I'm definitely not seeking a rematch

A few Fridays ago I was punched in the face.

Did I see it coming? No.

You probably wouldn’t have either. Remember how, on the day he was shot, Ronald Reagan said to his wife, “Honey, I forgot to duck”? I think I know exactly what he meant.

At least it wasn’t a knockout. It probably wasn’t a TKO either, but you’ll have to take my word for it because there was no referee.

There were no other witnesses either — no spectators, no peanut or hot dog vendors, no roar of the crowd to offer consolations or add insults to my injury.

But although I was stunned I wasn’t knocked down.

The assailant was not a professional, unless you consider a city recycling bin to be a professional.

That’s right, fans: I was attacked in my own front yard while dealing with a blue behemoth that resides on my front lawn at the insistence of the city, which also owns the big monster.

But the behemoth cannot take full credit for my embarrassment. The wind that day, if it could talk, would surely insist that it deserves at least half the laurels.

I had approached the bin because I had noticed that the wind had blown it open, and I needed to close the lid so any incoming rain wouldn’t get inside it.

But I made a fatal mistake: As I was closing the lid I stood behind the bin. And as I was pushing the lid shut, a sudden gust blew it right back at me. And at precisely the same time, the same gust also blew open the lid of the black trash bin, which is next to the blue bin, and the trash container, in apparent solidarity with the recyclables bin, smacked me in the puss too.

The front of my mouth went numb, and after I rushed into the house and looked in a mirror I saw a lot of blood. I wondered if any teeth had been loosened, but I was too numb to know, so I just rinsed out my mouth while wondering whether my dentist’s office — or any dentist’s office — would have an opening at 3 p.m. on a Friday.

I eventually figured out that the blood came from my lips, which seemed to have taken the brunt of the blow, and which now hurt like hell and continued to do so for the next few days, while my upper lip was so thick that I wondered whether, as a side hustle, I could start doing impressions of Charles Laughton.

I’m all healed now, thanks to the ministrations of time and ChapStick. I suppose that the next time I have to close one of those lids on an especially windy day, I could hire somebody like Burgess Meredith in the “Rocky” movies, who could coach me from the sidelines, sponge and water bucket at the ready, along with — if necessary — a towel to throw in.

But I think I’ll be OK as long as I remember to stand at the side of the bin as I’m closing the lid. And if this strategy proves useless, I’m still pretty sure that I can count to ten without help.

When your kid just won't give it a rest

It’s a scene that I haven’t witnessed lately, but I’m sure it still takes place across the country and even, I daresay, around the world.

A mother is out shopping with her kid. The kid is usually a boy, and the time is usually the afternoon.

It hasn’t been an easy day for the mother (as if mothers ever have easy days), and the kid isn’t making things better. He isn’t doing what she’s asking him to do. Or they’re in a mall, and he wants to go to a certain store, but she doesn’t. Most likely she has to go home to make dinner. Quite possibly she’s still trying to figure out what the family is going to have for dinner. (My own mother was famous for saying “I wish someone would invent some new kind of meat!”)

Finally, when the kid’s tantrum has raged to the point where her blood pressure exceeds the national debt, she looks at him and says the fatal words: “When we get home, you’re taking a nap!”

She’s pouring gasoline on a fire, and she knows it, but how much more can the poor woman stand? The kid is yelling even more, the crowd around them is getting bigger, and if they were in Sicily, Mount Etna would be taking notes. Finally she drags him away.

Part of me wishes I could have taken the kid aside and tried to reason with him. But another part of me knows this would, at best, have done no good.

“Look, kid,” I always want to lean down and say, “she’s doing you a favor. Someday, when you’re an old fart my age and have work to do and bills to pay, you’ll wish you could take a nap. You’d sell your soul for even ten or fifteen minutes of extra slumber. And of course you’ll be on intimate terms with the snooze button.”

But I know that if I were to lean down and say this to the kid, I would have to duck.

And I always think of one time when my mother tried to get me to take a nap.

We were home. I’m sure I wasn’t behaving badly, little angel that I’m sure I was. But mothers can tell when you need a nap — it’s part of their DNA — so she tried to cajole me into bed. I must have resisted at first, because I remember her telling me that when I got up, “we’ll go to the T&H Market!”

That did the trick. Wow — a trip to the T&H Market!

Never mind that I had never heard of the T&H Market. It sounded like a marvelous place, and as I drifted into the arms of Morpheus I could just picture this fancy emporium, loaded with God knows how many wondrous goodies.

After I fulfilled my part of the bargain, my mother began to escort me to this Shangri-La.

But as our journey progressed, I began to realize I had been rooked. This land of plenty was really the corner store! The corner store my family had been going to for years! The corner store that I, now a stripling of 70, still go to when I really need something!

The store is at the corner of Teall and Herbst avenues. T&H — get it? Well, I sure did. (T&H Market, my ass — there was no sign saying that!)

I must have felt the way Ralphie, the kid in Jean Shepherd’s “Christmas Story,” felt when he found out that the messages that his Little Orphan Annie decoder ring spelled out were merely ads for Ovaltine.

And I can imagine Ralphie’s mom watching my mom and me approach the store, then nodding and whispering “Well played, Mom!”

Remembrance of Child Stars Past

A few months ago I marked a personal milestone (or maybe it’s more of a millstone):

I turned 70.

But I didn’t need a calendar to tell me this — a TV commercial did the job nicely.

In this ad, an older couple receives a phone call from their grandson, who tells them how well he did in a ballgame.

But this is no ordinary call. Because they have hearing problems, Grandma and Grandpa have a phone with a screen that shows the kid’s words as he speaks them. (I once participated in a call like this; it worked fine even if it did seem weird.)

As I watched this commercial for the umpteenth time (it’s especially hard to miss if, like me, you spend too much time watching channels that show programs you watched as a kid), something suddenly occurred to me:

The grandma — that’s Cissy!

For those of you who weren’t around in the sixties, or were around but had better things to do than watch sitcoms, Cissy was a character in “Family Affair,” a show about a bachelor, played by Brian Keith, who adopts three children after their father (the bachelor’s brother) and mother are killed in a car crash.

Cissy, a teenager played by Kathy Garver, was the oldest of the children.

In addition to reminding me of the remorseless express train that is on schedule to hurtle me toward the outer reaches of old age, seeing Cissy reminded me of other child actors from that era.

Angela Cartwright, from “Make Room for Daddy” and “The Sound of Music,” is still around and looks well. And there’s Billy (now Bill) Mumy, famous for “Lost in Space” and, most notoriously, the “Twilight Zone” episode in which he plays a kid who can instantly dispose of anyone who offends him. (I’m going to end this paragraph right here lest Mr. Mumy see it, disapprove of it and wish me “into the cornfield.” If you’ve seen this episode, you know what I mean. If you haven’t, let’s just say you’ve been warned.)

And then there’s Hayley Mills.

Hayley was probably my first big crush, after my parents took us kids to see the original version of “The Parent Trap” (which also featured Brian Keith. Hmm.).

In the film Hayley and her identical twin (provided by means of what we used to call “trick photography”) sang a song with the lyrics “Let’s get together — yeah yeah yeah.” The ever savvy Disney folks released this as a 45-rpm record that must have driven my parents nuts, considering the countless times I played it. Luckily our record player was not an RCA; if it had been, Nipper the dog would have jumped off the machine and mauled me.

And now I see that Hayley is one of the celebrities booked for Turner Classic Movies’ annual cruise.

It’s tempting, and if she really wanted me to go I might consider it, but any sea legs I have are probably wobbly at best. And I’ve always remembered how Samuel Johnson said being on a ship was like being in jail with the added thrill of possibly drowning,

Sorry, Hayley — I’m afraid I can’t get together with you on the cruise, but if you’d be willing to meet me on dry land I’d be happy to spring for the scones.

Yeah yeah yeah.

Lights, Camera, Incompetence

I’m hanging out in my college’s rinky-dink TV studio when my TV teacher, John, begins talking about a play he saw the night before.

As he talks he holds the top of his head in his hands and shakes it — not a good sign.

The studio is a new addition to the college, and the novelty hasn’t worn off; a number of professors want to use it. One of them is a philosophy professor. She wants to videotape a play that was written by a French philosopher who visited the college some years ago, before I came there. She has staged the play in the college’s theater, where it was performed last night.

Oh it’s terrible, John says between head shakes. She doesn’t know how to stage things, and the blocking is so bad that the actors, who aren’t really actors, keep walking in front of each other. But, John says, we’ll try to make it work when the actors come to the studio later in the week. He’s going to direct the cameras from the control room, playing things by ear. He’s also a licensed pilot, and I once heard him talk about a bumpy flight he once made, so I know he knows how to roll with the tailwinds; he might, or might not, be able to prevent a crash landing.

When it comes time to tape the show, I am sitting next to John, who has appointed me as the assistant director and handed me a copy of the script. He wants me to follow the script and let him know when a character is about to have a long speech, which will give him some time to think a few shots ahead, kind of like a chess player. Sounds like a plan.

How well does this plan work?

Me: “Bernice has a long speech coming up!”

John: “Great! When’s it start?”

Me: “Oops, it just ended.”

John sometimes reminds me a little of Jack Nicholson, especially when he gives me the kind of look he’s giving me now. Fortunately for me, our studio’s equipment does not include an ax.

After the first act, John makes a command decision: instead of assistant director, I will be the technical director — at best a lateral promotion.

The technical director is the person who operates a board called a switcher. In a professional studio, this console includes lots of buttons in addition to other controls. When a director wants to “switch” shots, it’s the technical director who pushes the buttons. The technical director also does the fades and dissolves.

Luckily I have only four main buttons to worry about, along with two sliding mechanisms that produce the fades and dissolves.

When we mercifully get to the end of the show, John wants me to fade to black as the camera operator zooms over the shoulders of the lead couple as they complete their clinch. At the appointed time, the camera zooms, I slide the slider and that’s a wrap. Emmys for everybody!

Some months later, the philosophy professor wants John to shoot yet another play by this philosopher. He asks if I want to help. Unfortunately I’m not in his class anymore, and I’d have to show up every night, so I reluctantly decline.

The show is shot without me. Soon afterward John shows me part of it. It starts with a shot of a maid straightening up a room. It takes her forever to do this because the background music goes on forever. Turns out that this French guy was a philosopher, a playwright and a composer. Was there no end to his talents? Well, yes.

As the scene drones on, John gives me a piece of advice I will remember for the rest of my life:

“Never begin a show with a dirge!”

My (brief) life as an auteur

I am sitting in the control room at my college’s TV studio.

I am in the director’s chair, and I am suddenly in charge.

I say “suddenly” because my teacher, John, and his boss, Mr. Hogan, the head of the communications department, have left for a meeting, leaving me with the members of Mr. Hogan’s speech class, who are now in the studio.

I had taken the speech class a few semesters ago, and I had been eager to take the silver-tongued Mr. Hogan’s class in announcing this semester, but he canceled it at the last minute, saying he didn’t have time. I’d also taken the college’s basic TV production class, so because Mr. Hogan’s cancellation left me with a hole in my schedule, John talked the powers that be into letting me enroll in a one-person tutorial, Advanced Studio Operations. My duties mainly consist of helping John teach the basic TV class and — more important to him — directing stuff he doesn’t have time for, what with running the AV department and supervising work-study students.

So yes, I am now literally in a class by myself.

Our small studio is a little more than a year old. Through the control room window I can see, among other things, our two cameras, two black-and-white televisions and, at the other end of the room, our newest gizmo: a huge Muntz TV that includes a big screen and other equipment, all in a wooden cabinet. It is the type of fancy-schmancy TV that for some years will be popular in bars until technology takes a quantum leap and a half and consigns it to the video dustbin.

Although our studio might be most kindly described as rinky-dink, it’s popular with some of the professors. An education professor’s students give practice lessons while the other students pretend to be pupils. On another occasion, a Spanish class stages a show with sock puppets. I direct most of this stuff, even though I don’t understand a word of Spanish or know what to do when the head of one of the puppets falls to the floor while we’re taping.

Today Mr. Hogan’s class is giving “speeches of demonstration.” Having taken the class, I know the drill: The students are going to show how to do various things, complete with props.

Although we have two cameras, we have only one camera operator. This is no big deal; we merely keep one of the cameras locked down in position with a wide shot of the student giving the demonstration.

The other camera, which will take close-ups, is operated by a charming work-study student named Patrice.

The first student demonstrates how to wrap a package. It goes perfectly. (Thanks, Patrice.)

As I’m getting ready for the next segment, I look out and see the next student — and his prop.

Uh oh.

Sure enough, after we start taping, he says “I’m going to show you how to kick a football!”

I think of the two black-and-white sets — and the Muntz TV, which alone might be worth at least $2,500 in 1974 dollars.

I look at Patrice.

Her eyes are like saucers.

The guy kicks the football. Another guy, off camera, is supposed to catch it.

Much to my relief — and Patrice’s — he does.

I don’t remember the other “speeches of demonstration.”

But even now, many years later, I’m sure I myself could give a great demonstration of how to lie on a couch with a cold compress on my head — if somebody else wants to set up the cameras.

Eggs, sausage and a slice of nostalgia

Lately I’ve been breakfasting with Broderick Crawford.

Until a few weeks ago I dined with Raymond Burr, but since FeTV removed “Perry Mason” from its morning schedule, I’ve been watching Brod in “Highway Patrol,” a series I remember from my childhood, when I was too young to understand it.

But now I enjoy riding along with Brod as he plays the stalwart Dan Mathews.

“Highway Patrol” was one of a number of low-budget shows produced by a company called “ZIV.” As a kid I thought the letters in “ZIV” might stand for something, like maybe “Zestfully Inexpensive Video.” Or that it was some kind of odd roman numeral.

Wrong on both counts: “ZIV” was actually Fred Ziv, who owned the company.

Aside from “Highway Patrol,” Ziv was responsible for “Bat Masterson,” “Tombstone Territory,” “Lockup” and, perhaps most famously, “Sea Hunt,” in which the bad guys seemed to cut off Lloyd Bridges’ air tank so often that the budget for duct tape alone must have given Mr. Ziv the bends.

“Highway Patrol” had all the telltale signs of a Ziv program, including lots of location shootings (with the exception of Dan’s closet-size-and-a-half office) and the same music cues week after week. (“Hey, they’re playing the ‘Going to commercial’ music! I’m gonna make a sandwich!”)

To me the locations are a large part of the program’s charm. If Dan Mathews parks in front of a diner, a church or a supermarket, you can be damn sure it really is a diner, a church or a supermarket. I keep wondering whether those buildings, or even the roads, still exist. And while you might argue that “1950s ambience” is an oxymoron, I enjoy those settings. They’re a lot more interesting than the same old sites you see in the series from Universal. (“Hey, didn’t that guy just come out of Beaver Cleaver’s house?”)

Although the budgets for the Ziv shows seemed to make Roger Corman look like Cecil B. DeMille, Mr. Ziv apparently didn’t want to cut corners (or at least too many corners) when it came to the quality of the scripts. Although none of them were likely Emmy winners, they were decent and sometimes surprisingly different.

In one “Highway Patrol” episode, Dan is convinced that an ex-con has absconded with a lot of loot. The guy’s pastor disagrees, and he turns out to be right. In another, a “human bomb” who is driving a car while keeping his hand on a trigger attached to the steering wheel picks up a young hitchhiker. He asks the kid if he likes science, and after deciding to let him go calls after him to “Study hard!” Both scripts were attributed to “Robert Wesley,” a pseudonym for an ex-cop who would do really well for himself in the years to come: Gene Roddenberry.

And then there’s Brod. Because of Dan, he has often been the butt of bad impressions. True, Brod had his demons, chiefly booze; I’ve read that the “Patrol” folks liked to get most of his stuff “in the can” in the morning because after that he might well be indulging in his favorite pastime. But the guy did win an Oscar for playing Willie Stark in “All the King’s Men.” And he did create the role of Lennie in “Of Mice and Men” on Broadway.

And I have it on good authority that he was a gent. Years ago he played the coach in a summer production of “That Championship Season” up the street from me. (No, I didn’t see it. Yes, I’m still kicking myself.) My sister Mary Murphy was an apprentice there, and someone introduced her to Brod because Brod had an aunt in Syracuse named Mabel Murphy. Turns out we’re not related to Brod, but he was polite to my sister.

So I guess there’s nothing left to say except maybe: TEN-FOUR!

(C’mon, you knew that was coming….)

And Now, a Special Guest

My sister Mary always wanted to be an actor.

She studied drama in college.

She also served as an apprentice for a couple of years at the local summer stock theater, which featured appearances by visiting celebrities. She did similar work one summer in the Pocono Mountains.

At one point she moved to New York City in hopes of finding stage work.

In the meantime she worked in the public-information department at Columbia University.

She didn’t find any stage work, but after she moved to Albany she used her theatrical skills to become a professional storyteller, telling folk tales in schools and, in recent years, telling stories about things that have happened to her.

Some months ago, the PBS World Channel program “Stories from the Stage” invited her to come on the show and tell one of her stories, which concerns something that happened while she was working at Columbia.

Her episode was telecast last month. If you’re interested (and I hope you are), here’s a link to it. Mary is the first of three storytellers.

I think the program came out well. If you agree (and I hope you will), here’s a link to other stories she has written. (I especially recommend “Summer Stock,” which is about, well, I already told you, didn’t I?)

Please Don't Play Games With My Eyes

“It’s fun to play games with vision, but don’t play games with your eyes!”

— old public service commercial

One day, while I’m in the fourth grade, I am told that I need glasses.

For years I go to a local guy, Mr. Sacco, whom I can always count on — until he retires. Gradually most of the local opticians fade from view as the chain stores pretty much take over.

I go to one of them for a few years. It’s OK, but one day, two years ago, I decide to go elsewhere because I can’t seem to negotiate the store’s phone menu when I call for an appointment.

Someone I know recommends another place — a local store run by two guys.

One of them is there when I arrive without an appointment. He greets me cordially. As we discuss my prescription, it occurs to me that this place is like Mr. Sacco’s — I feel I’m being treated like a valued customer and not like grist for some corporate lens-grinding mill.

I tell him how nice it is that I have now found a local place that I can depend on for my eyewear.

A few days later, when I come to pick up my glasses, the guy’s partner takes care of me. He’s also pleasant, and as we chat he mentions his years of experience, including time spent working for one of the chains. Oh the stories I could tell you, he says.

I leave the store as a satisfied customer.

A couple of weeks later I’m riding a bus when it passes the opticians’ building.

I look out the window. I notice a sign.

The business has gone out of business. Thanks for your patronage, etc.

One year later I take a deep breath and go back to the chain store with my latest prescription. In addition to the basic lenses, for years I’ve been getting progressive bifocals.

They take me without an appointment, and a few days later someone hands me a case containing my new glasses. This seems odd; usually opticians have you try them on.

Fast-forward to a week and a half ago. I have my annual exam, but the doctor tells me that the glasses I’ve been wearing don’t have progressive bifocals. He assures me his prescription called for them.

He suggests that I go back to the store and tell them. Maybe I’ll get a refund or discount.

I go to the store and make my case. The guy asks me if I have last year’s prescription. I tell him the doctor said they should have it on file. I wind up having to tell him this twice.

He finds the prescription on his tablet. He points to something and seems to say that there’s a specification for progressive bifocals, but apparently (assuming I’m understanding him correctly) I was supposed to specifically ask for them.

I’ve never had to do that, I say. It’s always been this way, he says. Besides which, I had a hundred days to complain about my glasses and I didn’t, so no refund.

I also mention how the glasses were handed to me in a case, with no one offering to let me try them on.

“You always had that option,” he says. Somehow I’m in the last reel of “The Wizard of Oz,” where Glinda tells Dorothy she could have gone home any time she wanted to do so. (Even as a kid seeing the movie for the first time, I wanted to punch Glinda. Didn’t you?)

So I schedule an appointment with another local place, which I had avoided because I heard it’s pricey. But at least it’s not a chain.

Turns out it’s run by a guy who seems to do the things Mr. Sacco used to do, and even more. He takes measurements, glances at my face from several angles and charges a price I think I can afford. (I do have a couple of tax refunds coming.)

He has been in business for 25 years, and he says he’s not going anywhere soon. He says he’ll call me in a couple of weeks.

We’ll see.

Two Women Named Barbara: Part Two

I don’t remember where I first heard of Barbara Lakey (better known as “Babs”) or Futures Mysterious Anthology Magazine (better known as “FMAM”), which she founded and published.

I do remember that I had written a mystery story and I was looking for a place to send it.

You have to be careful when you’re marketing your work. Not every publisher is honest; there’s a reason there’s a website called Writer Beware.

But as I read about Futures, I saw a name I recognized: Henry Slesar, who was one of FMAM’s advisers, had written stories for Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine; had adapted some of those stories for Hitchcock’s TV show; and had served as the head writer for a daytime soap, “The Edge of Night,” for many years. And on the side he ran his own ad agency.

So I figured I could trust Babs Lakey, even if she could have chosen a better name for her magazine. She meant “futures” in the sense of investments, like gold futures; she felt she was investing in new writers. Unfortunately, after I began selling stuff to Futures, some people I know thought I was a science fiction writer. Oh well.

Not long after I found out about Futures, Mr. Slesar died and Babs launched a short story contest in his memory. I entered it, won third place, and had the option of submitting it to the magazine, which I did.

The fiction editor surprised me by rejecting it, so I wrote to Babs.

“Why don’t you email a copy of this story, would you?” she wrote back. “I always enjoy seeing what we turn down.” So I did.

I also submitted another story, based on my experiences as a newspaper copy editor. By this time there was a new fiction editor, “an old newshen” who said she really liked the story, which was about 8,000 words, but could I cut it to 5,000 to 6,000?

Gulp. Then again, I had sometimes slashed the hell out of reporters’ stories, and those who live by the delete key must die by the delete key. And of course the shortened story was much better.

But after a few months went by with no word from the new fiction editor, I wrote to Babs. Turns out that the new editor had left and there was still another fiction editor. Because of a problem with the file system, he had only the original version and liked it but wished it were shorter. So I told Babs about the shorter version, she told me to send it, and he immediately accepted it.

And within a few hours I received word that the story from the contest had been accepted for the magazine. Babs even put my name on the cover of that issue.

Two sales in one night! (I also remember that this was the same night that Arnold Schwarzenegger was elected governor of California. I was at least as happy as he was.)

I wish I could say I sold many more stories to Futures, but it folded despite Babs’ tireless efforts. She lost a lot of money and, from what I’ve heard, her health. I’ve read that she is retired now, and I’m sorry to say that we’ve lost touch. I hope she is doing OK.

And I’ve always kept the note she sent me about my newspaper story, “An Eye for Detail,” which is probably my best mystery so far:

“Just did the layout for your story and wanted to tell you what a GREAT one!! FABulous job, Mark!!

babs”

Could anybody ever ask for a better editor?

Two Women Named Barbara: Part One

I owe a lot to two women named Barbara.

First there was Barbara Clarkson, a published poet who taught creative writing at my alma mater.

Her creative writing course was open only to juniors and seniors, but I used to see her around the campus before I ever took it. On the surface she seemed friendly and pleasantly eccentric.

When I finally got into her class — I think I was a senior — I found out she was indeed friendly and pleasantly eccentric. But when she handed my stories back I learned that she was also a friendly, pleasantly eccentric and damned hard-nosed editor. If she saw a word that she thought didn’t belong, or was redundant, she’d circle it.

She circled a lot of my words — so many that as I think of it now, I’m surprised I ever became an editor. I’m sure that she herself would have been a godsend to the copy desk at the paper where I eventually worked.

But she did like my work. When the college’s annual literary magazine came out, she saw to it that the issue began with one of my stories.

As my graduation approached, Ms. Clarkson wanted me to get the college’s commencement award for writing,

The head of the English department wanted somebody else to get it. The college had recently added a minor in communications, and the department head, apparently in an attempt to promote this new focus, wanted the award to go to the editor of the college paper.

I could see the department head’s point. I knew the editor. I had even worked for him on the paper; he was a good guy, and he had led the paper during a time of controversy on the campus, and the stories he wrote about the controversy were about as professional as you could get at a school that didn’t have a journalism department. Not surprisingly, he is now the president of a corporate communications company.

But Ms. Clarkson pushed for me, to the point where the department named two recipients: the editor and me. As much as I still appreciate this, I remember Ms. Clarkson more as the person who let me know, without ever explicitly saying it, that I was indeed a writer, that the career choice I had made in the late 1960s was not a stupid one.

I wish I could say I kept in touch with her through the years, but several months after my graduation I began a 30-year stint at the local paper, and that, among other things, kept me busy.

One New Year’s Day, she died. She hadn’t been sick; the way I heard it, she was here one moment, gone the next. Someone else who knew her told me it was the perfect way for her to go.

Before she died, I did have one more, quite unexpected encounter with her.

A colleague of mine had become an adjunct instructor at the college. One night at the paper, when he wasn’t there, the phone rang.

“Is Dan Valenti there?” I knew the voice immediately.

I explained that Dan wasn’t there, then hesitantly asked her if she was Ms. Clarkson.

“Yes! Who’s this?”

Filled with pride at being a successful (so far) alumnus, I told her.

“Mark! What are YOU doing there?”

I still laugh at this, while remembering how I sometimes asked myself various versions of the same question over those 30 years.

Next time: The Second Barbara.

Where I was when the lights went out

It’s a Tuesday evening in November, 58 years ago.

My family is home. My mother, as I recall, has cooked “soft steak,” consisting of meat in gravy and maybe some onions. Years later, I can still smell and taste it. My younger sister still knows how to make it. It’s especially nice if you place a piece of bread underneath the steak and gravy.

At some point after dinner, Father Smalley from St. Vincent’s, our parish, is coming over to talk to my mother about something. Although he’s never visited our house before, I don’t have the impression that anything is wrong.

At 5:22 p.m. our power goes out — lights, TV, everything.

Turns out we are among 30 million people, from Massachusetts to Pennsylvania, who are literally and figuratively in the dark.

Were we in the middle of dinner? Maybe, maybe not. I do recall candles being brought out and lighted. And someone turning on a transistor radio; one of the radio stations is still broadcasting, on “auxiliary power.” Not that this does much good; nobody at the station seems to know what happened either.

We stay calm, and after maybe two hours the power comes back.

And we’re still expecting Father Smalley.

Father Smalley is an assistant pastor at St. Vincent’s. He’s a young, pleasantly down-to-earth guy whom everybody seems to like. My mother knows him because of his involvement with the parish’s Mothers’ Club, and they get along well. Father Smalley’s boss is Father Hearn, the pastor, a much older man who has an unpleasantly acerbic and not particularly funny sense of humor. A few years later, when the hippie movement takes hold, Father Hearn will refuse to give Communion to a boy who has long hair. (He’ll also give me grief for sporting long sideburns, which I have grown mainly to prove to the other guys that my chemical makeup really does include testosterone.)

Father Smalley is also into show biz. When it’s time to stage the parish’s variety show, he is the auteur. When “folk Masses” come into vogue, he introduces them to St. Vincent’s. I don’t know how Father Hearn reacts to this, but I’m sure I could guess.

Not long after Father Smalley arrives he talks to my mother. He has come to ask for her help. Every Tuesday the kids in our Catholic school get out early and kids from public school come over for religion classes that are taught by volunteers, all women. Thing is, some of these women are also mothers and need baby sitters, so Father Smalley is asking my mother, who is in the process of raising six kids, to let one or two of the women drop their children off at our house and baby-sit them while their mothers teach. My mother agrees to this.

But before Father Smalley talks to her, and in an apparent attempt to break the ice, he looks at me and immediately, apropos of nothing whatsoever, launches into a letter-perfect rendition of “You’ve Got Trouble, My Friends, in River City” from “The Music Man.” He’s no threat to Robert Preston, but he isn’t bad.

Father Smalley will eventually leave St. Vincent’s, leave the priesthood, move to San Diego, get married and become a fundraiser for nonprofits.

And I will always remember the night of the soft steak, the blackout and the transistor radio, with a show tune thrown in — no cover charge.

Just another night in the Murphy household.

Halloween night in the old neighborhood

It’s a typical Halloween night in the 1960s, a time when most of the folks in my neighborhood knew each other; when kids could roam from one backyard to another, even to the end of the block, without any fences blocking their way; when the worst thing a trick-or-treater’s parents had to worry about was the next dental bill — and not the cost of an ambulance ride necessitated by a purposely misplaced razor blade.

On this particular night I and my three younger siblings, accompanied by at least one of our parents, have stood on the thresholds of neighboring homes while people tossed goodies into our bags. If there’s an easier gig, I don’t know what it is.

But now we’re at the home of Annie and Pearl Kallikack, where Halloween is a bit different. (As you may have guessed, those aren’t their real names. I’m not afraid they’ll sue me — they’re well beyond that — but they could theoretically haunt me, so why take chances?)

Annie is at least on the cusp of middle age, and Pearl is her mother.

Annie is good-hearted, but tactfulness isn’t always her strong point. I was somehow able to read long before I entered kindergarten, and Annie, convinced that this ability was some kind of trick, was not above shoving a Newsweek in front of my pre-k puss and demanding that I read it out loud, which I easily did, though I probably didn’t understand the words.

Annie is also not overly fond of modern entertainment. Years later she will go to a Steve Martin movie called “Pennies from Heaven,” thinking that it’s the kind of innocent musical she grew up watching. When she finds out that the movie is the exact opposite of what she was expecting, she will angrily flee the theater.

My two aunts will find Annie’s moral scruples ironically amusing, saying that in her younger days, Annie had a reputation for being “fast.” Then again, my two aunts were nuns, so their idea of “fast” might be considered life in the slow lane today.

As for Pearl, she too is kind-hearted and definitely not shy; had she lived a few decades longer, she might have been a shoo-in to play Sophia on “The Golden Girls.” But when people talk about Pearl, they are more likely to mention her eyesight. I think I remember them using the phrase “blind as a bat” more than once, especially regarding their concern that she is still driving. The thought of Pearl Kallikack operating any motor vehicle scares the neighborhood mothers more than any nightmare Stephen King could dream up. If you don’t believe in miracles, please consider that, as far as I know, she never had an accident — or at least anything that made the news.

On Halloween, you can’t just stand on the Kallikacks’ threshold. You have to come into the house, where the dining room table is loaded with enough sweet treats to give an earthworm diabetes.

And there’s another rule: You can go around the table, grabbing all the treats you want, but only once — no second helpings.

As we promenade around the table, things are peaceful until Pearl erupts. “Hey!” she says to one of my siblings. “You can’t do that! You’ve already been around once!”

“No, Mama!” says Annie, rushing to put out what, for her, is probably the latest of umpteen fires. “He didn’t go around before! This is another boy!”

Pearl calms down, we eventually leave, and another Halloween at the Kallikacks’ is in the books.

Roughing it in black and white

On Sunday mornings one of the cable stations shows episodes of “Batman,” the campy series from the 1960s.

Sometimes I watch the beginning of an episode and feel a mixture of pain and nostalgia. The pain comes from remembering what a doofus I was back then — one of the few people (if that) in the country who didn’t realize that the show was a tongue-in-cheek spoof. Yes, reader, I took it seriously for a while. Then again, I’ve read that Neil Hamilton, who played Commissioner Gordon, also didn’t get the joke. At least he had something of an excuse: His career stretched back to the silent era, when scripts and performances weren’t always subtle, and his over-the-top theatricality added to the show’s fun.

The nostalgia I feel comes from each episode’s intro, when we are informed that “Batman” is “In Color!” This was after ABC and CBS finally caught up with the NBC Peacock, which had ruled the panchromatic roost for ages; for a couple of seasons the two also-rans always trumpeted their shows’ color at the beginning of each show, as if we stupid viewers couldn’t have figured it out for ourselves.

“Batman” was one of the first color programs I ever saw — but not at home.

We still had a black-and-white TV. I think my parents knew that we kids wanted a color set, but there were six of us youngsters, and given the cost of clothing and feeding us, we sensed that for some time to come we were going to have to take CBS’ word that Lucy had red hair.

In an attempt to make us feel better about this, one day Mom brought home a rectangular plastic sheet that was supposed to simulate the joys of color TV if you placed it over the screen of your black-and-white Zenith. The top third of the sheet had a blue hue, the bottom third was green and the middle section had another color — orange, I think. I remember that most of us kids were kind enough to go along with this, at least for a while.

Then, around the mid-1960s, my dad got a membership for a huge store, kind of a pre-Walmart Walmart, with every kind of department you could think of, including toys, electronics and groceries — not to mention the bags of extraordinarily tasty popcorn you could get as you were leaving; the memory still makes my mouth water.

The store’s membership was open to government employees. My father wasn’t a government employee, but his company, an auto-parts warehouse, had government contracts, so he slid through that way.

On Thursday nights, while he and Mom shopped in the grocery department, we kids would hang out in the color TV section, watching “Batman” and other shows. It was a thrill to see all these characters in color; for a little while each week, we got a taste of How The Other Half Lived. And we also learned fairly quickly that these 1960s TVs had a knob you could turn if you wanted to futz with the color. I still remember seeing an ad for Kellogg’s blue cornflakes.

By the time we finally got a color set I was entering college, and although I still lived at home, my academic workload tended to keep me away from the TV.

I now have a 52-inch set that can do all sorts of things; problem is, I’m too dumb to figure out how to make it do all sorts of things. On a good day I could maybe figure out how to plug it in. But the color is sharp and the audio is state-of-the-art, even if some of those Brits on the PBS shows still haven’t learned to speak up.

Of course the manual says nothing about blue cornflakes.

But you can’t have everything.

Trouble at the ATM? You can bank on it

It’s supposed to be a simple bank visit — go in, get money from the ATM and catch my bus.

As I cross the street, I’m not even worried by the guy who’s waiting at the other corner. From the look in his eyes I know he’s going to put the bite on me. I’ll just ignore him.

When I get to the corner he asks me for a dollar. He says he wants a beer.

It is a few minutes before 10 a.m.

I walk past him. He follows me as I approach the ATM entrance. No guards in sight. Fortunately he doesn’t try to follow me in, and I never see him again.

I put my card in the ATM and push all the right buttons. But when the time comes to return my card, the ATM holds on to it. It tells me I’ll have to notify the bank, which will send me a new card. The hell with that, I think, especially considering that the bank is open.

A banker whom I've often dealt with -- with varying results -- passes by. I tell her my problem and she tells me she will look for someone to help me get my card back.

I keep an eye on the outside door so I can warn any newcomers about the machine.

The banker approaches another banker, who is meeting with a couple of customers. Then the banker, who is beginning to resemble a chicken with half its head cut off, goes to another banker.

Soon a guy comes in to use the ATM. I tell him not to use it and explain that it ate my card.

The guy, who reminds me a little of Eb, the farmhand on the old “Green Acres” show, asks me if I was using a card from the bank.

“Yes!” I say, perhaps too forcefully, but I was merely trying to do the guy a favor and wasn’t expecting a countrified Joe Friday. (And did I mention that I have a bus to catch?)

He begins to tell me why he asked about my card. From his leisurely tone I fear this will be a long story, so I tune him out as I focus on the banker, who has now approached a fourth (or maybe fifth?) employee, a teller who is now, with no apparent eagerness, following her to the little room behind the ATM.

A few minutes later, the banker hands me my card. And then, just to show that she is on the ball, she assures me that they’re going to put a sign at the machine to warn people not to use it. It’s been eating people’s cards, she tells me.

So, I say, this has happened time and again and NOW you’re putting a sign up? I am in full ballistic mode; if J. Robert Oppenheimer were here he’d be hiding in the vault.

I shake my head and storm out. A guard sitting in the lobby tells me to have a nice day.

I walk to the bus stop. It is now a few minutes past 10 a.m., and despite the bank’s best efforts, I am on time for my bus.

And come to think of it, I sure could use a beer.

One for the book

On a pleasant afternoon long long ago, the neighborhood mail carrier delivers a letter to me, a brief missive from someone who has never before seen fit to write to me.

Namely the public library.

Adopting what I’m sure it thinks is a lighthearted, nonthreatening tone, the library informs me that a book I have borrowed is significantly overdue and that I should consider returning it because other patrons might want to read it.

Oh, and by the way, the library has placed a “stop” on my card.

And what is the title of this great work of literature that I am accused of holding hostage?

“Japanese Decorative Art.”

Now I have nothing against the Japanese.

And I have nothing against art.

And I have nothing against decorations — as long as nobody is asking me to put some up.

But present me with a book that combines all three of these elements and you will see a yawn that is wide enough to easily accommodate the Mormon Tabernacle Choir.

And I have a hard time believing that other patrons are clamoring to get their mitts on this opus.

But I need to make it clear to the library that I don’t have it. More important, I need to get the “stop” removed from my card in case I might someday want to borrow a book that is not called “Japanese Decorative Art.”

As I head to the downtown library, I suspect I know what happened.

In those days, whenever I took out a book, a clerk would open it and run a penlike device over a little code — the forerunner of what we now know as the ubiquitous Universal Product Code. I can’t help thinking that someone ahead of me in line borrowed “Japanese Decorative Art” and somehow it wound up on my card because the clerk screwed up. (Not to be uncharitable, but on previous visits to the library I have had the impression that when it comes to brightness, some of the clerks aren’t exactly operating at the highest wattage.)

But the woman in charge of the desk today obviously has no problems when it comes to brightness — or that pesky little thing called humility. When I tell her that I don’t have and never have had the book, she checks the stacks and says they still don’t have it. And when I tell her my theory about what really happened, she tries to humor me by saying that it could have happened, but it’s extremely unlikely. A computer making mistakes? Now really.

But she deigns to do me the great favor of taking the “stop” off my card anyway. “And if you happen to remember that you lent the book to your Aunt Minnie, you can return it then!”

Hmm. Here I thought I was supposed to be patronizing the library, not the other way around.

Some weeks later I present my theory to a longtime friend, a veteran librarian who works at the Albany Law School. She says that yes, the scenario I put forward is quite possible.

On later visits to the library, I never happen to see the woman who was at the desk that day.

Perhaps Aunt Minnie is holding her hostage.

A Portrait of the Blogger as a Young Wiseass

You never forget your first time.

I remember mine as if it were yesterday.

I was a sophomore in college, reading the local alternative weekly, when I saw it: a paragraph stating that the paper was looking for TV critics. It said those interested should write a review and submit it. At that time I knew a lot about network TV; I was the one in the family who, at the end of a show, would often say “Don’t turn yet — I want to see the credits!”

So I reviewed a new variety show hosted by Bill Cosby. I wish I could say that I wrote that there was something I didn’t like about the guy, that someday we’d all find out that there was something evil behind his mellow Jell-O vibe, but instead I concentrated on the behind-the-scenes personnel. I said the show’s director had previously directed “Rowan and Martin’s Laugh-In” and that the Cosby show, while not as fast-paced as “Laugh-In,” did look as if it had spent a fair amount of time in the editing room as opposed to looking like a continuous performance, like Carol Burnett’s show. (Did I sound like an insider, or what?)

My “first time” came a couple of Saturdays later: an envelope from the paper containing a handwritten note from the editor, inviting me to write more, and, more important, A CHECK!

I doubt any writer anywhere would deny that the first time someone tells you that something you wrote is worth paying money for is a moment you never forget, no matter the size of the check.

Which, in my case, was $5.

As I continued to write for the paper, the checks grew to a whopping $15. I figured this was because the paper had just launched two other, short-lived editions in two other cities. Three editions times $5 equaled $15. Let the good times roll.

But this bonanza ended when the paper stopped printing my stuff. No one ever told me why, and I was too naive to call and ask, but I noticed that the paper’s “news hole” — the space reserved for editorial content — had been significantly reduced, apparently because of a shortage of newsprint, and I’ve always figured that this was why I was dropped.

But it was fun while it lasted — and more important, I now had what every budding journalist back then craved: clips that I could show to any potential employer.

And as a bonus, the paper gave me one of the best writing lessons I’ve ever received.

I had reviewed a syndicated sitcom called “Ozzie’s Girls.” It starred Ozzie and Harriet Nelson in a continuation of their long-running network show. The premise: Sons David and Ricky (now calling himself “Rick”) have moved out of the house, and Ozzie and Harriet decide to rent the boys’ rooms to two female college students.

It was an awful show. And as a young smartass, I relished the chance to disembowel it. I began with two or three paragraphs that I was sure were so clever that I almost stopped in the middle of typing them so I could shake hands with myself.

When the next issue came out, I eagerly turned to the review to see what the copy editor — the paper had a good one — had done with it.

When I found the review, my jaw went into free fall: Those golden grafs were gone — it was as if someone had lopped off my head.

And I realized that I deserved it — those paragraphs were merely me goofing around in print.

I believe that copy editor is still around. If I ever meet him, I’ll thank him and ask him to dinner. I’ll foot the bill, of course.

Even if it’s more than $15.

Newsroom Memories: Another Sunday night

It’s near the end of another Sunday night in the newsroom, more than 30 years ago.

Once the first edition is done, Sunday shifts are usually dull; my job at this point mainly involves sticking around in case something breaks, especially something that needs to go on Page One. Aside from the Sports folks, the staff at this point consists of me; a guy named Woolsey, who is night city editor; and a reporter named Grogan, who’s covering the late-cops beat.

About a half-hour after midnight, I see Grogan, notebook in hand, hurrying out of the newsroom.

Something’s up.

I ask Woolsey what it is.

“Stabbing at the Clinton Street News!”

The Clinton Street News, a few blocks away, sells newspapers and magazines. Behind a curtain behind the counter, it sells a lot more: an assortment of toys that consenting adults can use to amuse themselves at home after they’ve finished reading the newspapers and magazines, assuming they bought any newspapers or magazines after they visited the back room.

I’ve visited the Clinton Street News only once, but without going into the back room. I may be the only person who has ever bought a copy of The Washington Monthly at the Clinton Street News. I bought it just to be nice because I happened to be visiting the guy behind the counter — my older brother, Michael.

Who is probably there tonight. And my blood pressure spikes as I realize that he may have been at the wrong end of that knife.

I tell Woolsey this.

“Great! Call him!” says Woolsey, who, had he been born earlier, might well have auditioned to play Perry White on the “Superman” TV show or Walter Burns in any of the incarnations of “The Front Page.”

I look up the number and dial it. To my relief, Michael answers, which he probably wouldn’t do if he were bleeding to death. He confirms that someone was stabbed outside the store. I try to get him to give me details, but the investigating cops are almost surgically removing him from the phone, so he has to hang up. I don’t mind; at least I know he’s safe.

Turns out the victim isn’t seriously injured, so the story won’t go on Page One; more likely, Woolsey will make it a brief in the Local section.

As I type this I feel as if I am describing something from the Stone Age. The newsroom is no longer a newsroom but is part of an ad agency that took over the space after the newspaper company sold the building. (Not long ago the agency advertised for a proofreader. I was tempted to apply, just to see if I could get a look at what the place is like now, but I was afraid they’d hire me and I’d wind up spending another few decades there.)

Grogan is now an editor. Woolsey has since gone to that big City Desk in the sky.

At some point the Clinton Street News closed, leaving my brother unemployed. He eventually died of COPD.

And I don’t know whether any local store sells The Washington Monthly these days — with or without a dildo to go.

Newsroom Memories: Dan Carey

I last saw Dan Carey 45 years ago and I knew him for only a year, but I remember him more vividly than I remember many people whom I worked with longer.

If you were new to the newsroom it was hard not to notice Dan as he walked down the hall. Below the waist he looked pretty much like any other guy, but the upper part of his body was smaller and always bent to one side as he walked.

Dan had polio. Only one of his lungs worked. What to you and me would be a simple cold — a pain in the ass, but you’d get through it — could be a disaster for him.


I’m sure he knew how unusual he looked to the new hires, especially the younger ones. I’m told that sometimes, to put them at ease, he’d ask them where they went to school, then say something like this:

“After I got out of college I applied for a job as a piano mover. They rejected me. I sued them for discrimination. I said they were biased against me because I was Catholic.”

I can hear him saying this in his usual, rapid-fire delivery, out of the side of his mouth. His voice was soft and you sometimes had to strain to hear him, but it was worth the effort because he was funnier out of the side of his mouth than any loudmouth comic with a full set of functioning lungs.

One Sunday afternoon at work, he told me he’d been to Mass that morning. That day’s Gospel, printed in the missalette, was the one about the Sermon on the Mount, in which Jesus says: “Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself.” This was followed by the sermon, which included a pitch for money.

In response, “I tore the page out of the missalette and put it in the collection basket.”

I’ve also heard about the time Dan’s alma mater called him at home to hit him up for money, inspiring Dan to pose as his own father.

“My son is dead. He died of syphilis. He caught it at your school.”

A pause.

“Well, sir, would you like to make a memorial donation?”

After I’d been at the paper for almost a year, Dan taught me the basics of newspaper layout; our boss wanted me to be able to fill in for Dan when he went on vacation. He was a calm, patient teacher, and I’ve always been grateful for his lessons.

A few weeks after he taught me, Dan got sick and I had to fill in for him. He was back the next day, but a few days later he was out again.

On a Saturday morning soon after, I received word that he had died.

Dan was from Alexandria Bay, and his mother still lived there, so a few days later some of us got up early and went up there for his funeral.

The priest had known Dan, so I was grateful that Dan didn’t get one of those one-size-fits-all eulogies. I don’t remember many details, but I think the priest captured Dan well, the way I have always remembered him, as someone who met the huge challenges of his life with courage and an invincible sense of humor.

I do remember what the priest said at the end.

One day, he told us, Dan would walk straight.

I must have been clueless to do this

I’m sitting at a table in a hallway at a hotel in Baltimore. Bouchercon, the annual gathering of mystery writers and fans, is underway. This isn’t my first Bouchercon, but this time I’ve volunteered for a stint at the registration table, just to be a good guy and maybe meet some people. I and a few other volunteers are supposed to greet new arrivals, sign them in and tell them what they need to know.

Next to me is a woman I have been paired with. We make pleasant conversation and greet newcomers until a friend of hers stops by and she decides to take off with her and blow off the rest of the shift, arguing that things don’t seem that busy. I could try to find a rope and tie her to her chair, but I figure the hell with it.

At one point a writer whom I’ll call Floyd comes by to register. I’m thrilled to meet him — I’ve read a lot of his work, including one book that became a movie — and he reacts to my gushing with a warm smile.

I also notice that Laura Lippman is talking to another registration volunteer a few feet away, and I’m hoping she’ll come my way and introduce herself — she’s an ex-reporter and now a major writer. Her husband, also an ex-reporter, created “The Wire.”

But things get busier. A continuous tide of people, heading this way or that, keeps the hallway full. One of them, a young man, detaches himself from this maelstrom to report that he has lost his iPod. We tell him we’ll let him know if anyone finds it.

At some point Floyd returns. He wants to know if he can leave his luggage behind my table. I hesitate, not sure that this is a good idea, and his smile is replaced by a dark scowl; I have morphed from adoring fan to disobedient lackey. Intimidated, I say OK.

Another figure emerges from the crowd: Someone has found the iPod. We thank him and hold the device for safekeeping.

Across the hallway, outside one of the meeting rooms, a woman is beckoning to me. I cross the stream of people and walk over to her. She points to one of the lights in the room. It’s flickering. I say I’ll mention it to someone, but this doesn’t seem to satisfy her. I don’t know why she’s so bothered about it; I don’t think she’s a presenter, and besides, I barely know a circuit breaker from a salami. And now, as I glance at the passing parade, I see the guy who lost the iPod.

Excusing myself, I run over and grab him, and the man and his music are reunited.

Judy, the woman who is in charge of the volunteers, stops by to see how things are going. I tell her about Floyd’s luggage, and she seems OK with it. I also tell her about the lady who’s upset about the light.

Turns out the lady has been bugging Judy about it too.

I’m then assigned to spend the rest of my shift standing guard in a room that is filled with bags of free books; each attendee gets one bag.

It’s much calmer here, and it occurs to me that I hadn’t worked so hard since I left my newspaper job, where I had to meet five deadlines a day.

I never do get to meet Laura Lippman. As for Floyd, I haven’t read any of his new books because he doesn’t seem to have written any. Maybe he has writer’s block.

Gee, wouldn’t that be too bad?

One burrito, please -- and hold the erudition

I’ve just asked for a Burrito Supreme (with soft taco) at the food court, and the Taco Bell guy wants a name that he can place on the order.

After I tell him my name, he decides to edify me.

He tells me there is a movie called “Interstellar” that includes a character named Murphy, who he says was named for Murphy’s Law, which he says is “Whatever can happen will happen.”

I have no idea why he’s telling me this. Perhaps he is a film school grad who is biding his time slinging quesadillas while Mr. Spielberg reads his screenplay.

I’m tempted to tell him that a) I was named for my father and b) Murphy’s Law actually is “If anything can go wrong, it will.” (At least that’s how I understand it, and my name, after all, is Murphy.) But I don’t want to spark an argument; there might be several hills that I would be willing to die on, but a taco stand is not one of them.

At my table in the food court I notice that the bag containing the elements of my repast has a seal that bears this message: “Worth the Wake.” Hmm. I know that the Triple-A ball club in my town has a promotion in which an opposing player is dubbed the “K-Man,” and if this player strikes out, all the fans have 48 hours to exchange their tickets for a Taco Bell taco.

This, combined with the message on the seal, makes me wonder whether funeral directors now have a similar promotion to boost attendance at calling hours.

But I now see that underneath “Worth the Wake” is another message: Taco Bell is now serving breakfast until 11 a.m. So I suppose the slogan should be “Worth the Awakening.” (It had never occurred to me that anyone would eat breakfast at a Taco Bell. I myself am not inordinately proud to be eating my lunch there now.)

And I’m wondering whether the putative Oscar-winning scribe behind the counter would be interested in an idea my friend Dan once had. It’s based on the old movie “D.O.A.,” in which a poor schlub played by Edmond O’Brien is poisoned because of a document he notarized. There’s no antidote, and he spends the rest of the picture trying to nail his killer before going to that big civil service office in the sky. (Come to think of it, my old man had what we would now call a side hustle as a notary public. Who knew that he was taking both his stamp and his life in his hands whenever he walked across the street to notarize a loan application for a neighbor?)

Dan has proposed a remake in which O’Brien’s character is at a local ballgame when the K-Man strikes out, but he then faces all sorts of sinister obstacles when he tries to get his free taco before the 48 hours run out. (“Whaddya mean this is a Chick-fil-A? It was a Taco Bell just yesterday!”)

Think of it — the taco as a Hitchcockian maguffin! I can just see Sir Alfred drooling. (And it’s far from a pretty sight.)

The title of our opus? Obviously it would be “Taco on Arrival” — “T.O.A.”