Lerwid & Me.

 

One time--this was years ago--on a morning when I was attired in a brightly fubescent Collier shirt, I was granted a rare and precious audience with a party known to me only as Mr. Lerwid. He was curious about my participation in the local Youth Stringball League and whether I'd noticed anything in some of the young people which would otherwise fail to be mentioned. I opened up my case and removed a swifter monitoring device than some had thought current at the time. He expressed a modicum of dismay and requested that I retreat to just within earshot. As I departed toward a nearby lounge, out of the corner of my eye I spied one his hands--I believe the left one--make an evasive gesture before resuming its prior position near an unusual lamp.

As I moseyed along an accented corridor, my thoughts turned to a delightful episode that I'd seen on TV the night before. The less said about that the better. But I will say this, if you still haven't seen it, perhaps you should consider how you prioritize your viewing time. You can thank me later. Once I reached the lounge proper, I felt remarkably composed and realized that the personality I'd concocted out of 'whole cloth' could be a real asset on a par with a dazzling ability to convey a wholesome anecdote. As I sat and listened for any potentially fatal clues emanating from the office just beyond the atrophied brink, it occurred to me that most of this was the fault of someone with whom I'd engaged in a minor tiff. At the time I thought nothing of it, but I was plainly deeply mistaken. Once I'd removed my shoes an attendant approached and handed me a manilla envelope, a small glass ring and and empty almond package. When I looked up quizzically, he just snickered and left the area at once. I got the not-so-funny idea that they were just playing with me to check my reaction time. The joke was on them because by then it was already next Wednesday and I was about to depart for my annual hermitage in Brussels, Oregon. HA!

The next time I encountered Mr. Lerwid it was at the 1964 World's Fair in Flushing Queens, NY. He was sitting alone in a stall near an evacuated nursing home crying softly into a monogrammed hankie while humming what sounded like a sedimental ditty. I didn't want to interrupt his precious reverie and so retreated to a storage area in a local used car dealership. There I was introduced to my infant stepson for what seemed like the seventh or eighth time. I had the impulse to greet him by saying 'Hi Billie!' I squelched that idea because I knew for a fact that his name was 'Marvin'. Yes, you guessed it: he was named after Marvin Hamlisch. I think you can see why I was upset. At this point any normally senescent person would opine: 'It just goes to show you!'. And that person would be tragically correct, I'm afraid.

_________________________