knocking the wind out of him and dropping him to his knees, where in the opinion of many, he belonged.
As David stood over the offensive, surprised patron he wore the unmistakable appearance of a professional boxer waiting for his opponent to rise up from the canvas, with legs perfectly spread apart at shoulder width; feet at right angles to each other to lend proper balance to the upper body, and both fists clenched tightly, pausing only to give fair chance, but only too willing to resume the attack if necessary.
"Hey buddy, said Tom, as he placed a hand on David's shoulder. "C'mon, you can quit now. He's done, it's over. Call off the dogs.
"Huh? answered David, as if awakening from a dream. "Shit, what'd I do? he said, finally taking notice of his own two clenched fists, and dropping his guard.
"Hey, questioned Tom, jesting over the situation. "Does this mean we have to leave? Could you take a break from your fight itinerary long enough to eat something? I'm so hungry I could eat my shoe, and all you can think of doing is beating up on fat Nazis's.
"Oh, I'm sorry Tom, Joanne, forgive me. I don't know what got into me. I snapped. I just went over the edge.
"Hell, you just did what you had to do Dave. I heard what he called you. I would've done the same thing, said Tom. "Maybe not as gracefully executed, but I can't speak badly of your reaction.
"Sir, said the headwaiter who approached them in a huff. "You'll have to leave now sir. We can't allow fisticuffs in our nightclub. I hope you'll understand.
"Sure, I understand, answered David, thinking of making a beeline for the door as all or most of the patrons in the restaurant were watching his every move - making him feel very uncomfortable - and most of them disapproving of what they'd seen. "A grown man fighting, remarked an older lady at a nearby table, between sips of her manhattan. "I swear, things like that just didn't happen in my day. The world just keeps getting worse and worse. Don't you agree Harold?
"Why? replied her aging husband, sawing off another bite size portion of the porterhouse steak on his plate, with the tempered, serrated edge of his knife. "Far as I can see, the world ain't changed much at all. We've changed, that's for sure, but the world's just the same as it ever was. You gonna finish yer tater? I'll take it if you don't want it.
"Here! she replied, dumping it in her husbands dish with a thud. "Can't you ever agree with me?
"Now Harriet, he began to say. "What kinda world would this be if everyone up an agreed with each other all the time? Pretty borin' if you ask me. Now be a good girl an pass the salt, would ya?
"Damn, exclaimed Tom, in the midst of all that had just happened. "Am I ever gonna get ta eat tonight? Somewhere back there in that kitchen, there's a burger on dark bread with my name on it.
"Don't worry about it, answered Joanne, leading the two men towards the door. "I pass a steak house every day on my way to work. The night's still young.
"And so are we, quipped Tom, holding open the big glass restaurant doors for his two friends. "Did you see the way Davy hit that guy? One, two, three. Like Swiss watch timing, that's what it was. Now you can't tell me you just picked that up one day while walking through the park, he went on, looking squarely at David. "Fess up. You must've at least taken lessons.
"Nope, replied David. I've got nothing to confess. I just got mad, that's all.
"If you say so..., answered Tom, still finding it hard to believe in David's explanation of himself. "But I was wondering if you'd like to be my bodyguard? Whaddaya say? The pay's not great but the hours coincide with the one's you're already keeping.
"I'll think about it, replied David, on the walk back to the car.
"Don't think too long buddy, it's a rough world out there and I'm just a brawler compared to the likes of you. You're a finely tuned fighting machine, you are.
"Yeah sure, answered David. "Joanne will you tell him I just got mad and that's all there is to it. Now, he continued. "Who's driving this boat? I'm gonna sit in back and brood for a while. I haven't been in a fight in as long as I can remember. I'm really angry with myself.
"Don't get mad David, get even. That's what they say isn't it? Believe me, that Nazi bastard had it coming. You did the right thing, just forget about it. In a little while, we'll be at...where will we be anyway Joanne.
"Ryan's Steak House, that's where. she said. "You guys just sit back and leave it to me, I know what I'm doing.
"You can't make any worse decision then me, said David, beginning to brow beat himself, watching traffic pass them by from the back seat of the car. "That's for damn sure.

"I need to do more out there Tom. I'm just not doing enough.
"What did you have in mind?
"I'd like to put in some hours at the clinic.
"I've got just one thing to say about that Davey boy...Remember the Hippocratic Oath?
"Of course I do. What about it?
"Remember the part that goes; Nor will I give a woman a pessary to procure abortion. Well, don't mind me but I thought it was good timing on my part to remind you of it.
"Good timing? To remind me of something written so long ago, now, in today's modern world? An ancient oath, nearly twenty five hundred years old. How is it even significant Tom? Really, I never thought you'd pull that on me.
"I can do better then that Dave - and I mean no offense - but I don't think the Jewish people understand. It's more an issue among Christians.
"Tom, began David, taking his feet from their position on his office desk and moving them to the floor. "If I could convince myself that thousands of young girls who realize they've made a terrible mistake don't need my help, then I would never have mentioned it, but as far as I can see, there's only one path left for me to follow - my own discourse on the subject. A modernized version of the oath you mentioned, for today's world. If you don't mind my saying so, you really should write yourself an updated version. If we continue to take two steps back, for every step forward, we may as well chuck it all and live in the Dark Ages.
"This is where we differ Dave, replied Dr. Kirkpatrick, rising from his chair to leave. "I became a doctor to save and preserve life, not kill it off.

As time went on, Dr. Cohen began putting in part time hours at a clinic located within a few blocks of the hospital, which made it convenient for him to walk back and forth, from one job to the other. The part of the new job that bothered him though, was the part which would have bothered anyone..., the heated arguments and confrontations he found himself involved in with some of the many pro-life people who picketed the clinic, were a drain on his emotional energy. Time and time again, people stopped him in front of the clinic to tell him how wrong he was to do what he was doing. Even though his answers to their arguments were intelligent and well thought out, he tired of explaining himself, and the more tired he got, the more he questioned his resolution, and the more he wondered why his work went unappreciated among so many. In time though, he'd become a kind of martyr who would not, and could not, back down from his ideology. In the past, he'd always seen himself as a healer of the sick and needy, but recently, he'd come to believe in himself as a kind of helper, and representative of good, giving assistance to those who he believed, needed it most of all. For even though he wasn't resolving the age old struggle between life and death at the clinic, he saw his work as a necessary antidote, and an answer to many a young girl's plea for help. Help to those who were too young even to take care of themselves, let alone, a tiny, needy infant.
Try as he did to avoid conflict, David happened to meet a man picketing one day who also refused to back down from his own brand of ideology, and moral, religious conviction. A man, who it seemed to David, was not going to let up or disappear any time soon. In fact, as the days turned to weeks, this man hounded David more and more. He waited for him to arrive each day, and each day he called David different shameful names like; murderer, or cold-blooded killer. "How do you sleep at night? he asked David, one foggy, gray morning. "How do you sleep knowing what a butcher you are?
"That's easy, replied David. "I only have to focus on all the good I've done to get loathsome idiots like you off my mind and neatly categorized in a special little place I like to call; purgatory.
"You're the one going to hell you sinner! screamed the man, as David opened the door of the clinic. "You and all the rest of the butchers in there. You help run a death camp, don't you realize that. You're no better then a Nazi!
"That's where you're wrong, answered David. "I help, I don't hinder. I heal, I don't harm, and I pity the poor and sick of mind who can't seem to understand that. By the way..., he continued, pulling his shirt sleeve back to check his wrist watch. "I'm very busy. Don't you have someplace to go? A job or something? Ever think of getting a life?
"You'll pay you sinner! You'll pay! screamed the man, as the door closed behind David, who walked beyond the inner vestibule down a corridor to the nurse's station, leaving behind him his own shrinking image in the dark glass of the foyer door, and his words. Words which seemed to rise above those of the protesters, not so much out of right or wrong, but of conviction to his duty as a physician, and the way he saw fit to perform the job.
Weeks went by and turned into months since David's first chance meeting with the fanatic protester, and others like him, who he'd met on his way in to work. On many occasions, David found himself in the company of some very young women, usually in the seventeen to twenty-three year old age bracket, who came to him out of desperation and to confess that they'd made a terrible mistake in getting pregnant. But David listened to their confessions with an open mind and from the very start, knew enough not to blame them for making this one, very human error. An error which he felt, anyone could have made. "Don't take it out on yourself, he said one day, as he counseled a particularly young girl who'd arrived with her mother. "How old are you? he asked her. "Sixteen?
"I'm fifteen and a half, she replied.
"You're young, answered David. "Very young. Nobody blames you for what happened.
"Oh yeah? she said, looking at her mother, who returned a look of anger and misdeed. "Tell that to my mother.

Then one day between patients, roughly a year after he'd begun work at the clinic, as David sat looking out his office window, he heard someone knocking at his office door. Turning around in his chair to face who'd come to visit - one of the nurse's he presumed - David called out in a welcoming tone of voice, as it was his habit to do, for his visitor to enter. Shocked at who he saw as the door swung open, David tried to regain composure of himself and act as if nothing out of the ordinary was taking place, when in fact, it was.
"Do you know what time it is? asked the man who'd hounded David for months.
"How did you get in here? replied David. "You never should've gotten past the nurse's station.
"Never mind how I got here. I asked you a question. Do you know what time it is?
"It's time for you to get the hell out of my office and stop bothering me before I press charges, answered Dr. Cohen, standing up from behind his desk to emphasize, and put meaning to his words.
"Very well, said the unwelcome visitor. "If you won't answer me, I'll tell you what time it is..., It's time for you to confess your sins while there's still time to do it, because for you Dr. Cohen..., he continued, as he reached into his coat to reveal a small, snub nose thirty-eight caliber hand gun. "Time is running out.
Amazed at the turn of events, and by the actions of the man now standing before him - brandishing the polished, nickel plated weapon - David contended to calm himself in the face of danger, finally realizing the nature and urgency behind the man's visit. "What do you want from me? he asked, speaking and gesturing in such a way as to hopefully, gain time in what now had become, a struggle for survival.
"It's not so much what I want, replied the fanatic gunman. "I don't want to appear selfish. What I do, I do for the good of all. I'm killing the killer, and it's about time too.
"You know how many years in prison you'll get for killing me? answered David, doing his best to stall for time.
"Oh, I don't know. Five, ten, who's counting?
"Ten if you're lucky. How does twenty-five years sound to you? You might like it. Twenty-five years of answering to the word 'bitch'. Getting passed around by the inmates like a new toy. And think of all the good you'd be doing for society, up at five every morning...you can make a hell of a lot of license plates in twenty-five years. Think about it.
"I've done my thinking you godless animal. I can't say where you'll end up after this, but I'm confident that God will reward me. Now let me reward you for the work you've done here, offered the man, nervously shaking the revolver he held in his two sweating hands, and pointing it straight at David's head. "It's only fitting, he said, as he squeezed the trigger with the index finger of his right hand, sending the lead projectile hurtling through space, and straight for David's forehead.

"Oh shit, said Dr. Cohen. "What happened? My heads killing me.
"Those are familiar sounding words. Where have I heard them before?
"I don't know, replied the ailing doctor. "Why don't you tell me. Where am I anyhow?
"Why do people always ask the same questions? answered the loud, mysterious voice. "Don't you remember me?
"Oh no! Answered David, after a few moments in thought. "You mean, I died... again? How many times does that make now?
"Who's counting David? What I want to know is, were you happy with yourself that time around? Were you satisfied with your intellectual prowess? As I recall, you wanted to be intelligent more then anything. You wanted to be a doctor, isn't that right? You wanted to help people. How did it all turn out?
"Okay, until some lunatic decided I was hurting more then helping. I was never going to change his mind. The last thing I remember, I was on the wrong side of a handgun. Strange how easily your life's ambitions can go up in smoke, with just one simple pull of a trigger.
"But before that happened, were you happy?
"I suppose. Well..., not as happy as I thought I'd be. I didn't realize all the terrible things I'd have to witness and go through. Patients dying; young, old, it hardly mattered, it was all so sad. Handicapped people; disease stricken; accident victims - let's just say, I'm not real anxious to go through it again.
"You don't have to. You're here now David. You can stay for as long as you like, or if you wish, you can go back to the world of the living, and try to make amends. Right any wrong, or erase any mistake you feel you may have made, it's up to you. What do you think?
"I think I could use a rest, replied David. "But just the same, I'd like to go back.
"Very well, answered the Caretaker, as David had come to know him from many previous encounters. "As who, or what?
"I think I'd like to let the chips fall where they may, said David, thinking pensively as he spoke with one hand to his chin. "Why don't I leave that decision to you. I've tried so many times to plan things in advance, and so many times I've felt those plans weren't worth the time I spent on them. Why don't you decide for me. Whatever you deem appropriate, that's who I'll go back as.
"Then so be it, David. The next time around will be a complete and total surprise.
"It may as well be, answered David. "I don't think it matters much anyhow.

It was a cold, rainy day in Chicago when the massive jet airliner touched down on its runway, taxied to its terminal and finally came to a halt, but when the people on board began to file out of the plane and into the waiting area, the actual number of passengers, it was found, amounted only to some five or so people, not including the pilot and crew. But the weight that this handful of people carried more then made up for their lack in numbers, as each well groomed person either held office as a top executive in one of the biggest, and most powerful corporations in the world, or was personal assistant to the CEO who they accompanied.
Once the group had assembled in the waiting area at their gate, they barely had time to ask questions before they were swiftly, whisked away by porters and a chauffeur who accompanied them to a waiting limousine and brought them to their hotel destination - The Palmer House, seated majestically on East Monroe Street, overlooking Lake Michigan.
Shown to their respective rooms - all of which were on the same floor, very nearly adjacent to each other - every member of the entourage longed for some time to themselves before the big meeting that was about to take place that evening, in the large conference room of the hotel. It was a meeting of great importance, not so much to the staff who'd just begun to settle in, but mostly to the company whose very future lay in the hands of just five, handpicked men. Five men who were about to determine the life or death of the nearly defenseless corporation in question. Five men in whose hands lay the fate of thousands of workers, and thousands of families, all with the same questions in mind..., "How will we go on making ends meet if we lose our jobs? How will we put food on the table? Questions not of stock yield or percent gain, but of basic human needs, primary to the instinct of survival.

"Gentlemen, announced the CEO, sitting at the head of an aging but still attractive and very long, walnut table. "We all know why we're here today, so why don't we just get right down to business. He continued, raising his arm and pointing out the many, varied, computer drawn three-dimensional bar graphs, pie charts and graphs that littered the table and stood like little soldiers behind his chair. "We've gone over and over the numbers and projections concerning the ill health, and the feasibility of bringing a tired old company like LitTelComm back to life. What we don't need right now are more charts and graphs. I don't know about you, he added, looking around at the stiffly seated men at the conference table. "But for me the number crunching is over. What we need to do now - to put it bluntly, and excuse my French if you will - is to shit, or get off the pot.
"Right Bill, said the man seated next to the speaker. "Exactly. That's exactly what we need to do.
"And dammit! Stop agreeing with me all the time Berger. Show me some backbone and give me your real interpretation of this merger. I want your honest opinion.
"Well, ahem, began the man named Etan Berger, clearing his throat and stalling for time. "I'm still not sure sir. As everyone knows...
"I don't have anymore time to wait for you Berger, replied the CEO, cutting his aide off in mid-sentence. "Who's got an intelligent viewpoint to add right now, before I tell you what I've been thinking? Yes? added the curt speaker, upon seeing one lonely arm raise at the opposite end of the table.
"Sir, started the brazen young man. "Although the people at LitTelComm have already begun laying workers off in a desperate attempt to stay afloat, and it's true that their stock shares have fallen to an all time low, I still believe that with some work and diligence, giving special attention to the way we handle customer service - that LitTelComm will show larger profits then ever before.
"And what hard facts can you give us to substantiate your theory? asked the CEO, rising from his chair to walk around the table, glancing now and then at each man as they sat with their backs to him taking careful notes.
"I can only offer as fact LitTelComm's track record during it's first few years of operation. Also, I believe we're all aware of the fact that the companies customer service skills were sadly lacking. (You just can't run an efficient communications company without skilled, pleasant workers taking call-ins), and one more thing...
"Yes, replied the executive officer. "What's that?
"Just my gut feeling sir. That's all I can say. There's really nothing wrong with LitTelComm that a little restructuring wouldn't solve. Good workers are just plain people, like all of us in attendance here today. All we need do is weed out the few employees who refuse to treat paying customers the way they expect to be treated, and reward the ones who will. If you want my opinion sir, I'd complete the merger.
"Good, replied the chairman. "I couldn't have said it better myself. There's just one thing that bothers me about what you said.
"What's that sir?
"The reward you spoke of. I'm not about to finance any bonus program along with the burden of acquiring LitTelComm. That's out of the question.
"Oh no sir. By reward, I merely meant to establish a type of incentive program, which would enable some of the best workers to attain rewards for outselling and outperforming other associates. In other words sir, a pat on the back if you will, and a small piece of the pie as gratuity.
"Excellent! I like the way you think. What's your name young man?
"John, sir. John Dillinger.
"Huh? Who? asked the confused looking chairman, now turning his head away from the gifted young man who'd garnered his interest, to the spot in which sat Mr. Etan Berger. Mr. Berger was by now, clutching his chest in agony and writhing wildly on the floor like a man possessed. But even as they watched, Berger's sudden lurching movements gave way to an even more shocking appearance of motionless, stone cold death.
"Quick! yelled the fast thinking CEO. "Call the front desk! I need an A.E.D. pronto. And call an ambulance. This man's in cardiac arrest!
"What's an A.E.D. sir? asked one of the board members, as most of the others seated at the table looked around at each other with a confused, questioning look on their faces. "Nobody seems to know.
"It's an Automated External Defibrillator! Never mind, he continued. "Just be quick and call 9-1-1.
As the shaken executive left the conference room - bursting through the big double doors, running down the ornate, red carpeted hall of the stately old hotel toward the front desk - he couldn't help but wonder how, or where, the chairman had picked up knowledge of such a specific nature - like knowing what the heck to do with an A.E.D., or more simply, knowing what it was in the first place, especially when no one else in the room, out of an impressive list of ivy league graduates knew the first thing about what Bill Kildare was talking about. No one in the room had ever given Cardiopulmonary Resuscitation either, but even before the youthful volunteer had left the room, all eyes watched as Bill threw himself to the side of Etan and began working to first; clear the air passage of any possible obstruction, and then; to force air into Etan's lungs by mouth to mouth resuscitation. After roughly two minutes of this, and seeing no change in Etan's condition, the grey haired chairman began a series of chest compressions at thoughtfully planned intervals, to hopefully maintain blood flow to major organs - allowing for periods of resuscitation in between. Then, as the wail of an ambulance siren could be heard, screaming down the crowded city streets outside, Etan began to show signs of coming to consciousness. Gasping for a breath of air under his own power, his chest heaved upward and then back down, much to the relief of everyone in the room, but mostly, to Bill Kildare, who from Etan's point of view, had just given him the gift of life, and with it, the spirit of eternal gratitude.
"Oh God, what happened? said Etan, in a very hoarse, labored tone. "Mr. Kildare, you saved my life. I've got a wife and two little girls at home. I can't thank you enough.
"Never mind Berger, replied the heroic CEO, getting to his feet as the paramedics rushed into the room. "You rest up now and take some time off. Don't worry about it. I'm sorry if I was hard on you. Your job will still be here when you get back.
Lifting Etan to a waiting gurney, the paramedics began the journey back to the University Of Illinois Hospital on Taylor Street, but as they rolled Eaton down the hallway, the same young man who'd rushed to call them found himself in the thick of things once more, boldly facing his curiosity, intrigued by skills he never realized his own boss had acquired. But how?, He thought. That was the question.
"Excuse me Mr. Kildare, asked the inquisitive exec by the name of Iben Verkin. "But I never realized you had CPR training. How in the world did you ever find time for it with the kind of busy schedule you keep?
"To tell you the truth Iben, answered the puzzled chairman as he scratched his head. "I can't really say where I learned to do that. I know I like to watch medical shows on television when I get the chance. Maybe I just absorbed it without realizing. Sure, he continued. "That must be it. I watch so much a that stuff, it just sunk in. But now then, he went on, raising his voice appropriately to address the entire staff. "Without further delay, why don't we all sit back down in our chairs so we can come to some kind of decision concerning LitTelComm. Who's taking minutes here?
"Berger was Sir, replied Iben. "But I can pick up where he left off.
"Great Verkin. Now then, where were we?
"Just one thing sir, interrupted Iben, anxiously searching for an answer to the question he had on his mind. "I still can't understand how you knew what an Automatic External watch-a-ma-callit was. It sounds like pretty specific knowledge to me Sir.
"That's an Automated External Defibrillator Verkin, and I already told you, I must've picked it up watching T.V.
"Hard to believe Sir.
"Drop it will you Verkin. We've got hundreds of millions at stake here in this merger. Don't make me remind you again.
"Yes sir, answered the bewildered exec.
"Now then, began the chairman. "Lets get back to the business of the day, shall we?
"Ah, Sir? asked Iben.
"What is it now Verkin.
"Nothing sir. It's just that, I've never taken minutes before and I'm going to need a little time to get things down on paper. Do you think you could speak a little more slowly? It would help me a great deal if you did.
"I'll see what I can do Iben. I don't need another heart attack on my hands today, one was enough. Good God, continued the CEO, looking up at the ceiling and back again at the seated board members. "In my day, a man didn't fold up and die over a little pressure. But if we were due for a heart attack, we had them in private and didn't disrupt important business matters. Now can we please get back to the issue at hand?
"Yes Sir, replied Iben, staring down at the fingers of his folded hands. "But could I interject here for just a moment?
"You might as well Verkin. Our schedule's all blown to hell anyway. What is it this time?
"Well..., Sir. I couldn't help but wonder what might happen to the board if one of its members just suddenly dies. Like Berger for example. I mean, in the middle of a big deal like this and everything. We'd be missing a vote if he died wouldn't we?
"We'll be missing two votes Verkin if you don't let us continue today. How would you like that, hmm?
"Not very much Sir. I just couldn't contain my curiosity.
"Then remember that it's curiosity that killed the cat Verkin. Maybe that will help you contain it next time. And as the other executives sat smiling at each other, doing their best to stifle their laughter, the meeting was once more underway - or a slowed down version of it anyway, allowing for Iben's lack of secretarial skills.
"Now then, began the executive officer, pausing for a moment in his chair at the head of the table to adjust his tie and suit coat. "As Mr. Dillinger so aptly put it - that is, before that little fiasco with Berger a few minutes ago - the merger between us and LitTelComm does seem to be a sound maneuver for the various reasons stated, and therefore, if there are no further objections to the ruling, I'll ask you now..., all those in favor of acquiring LitTelComm, raise your hands and be counted. As every executive from the giant telecommunications company, SuperTeleComm fell in line and raised his hand as expected, the CEO merely made the decision to bring to a close that portion of the meeting, and as he did, each of the ten members of the staff from LitTelComm pushed their chairs from the table and left the room, leaving the executives from SuperTeleComm to pursue other in-house related business affairs, both domestic, and abroad.
After some hours of conversation based mainly on departmental disputes, human relations and other more petty squabbles that will arise from time to time whenever large teams of people are forced to cooperate with each other, the CEO saw no further reason to detain the group any longer and advised them to get to bed early, as the next morning was sure to arrive sooner then expected for most of the group of young, sometimes serious revelers. "It wouldn't hurt you guys to slow down a little on the booze tonight, advised their callous leader. "I like to have a good time as well as the next guy, but I don't want to see any stragglers tomorrow. We leave bright and early at six a.m. Do I make myself clear?
"Certainly, Mr. Kildare, answered a very frustrated looking Iben. "But that's a bit of a conundrum isn't it sir?
"What? What are you talking about now Verkin?
"A conundrum sir, is a tough problem to solve.
"Yes, and...I still don't get it Iben. Does anybody here understand what the hell Verkin's talking about? But before anyone else in the room could intervene, or explain what Iben may have meant, he decided to speak out for himself. "Well..., what I mmmean to sssay is, stuttered Iben. "I need a drink! he blurted out. "I need something to help me calm down. This has been a rough day. After all, Berger almost died today, right here, in front of us.
"That's true, agreed John Dillinger. "I believe Iben has made a good point. It's not every day you watch someone fall to the floor and go into cardiac arrest. It sure didn't make our day any easier.
"All right, so what would you people have me do? asked the executive officer. "Bring in dancing girls? How about a geisha to walk on your backs? Tennis anyone? he added, searching the table, making eye contact with every man present in order to get his point across. "I swear, he went on. "In my day, we didn't rely on alcohol and sex to relieve stress. We left home in the morning and came back in the evening like clockwork. Nothing got in my way, absolutely nothing. Tough minded people don't need booze.
"We understand sir.
"Then what's the problem?
"If you were to call it a problem sir, answered Mr. Dillinger. "I'd be tempted to say that because everyone is different, we all handle our stress in different ways. Some people get violent and commit crimes; some people exercise their stress away; some scream and yell to vent their anger; some turn to religion; some beat their wives, and some sir, like Verkin here, have a few quiet drinks, get inebriated and fall asleep.
"Whatever, replied the CEO. "I've had enough of arguing for one day. Just remember what I said about six a.m. For now, lets consider this meeting adjourned. And with that, the conference room slowly emptied out, and each of the members of the board from SuperTeleComm retired to their respective rooms.

Early the next morning, the small group of executives from SuperTeleComm arrived back at Chicago's international airport, checked their bags and boarded SuperTeleComm's special company jet as planned. So far, the events of that morning were running like a fine, new, Swiss timepiece, but as the day was still quite young, there was plenty of time left in it for things to go wrong. With so many variables at work in so many ways, doing their best at times to lead any one of us off our intended course, any number of things can, and will go wrong. As the age -old rule of nature commonly known as Murphy's Law instructs us. Need we be reminded of it, especially when the things we think we've best planned out, never seem to go as they should?
"Can I get you anything sir? asked one of the execs of his boss. "This might be a long trip. The Captain tells me we might encounter some turbulence over Kentucky or Tennessee.
"Come to think of it Chuck, I could use a cup of coffee, extra cream. I'm having a tough time waking up today. Say..., Charles, replied the CEO as the young man turned to leave. "I couldn't help wondering why you were so quiet at the meeting yesterday. You usually have plenty to say. What happened?
"Oh, I can't say exactly, but the reason might just be the concern I feel for some of the employees at LitTelComm. It's tough being unemployed. I myself can remember back when my wife was ill and I couldn't afford to buy the groceries we needed to get her on her feet again. Poor thing, I grieve for her still.
"You've got to put all that behind you now Dickens. We need you here at SuperTeleComm, and I dare say, I'm very pleased with your work. The future is here Charles, with SuperTeleComm. I don't want to sound cruel but I need you here now, focused and alert. Yesterday is behind us, and let me remind you that time waits for no man Charles, remember that.
"I will sir.
"Good then, replied the executive officer. "And one other thing.
"What's that? asked the brooding exec.
"Extra cream Charles. I like my coffee with extra cream.
As poor, dejected Charles walked down the aisle of the jet on his way to the kitchen - doing his best to put behind him the tragic loss of his wife - who should strike up a conversation with the reticent CEO, but the bright and energetic, Mr. John Dillinger.
"Magazine sir?
"What? Oh, yeah, sure. How about the Business Week you've got in your hand there. You can keep that movie star stuff, I don't read that crap.
"I didn't know you felt that strongly about Hollywood entertainers. Any reason in particular?
"Sure, I've got a reason. Damn good one too..., You think for one minute they care about who I'm married to, or who you're married to? You think they give a damn if my marriage goes sour or if my wife up and dies? Hell no. What's more is, they'll never, ever hear about it either. Let me tell you something else John, continued the irritated executive officer. "I keep my private life to myself and I like it that way. You should too. People think I keep to myself too much, but for me, there's only one way to live, and as long as I go on like that, nobody's ever gonna get the opportunity to pick me apart under a microscope, farshtaist?
"Sure, I understand. Still, I can't help but wonder how your viewpoint developed so radically different from the way most Americans perceive things today.
"Maybe that's what made me boss John, remarked the CEO, smiling as he spoke. "I don't see things the way everyone else around me does. I know that makes me seem different, but I've finally reached a position in my life where I can sit back and say, 'I don't give a damn what people think.' You should try it, it seems to have worked okay for me.
"That's a thought sir.
"You know it, answered the brash leader. "And while we're at it, there's something else I'd like to say...
"What's that sir?
"I never did, and never will get into adulation. It's just not my bag. There's just so much more to worry about then to go wondering who's dating who, or how much so and so's wedding cost. Get my drift?
"I do sir.
"Great, and now I'm about to read something of far greater importance then what goes on amongst the stars.
"What's that? asked the bemused, Mr. Dillinger.
"The crossword puzzle in the back of the magazine, what else?

No more then forty-five minutes of the Chicago to Atlanta flight had gone by when the full size business jet began to bump its way through an anticipated storm about a hundred miles east of Nashville, Tennessee. So far unaffected, and still sipping his morning coffee given to him by Mr. Dickens, the chief executive officer slid open the cover of his airplane window, revealing the rain soaked outer glass of the weather-beaten, transparent panel. If this storm delays our flight, thought Bill Kildare, I'll lose hours out of my day. I wonder if the pilot has any news on our arrival time. I'll just give him a call on the intercom and find out. That outta set my mind at rest... "Hey Ron, inquired the curious CEO. "It's me, Bill. How long you think before we get to Hartsfield-Jackson? I got so much to do today, you wouldn't believe it if I told you.
"Don't know exactly Bill. Now's a bad time to ask if you really want to know. I can't see a damn thing. I'm flying totally blind. In fact, he paused, waiting for the turbulence they'd just encountered to pass over the still shaking jet. "In fact, I was even thinking of turning east to McGhee airport in Knoxville. It's still clear there, and they can land us no problem. Whaddaya say?
"I was afraid you were gonna say that Ronnie. I can't afford to lose the time. Just do your best to get us back to Atlanta wouldya? You get us back to Hartsfield airport and I'll throw in a bonus with your next check. How does that sound? I've just gotta get back to the office this morning.
"Okay Bill, answered the pilot, showing concern in his voice. "You're the boss. Over and out.
I just don't have a choice, thought Bill Kildare to himself, as the big plane shifted from side to side and bucked upward, surging into the head-on, gale force wind. If he knew for one minute what my schedule was like, I'm sure he'd see things my way. Besides, I can't go cancelling appointments over a little rain. But just as the determined boss had finished his thought, a terrible whine emitted from the starboard side of the craft and an awful gush of blood and bird feathers suddenly appeared, splattered all over the exterior of the fuselage.
"What was that!? questioned the CEO over the intercom. "It sounded like hell and there's blood everywhere!
"Flock of birds, geese I think.
"At thirty thousand feet! Birds! How the hell did that happen?
"I dropped down to try to get us outta this storm Bill. Nothing I can do about it now. Starboard engine's out. Turbine blades must've been damaged by the geese, and wait..., continued the noticeably shaken pilot, while listening to yet another ear piercing shriek of grinding metal and erratic, failing engine parts - this time coming from the port side wing. "I can't believe it Bill...Number two engine's not responding. I can't keep her in the air like this...we got no power at all. We can glide for just a few minutes Bill...long enough for you to get your chutes on, I hope. Hurry! was the last word Bill Kildare heard his pilot speak, as he looked from his window at the carnage of feathers and blood spattered over the port-side of the plane, left behind by the thick flock of unfortunate birds they'd passed through.

"Did you have a nice life that last time around Bill? asked a familiar sounding voice. "You weren't gone very long, that's for sure. What did you accomplish?
"Huh? Where am I? I had this dream I was flying, but all of a sudden, I couldn't stay in the air anymore, and...
"And you fell, didn't you. All the way to earth - about twenty thousand feet I'd say, wouldn't you?
"I guess so, replied the shaken spirit of Mr. Bill Kildare - once the CEO, leader and head decision maker of the largest telecommunications company in the world... SuperTeleComm. "What exactly happened anyway? I can't remember.
"You were coming back from a business trip, and your jet ran into some rough weather. To complicate things more, you flew though a flock of geese.
"Oh shit, exclaimed the ex-CEO. "Any survivors?
"No, replied the ageless Caretaker of the spirit world. "None at all, that's the bad news. The good news is that they have the opportunity now to come back as whoever, or whatever they wish. Which reminds me Bill, I need to ask you what you want to do about your next life. Who would you like to go back as?
"To tell you the truth, remarked Mr. Kildare. "I really don't have a preference right now. In fact, if it's all the same to you, I'd rather not go back at all just yet.
"That's fine Bill. Whatever you wish, but do you mind if I ask you why?
"No, I don't mind. I guess what it all boils down to is the great mystery of life. There isn't any, is there?
"Isn't any what? asked the inquisitive voice. "I'm not sure I understand.
"Well...If there's one thing I've come to learn in all my years of living on earth, it's that there's no great plan to our lives. We just live and die, don't we. Like anything else that breaths air and walks the planet.
"I could've told you that several lifetimes ago Bill.
"I suppose, but I think I had to find out for myself. I used to believe my life was part of some grandiose scheme, too awesome for me to figure out or control.
"But now?
"Now I know - we just live out our lives, like goldfish or birds, we're just there.
"So now that you understand, wouldn't you like to go back and be a part of it all again?
"Nope, replied Bill. "Don't think so. I may just retire here.
"Forever?
"Yep, that's right. Forever.
"Do you mind if I ask why?
"Well, for one thing, in all my living, I've found that the grass is never greener on the other side. It's always the same. In other words, no matter who I go back as, my life's always filled with a bunch of lousy problems. You name it...money problems, religious/political issues, conflict, argument, stress, natural catastrophe, a whole long list of things. Headaches I haven't even experienced yet, I'm sure. Besides, I never felt any personal fulfillment from any of the jobs I held. Even when I was CEO of SuperTeleComm, all I did was line my own pockets. I never did help anybody. I was too busy running the business and making money to even ask myself if I liked what I was doing.
"So that's it? asked the Caretaker. "It's all over? Your quest for the perfect life has come to an end?
"I guess you could say that, yes.
"That's fine by me Bill, but don't you think you'll get tired of all the idle time you'll be spending? No goals to fulfill, no obstacles to overcome, nothing to achieve. I would think a spirit like you would go stir-crazy after awhile, don't you?
"Now that you mention it, I suppose there exists that possibility.
"Then consider this, replied the Caretaker. "What would you think if I asked you to work for me?
"Doing what?
"Helping others, that's what.
"What kind of help can I give? I barely learned how to live life myself, let alone tell others what to do.
"That's not true Bill. You were just telling me a minute ago about what you've learned from your past. You're much more valuable then you realize. Come on, continued the Caretaker. "I have something I want to show you that may seem familiar to you. And in the time it takes to snap one's fingers together, the two spirits found themselves standing in the dim light of a boxing arena, watching stiffly, as a referee counted his way to ten over a young man who lay prone on the canvas, both arms arranged haphazardly like two pieces of spaghetti at his sides.
"Look familiar? asked the Caretaker.
"Are you kidding? Sure, I remember. I went through that myself once, just a few lifetimes ago. How could I forget? Is he unconscious or what?
"He's beyond unconscious Bill. In fact, we'll be welcoming him to the spirit world any second now, that's why I brought you here. You have experience. Remember how you felt when Kelsey died?
"Yeah, I remember. I remember being flat on my back, listening to the ref count me out, and then...
"And then?
"Nothing for awhile. It was as if I fell asleep and started dreaming. Then I remember waking up and hearing your voice.
"But now, began the Caretaker. "Now you can speak from experience Bill. I bet you can relate to this poor kid better then I can, and you know what else?
"What?
"The more you help people like this, the better you'll feel about yourself. This is your true vocation Bill. This is what you were meant to do all along. No more soul-searching for you Bill, you're home now. Your life is complete.