Like Dizzy Gillespie's Cheeks

Sixty-six

The power of Mother Nature always amazes me. I guess it's sort of like a major mood swing, or a manic depressant. The storm is nasty and violent and very dark one minute, and the next minute, it clears up, the sun shines, the wind goes away, and it's as though nothing ever happened except for the emotional damage left to the burdened.

As I welcomed the sun like a Jew welcoming brisket after a Yom Kippur fast, I decided to pay a visit to Jerry Springer's place. Odds were he wasn't there, but I figured I was in the neighborhood, why the hell not, and at least I'd familiarize myself with all the details of how to get to his place and such, so I'd be ready for the big night.

The first problem: The extremely well-paid guard. In an exquisitely tailored uniform, sitting behind a marble desk with two three-hundred-dollar flower bouquets flanking his face, Mr. Linden, as it said on his engraved, gold-plated name tag, looked at me, then my pink-tassled peds, and forced a smile.

"Can I ... help you, sir?"

"Certainly, I'm looking for the elevators."

He gave a slight chuckle as he groomed his mustache with the back of his right forefinger.

"Right ... let me put it this way. Who are you intending to see?"

"Springer, in 6767." I sneezed on one of his huge bouquets. He offered me a Kleenex. I nodded my gratitude.

"Right ... Is Mr. Springer expecting you?"

"... Eventually."

"Right ... let me put it this way. Do you have an appointment?"

I sneezed again. He offered me another Kleenex, as well as a forced smile.

Mr. Linden certainly liked his power, but this game was getting old. Besides, I was either allergic to his cologne, his flowers, or getting a cold from the slushee storm. Nonetheless, I was ready to mess up his perfectly quaffed hair.

"Mr. Linden, would you mind if I asked you a rather personal question?"

He paused in consideration. "If you feel the need."

"Exactly how long have you had that huge, painful bug up your ass?"

Mr. Linden's smile turned around. A vein showed itself on his forehead. "State your business, sir."

"It's been stated. I'm here to see Jerry Springer, and I don't got all day."

As my poor English hung above his head, Mr. Linden reluctantly picked up the phone, dialed, and asked for my name. He displayed another constipated smile as he waited for someone to answer.

"Yes, Alfonze, it's Mr. Linden in the lobby ... Yes. Fine, thank you. There is a Sam Greene making a surprise calling on Mr. Springer. Is he available for a visitor?"

Mr. Linden turned his back on me and mumbled in the phone. With his back still to me, Mr. Linden lowered his head as though he got news that his favorite dog had just gotten run over. He placed the receiver in the cradle and turned toward me slowly, avoiding any eye contact.

"You may proceed to the elevators." He pointed in the direction of a wall-to-ceiling gate like you'd find in a fancy bank, which required one to be buzzed before you could proceed to the elevator bank. I stood at the gate waiting for the buzz.

"Mr. Greene," he said, staring a whole in the back of my head.

"Yes," I said, turning to meet his glare.

"I don't very much like you."

"Really, I couldn't tell ..."

Five seconds passed between us. He blinked first—and finally gave me the buzz. I opened the gate to the luscious elevator "lounge." There was more marble and gold plate than I cared to take notice in, but the extravagant mirror, straddled by a couple turn-of-the-century chairs, which were opposite the two elevators, revealed something I wasn't prepared to see. An unkempt, disheveled nightmare of a man—me.