The Castle Corporation

Welcome to Castle Corporation, a wholly owned subsidiary of the entirely owned entity.
If you are using a touch tone phone, please press one. If you are using a rotary phone, hang up.

1) Thank you for calling Castle Corporation, your phone call is important to us.

For Fear & trepidation - Press 1.
Loss & Confusion - Press 2.
Powerlessness & Personal Hygiene - Press 3.
Despair - Press 4.
Press 5 to return to the main Menu.
Do not press 6.

If you are using this telephone for the purposes of communication, hang up now.

This important call is currently being monitored for our own amusement and future sale to the office of the Independent Counsel. Castle Corporation reserves the right to test voice imprints for copyright infringement. Unregistered voice imprints become the property of Castle Corporation who reserve the right to use them at out world renowned genetic research laboratories.

1. Welcome to fear. Antidotes to fear and trepidation are available to everyone complying with the registration agreements. Failure to copyright your own voice imprint will result in an automatic claim by us, and the loss of your right to use your own voice. If Castle Corporation already owns your voice pattern - Press 1. If you wish to buy back your voice. Press 2. If you wish to change your voice press 3. Do not press 6

1. If you currently own your voice, or lease it from Castle Corporation you may speak with one of our Customer Representatives - Press 9. If your are behind on your payments you are not allowed to speak but may hum the Castle Corporation threnody. Your voice imprint will be retrieved from our data bank.

a. If you wish to buy back your voice enter your bank account number followed by your passport and Social Securities numbers now. Do not use pound key, Do not use star key. Do not press 6

b. You want to change your voice. Castle Corporation has gender specific voices available. Male, press 1. Female, press 2. The Jack Nicholson, Richard Nixon and Betty Davis editions are no longer available.

c. Our Tom Brokaw edition offers the male customer fascinating variations on the use of the rolling 'r' which in some cases maybe construed as sophisticated.

d. For women, the Barbara Walters edition with its alluring 'w's, also includes those patented pitch reversals - questioning but not inquisitive.

2. Welcome to Loss & confusion. Do not panic. Lost and confused customers who are trying to reach Amtrak N.E. train schedules should return to the main menu. Others should enter hidden fears, obsessions, compulsions and other neurosis using the appropriate letters on the key pad, for example -

H.Y.S.T.E.R.I.A.
I.R.O.N.Y.
P.O.S.T..O.F.F.I.C.E.

Please keep the phone to your ear at all times alert for an important message from Castle Corporation, and remember the Operator button is not O. Do not press 6.

* You pressed 6. The recent Supreme Court Ruling declared 6 the wholly owned property of Castle Corporation. Your next phone bill will reflect your use of 6 at today's market rate.

3 Welcome to Powerlessness & Personal Hygiene. Customers whose aspirations have been thwarted by circumstances beyond their control and are suffering the concomitant skin irritations, press 9. Customers still searching for Amtrak N.E. Train schedules might consider Castle Corporations car leasing service. Press 8

9. Please hold for our Customer Representatives.

All our Customer Representatives are busy right now, please listen to Castle Corporations customers humming the company's threnody. A Customer Representative will be with you shortly.


4 Welcome to Despair. Please listen carefully to the following list of options, and enter the appropriate codes: Low Moans - 73896 Silent Screams - 64529. Holy Terror - 66646.

Or press 9. for a Customer Representative. Do not press 6. Please note: Pent up rage and Cries In The Night are options no longer covered by Castle Corporation.

** You pressed 6. again. Your next phone bill will reflect your use of 6 at a 15% surcharge on our normal rates. Repeated use of 6, the wholly owned property of Castle Corporation, will result in reparations thoroughly prepared by our legal department.

9. Please hold for our Customer Representatives.

All our Customer Representatives are busy, engaged with other customers. As long as there are customers calling all representatives will be engaged. To relieve congestion, hang up now. Or press 5 to return to the main menu.

Mia@Manny's.dot

Mia Golding dropped her boys off at their friend's apartment in Little Italy and was free for a couple of hours. She hadn't been down in that part of town in years. It had changed. A lot of the old color - dark green and peeling - that she associated with the neapolitan grandmothers sitting out on the stoops, was gone. It was more Chinese now, Bok choy and Mustard greens on the sidewalk market stands. Espresso and cannolis fading away. If Salumeria was still there on the corner of Mulberry and Grand she'd pick up some olive oil and a good crusty peasant bread. She turned into Hester Street and couldn't resist glancing up at her old apartment. She didn't feel nostalgic, only curious, when an impulse to check the bell drew her to the door. It too was different, yet familiar. Fresh red paint, a sharp new intercom and still the same old rippled glass of midnight blue in the transom.

Manny Orman. Hard to believe. His name was still on the buzzer after all these years. Manny still there. She stood with her finger poised over his name till her hesitation became ridiculous. She pressed the buzzer then wished she hadn't. What would she say?
A few feet away an old woman said something in Chinese to a doddering Italian prodding his cane at the curb. The man blinked.
A suspicious "Yes?" crackled through the intercom startling Mia.
"Hi, Manny. It's Mia, remember me?" She had to add that, even now, even with him, not completely sure of herself.
"Mia? No kidding. Hi, how are you?"
How fitting, that the first time she heard his voice in a dozen years it should be over some electronic device. He hesitated before buzzing her in. The old Italian man said: "Eh?"

Manny was disturbed by her voice. It broke into his life like mnemonic whiplash, unexpected, and the unexpected was always disturbing. He listened to the street door open, a sharp Chinese voice shouting, and then close with its familiar crash. She had sought him out after all these years. She'd come to him. He took his finger from the button feeling confused.

When they first met what Manny had loved about Mia was the way she cornered. Instead of giving walls and doors respectful distance, like anybody else, she'd walk straight at a corner as if she was going to smash right into it. And she'd be moving too. Chin out determination, hair piled-up in that academic bun spiked with pencils, her ankle length dress catching the snaps of her work boots. You'd think maybe she doesn't see it through those little wire frame glasses, that she's distracted. Then at the last possible instant - you'd already snatched your breath - her shoulder would dip and she'd swivel with toreador grace leaving the corner to shave the lint from her baggy sweater. It was a treat to watch her work the editorial offices up and down the corridor. Twisting, pirouetting. And the best part about it was she didn't have a clue she was doing it.

Mia paused as the door slammed behind her and took in the once familiar lobby. The light fixture was new and hideous. The stucco on the walls even more so. Mosaic tile, patterned and chipped, still covered the floor, and the smell of stale cooking still hung on the air. Even the stucco couldn't cover it. She set her hand on the worn cast-iron newel and looked up the walk-up, run-down, marble stairs.

What Mia had loved about Manny was that he wasn't like her. His energy for life was boundless with an appetite for novelty and the hip. She was a bookish recluse, an aesthete confident in ideas she was too shy to express. Shy of her own shyness. Manny was animated and opinionated about everything. If you could see him, gesticulating, but not hear him, you might think he was singing some impassioned song, throwing his arms about, popping his eyes. Mia liked to watch him at his desk working the phones. Impatient with their slowness he would stick his finger in and zip the dial around, then sit there mimicking, chicka, chicka, chicka - the sound of the dial slowly backpedaling to its original position. It was one of the happiest days of his life, the day they installed the touch tone phones.

Manny scuffed the stubble on his chin. Proust, that's who she loved, Marcel Proust. Manny made his way to the bathroom recalling her description of the writer in his cork lined room. He examined his face in the mirror. It wasn't so bad, was it, he'd worn fairly well. Without his reading glasses all the small imperfections blended anyway. Her eyesight wouldn't be any better. All the reading she did she was probably half blind by now. He picked up his razor and turned it in his fingers. No time. He took the nail scissors instead and did a little trimming. Marcel Proust, now there was a firecracker.

What they had had in common was youth. Mia fresh out of college, idealistic and passionate about books. Himself not much older thinking about advertising. They worked for a small publisher, Mia as an editorial assistant, Manny in sales. Youth was a glue more flexible than binding. She stamped possessive ex libris in her books. He labeled his albums with permanent markers. They were still looking for who they were and who they wanted to be and they put on the Stones and danced beyond exhaustion.

Mrs. Armanti came fluidly to mind as Mia turned on the first landing. Mrs. Armanti the Mafia auntie. Manny named her the night they saw a fierce looking man, with an ominous bulge under his coat, hugging the mustachioed old lady 'good night'. The little crucifix was gone from her door. She'd be dead by now, Mrs. Armanti. He was fun, Manny, his wheels always spinning, constantly agitating for something new, something different. Trends or music or his bellbottoms. It's here, it's now - he was perfect for advertising. Mia felt a twinge of embarrassment for having given him Ulysses for his twenty-fifth birthday. She'd been thinking of Bloom and his advertising. Trying to change him. Manny bought himself one of the new calculators. An elegant black tablet that fit the palm of his hand and contained the state of the art technology.
"Look," he turned it in his hand, a jeweled amulet, mesmerizing. "It's magic … amazing."
"For seventy-five dollars it does square roots?," she was the realist now. "You think you'll need a lot of square roots?"
"No. No I don't need it at all."
She was miffed. "So, what're you going to do with it, algebra?"
"I don't know. It's here, it's now, it's the future. It's better than magic."
She wanted to say something about it costing half the monthly rent, but he was already lost in logarithms.

Manny ran his hands through his hair - he preferred tousled to the neatly combed, it showed a sense of independence. He took a mouthful of Listerene and leaned back to gargle, Mia, Mia, Mia, Mia. She was so quiet. Silence is Golding. Delicate. Was that the right word? Very feminine despite the work boots, like some romantic pre-Raphaelite figure. But tough. Girl knew her mind. Quiet, tranquility was all she craved. To cook, to read. Tried to help her - get her out of herself, gave her plenty of ideas for books and magazine articles she could write. Too introspective, never wanted do anything fun - just for the hell of it. Amazing they lasted as long as they did. It was the sex probably. They did have good sex. Is that what she has in mind?

Mia turned on the second landing. There was the hot night she sat up in bed and watched Manny fumble across the room by the light of the sulphurous street lamps.
"What time is it?" Her voice thick with sleep.
"Sorry, I wake you? It's about three."
"Three! Where were you?" Mia reached for bedside lamp. "It's four-thirty!"
"Really?" Manny sat on the bed pulling off his clothes. Sweat glistened on his body. "We went dancing at Studio 54. You should have come, I called you."
"You said you were going to dinner with the guys after softball."
"I did. We did. Wilenski's. Then Chuck said he could get us into Studio 54. It's really hard to get into that place, you know."
"What's it like?"
"Amazing. Wild. The whole place sorta throbs. The music's visceral, very physical. And flashing lights. Everybody in world's there. Celebrities… everybody."
"Like who?"
"I didn't actually see anyone, but Robbie said he saw lots."
Mia didn't say anything, and Manny slipped into the warm bed beside her. They made hot, sticky love the way you can when you're young, and he kept humming some repetitive dance tune. When his head turned away he said: "Big night." and his breathing fell into a steady rhythm. Mia lay staring at the ceiling thinking of her own small evening with her book: Against the Grain.

A speck of color no bigger than a sesame seed caught Mia's eye. A tiny patch of the old paint the stucco man had failed to cover. How well she knew these stairs. How many times had she climbed them?
"If you have message for Mia Manny … no, if you have a message for Ormanny Man … Damn!"
Mia pulled her key from the door and closed it. Manny was at the table hunched over a gray plastic box, talking to it. "Hi, whatcha doing?"
"Tryin' to put a message on this answering machine."
"You got one? Boy, you didn't waste any time."
"Finger on the pulse. Never miss a call." Manny was with a promotional company now. "You want your full name or just Mia?"
"I don't get many calls."
"You'd get more if you made more."
"If you wish to receive letters, Mrs. Bennet," Mia rolled out her British imitation, including raised eyebrows. "You must wrrrite letters."
"Huh?"
"Jane Austin, P and P. Do I have to have my name in the message?"
"Of course, Jane Austin's right. You've gotta reach out, be receptive - go for it!"

Even subconsciously would it be sex? It was some kind of need. Manny crumpled the potato chip bag and threw it into the waste basket. He loved junk food, Mia hated it - empty calories, she said. Manny was at ease with the sugar highs of his time. The technology, the noise, the clubs, the TV. He had a sense for every nuance of the candy caloried culture. Mia didn't. She seemed part of another generation or outside generations altogether. The night he brought home their first VCR she loved the movie but ignored the VCR completely. Even the remote, that magic keyboard of distant delights. Just another winking light in the corner, she said. It was the same when they brought in computers at work.
"Aren't they great?" Manny made expansive gestures. "Have they taught you how to use it yet?"
Mia nodded enigmatically.
"I've learnt how to turn it on."

It was standing in front of the new ATM machine that Mia suddenly woke up to computers. It was ten o'clock at night, and she was withdrawing money from the bank and there was a line. A line. The surreal that Manny described of Studio 54 had spilled over on the outside world. Except these weren't fashion dupes, these were brittle-eyed young men and women in business suits talking fast and sniffing. Computers had crept into her life without asking.

Mia paused a little, surprised by the climb, as a couple came out of the third floor apartment. Manny must be in good shape doing these five flights every day. She'd gained a little weight with the kids but this wasn't funny. The couple were young, tattooed and clothed in black with ringed ears - conformists to their age. They passed Mia their open fresh faces bickering with open animosity, and went down stairs holding hands still bickering.

Manny set up the new fax on top of the microwave as Mia watched with annoyance.
"Not there!"
"Why not? It's the only outlet."
"This is the kitchen. I cook here."
"But you hate the microwave……and the fax, and the phone. What do you have against progress anyway?"
"I'm not so sure it is progress. I hate being forced to use something just because its available. What's the point?"
"You send documents instantly."
"I'm in no rush. I'll write a letter."
"C'mon. It's here, it's now, it's happening!"
"Well, I'm here and I'm now and I don't want it happening in my kitchen, thank you!"

Manny looked about the room they'd once shared now dominated by technology. Would she understand its Buddhist's sparseness and simplicity. A world of elegant certainty. Problems irrefutably solved without the messy entanglements of emotional needs. She never did understand. She thought chips were something that came in a bag. Always home baking, reading some hundred year old book - out of touch, locked in the poet's Ivory tower of beautiful thoughts and agonizing self-doubt. There was no doubt here. Things either were or were not. On or off.

Mia looked for the broken newel on the fourth floor and saw it had been replaced by a cheap imitation. She used to say she'd been replaced by a computer. Or was it just the day that youth ran out? Coincidence? She had got a job in the editorial department of Metropolitan and was trying to tell Manny but he wouldn't shut up about his new computer. He spoke a new language that was all megabites and chips and semi conductors and switches and software and platforms and phasers and extensions that she didn't understand and didn't care to. The new mistress was a clay colored box which sat at the center of the room full of ram and rom and totally shameless. Manny hunched over her hour after hour pecking and mousing away, retrieving lost data in a cloud of static electricity. When she finally told him about the job at the museum his reaction was predictable:
"Hah! The perfect ivory tower for a recluse. You'll never see daylight again."

Manny tried to remember the year they split up. Was it the year cell phones came out or was it cable TV? He stood by the open door listening as her approaching shoes hit each marble step with a clap. How long ago. It seemed their relationship had taken place in the dark ages of LP's and rotary phones. After she left he'd used his time in a spree of short liaisons. Then one or two more serious, and then the serious business of business. How innovation stole time away. She was going to be impressed with his new set up. Cutting edge, there was nowhere he couldn't reach out to now. It was a whole new world of the net, interactive TV, fiber optics, things she probably never gave a thought to. And the money he was making - doing well. Or was she still immune to such worldly things?

Mia glanced up the last flight of stairs as she turned. For a year after they split up she buried herself in work at the museum. Then miraculously she found Tim. He worked in restoration. He wasn't the vibrant character that Manny was, which is probably why they married so quickly. And then the boys. The rowdy non stop madness they dished out every day. Work, kids, the house. A pretty humdrum life. Manny was probably zipping off round the world, too much of a pistol to be tied down. The here, the now, the just do it guy. The children had broadened her life. She wouldn't have missed that. Maybe Manny had kids, married some beautiful woman..

He was waiting at the door when she came round the final turn of stairs. He was a dozen years heavier, his features thickened, but that was to be expected. It was the look that caught her off guard, something vital was missing - vitality itself. They hugged and he aimed a kiss for her lips. Mia turned her cheek, she didn't know why, embarrassed by him, by herself, by time.
"So good to see you. Come in, you know the place. You look great."
"You too." It was the best she could do. He was still a good looking man without the sparkle, without the vibrancy. Mia was never good at empty compliments. She went ahead of him, her eyes darting, looking for signs of a partner, a child. "It's just you?"
"Yeah. Just me. My world."
Like returning to a childhood room the place seemed so much smaller than in memory. The studio apartment was never big but now it was filled with computers and TVs and other electronic devices whose purpose Mia could only guess.
"Control central." Manny sat in the office chair in front of the computer. "Got the whole world here at my fingertips. The net, chat rooms, e-mail, cell phones. Whole world, right here."
He looked proudly over his domain of humming screens and flickering diodes. Lounging backward on the swiveling chair his pose accentuated the transformation of his body. The young man she'd known had turned soft and fleshy, his skin unwholesome and pale.
"Got my income right here." Manny gestured to the TV where a pretty anchor woman talked on screen as the jumbled letters and prices of the stock market ticker flowed beneath her face. "And there's my girlfriend."
"Really?" Mia came alive with disbelief.
"Virtual not literally. Everything's virtual. Everything I need, right here. No need to leave cyber space. It's the new world."
He watched. Mia looked from the screen to the room. It was unbearably cramped. The bed unmade, half drunk coffees growing old on piled magazines, a potato chip bag re-inflating in the waste basket. The disquieting whir of the machines suffocated the room. The air re-used and heavy. A room too much lived in. The sky beyond the grimey unopened windows was a cloudless blue, and Mia knew that if she stood close to the wall she would be able to see the Empire State Building in the distance. How long ago had she done that? How things had changed. She couldn't find herself there in the room, had she ever lived there? They had outgrown their youth and become themselves. She turned to Manny motionless and still transfixed to the screen his hand hovering over the keyboard. He'd already forgotten she was there.

You Sure This Is You?

"I was coming down that slow curve on to Kapowski bridge ... the road's deserted ... that early morning feel ? not a car - nothing. Then I’m on the bridge and I see this guy in a hat up on the rail looking down at the water. He’s not fishing.
It 's obvious what's up. The whole scene, just the way you imagine, just like the movies - his face is stone dead already. I stop the car and get out. He's so out of it he doesn't even hear me running up. I shout: Hey!
Don't try, he says, still looking down at the water. Don't try. No emotion, nothing.
I don't want to stop you, I says ... I want the hat.
That throws him. After a bit he turns, looks down at me like he didn't hear right. I say it again. I want that hat.
You want my hat? He can't believe it.
It's a good looking hat.
This is my hat.
You won't need it.
Won't need it, what's up with you? You see what I'm doing here?
Yeah. But, if you're gonna jump, you're gonna jump. Why waste the hat?
Now he's pissed. He gets down off the rail and comes over to me. He's shaking with anger.
"It's because of people just like you that I was up there in the first place. "

Sharon looked steadily into Bob Bedemeyer's face without blinking, a small bubble at the corner of her open mouth. He raised his hand and touched her gently behind her earlobe with his ring finger.
"You liar," she bit his heavy lip. "You really had me going there for a minute."
His sweat was salt in her mouth. His gaudy cologne blended with the smell of disinfectant. He laughed.
Someone was at the door, rattling the handle, trying to get in. They caught their breath, nervous, stifling the impulse to giggle, and waited. They were in the broom closet off the stock room, wedged between the mops and buckets , their bodies bunched over the sweeping compound. Her back against the wall Sharon could feel the sharp lump between her shoulders now, she’d have a bruise. Her left foot was in something sticky, she didn’t want to look. The rattling persisted. Bob flicked his eyebrows in a silent laugh. It wasn’t funny anymore, she didn’t want to look. A muffled irritated voice cursed beyond the door. The handle shook again and then it stopped. Bedemeyer grinned, they tried at ValueBuy, but they didn’t try very hard.
"Bill’s gonna kill me he ever finds out." Sharon straightened her clothes after the footsteps died away.
"Don’t tell him. Here’s your shoe."
"I’m gonna have a bruise." She turned her back to Bedemeyer. "My blouse torn?"
"Nah."
"Why I let you talk me into these things …"
He picked up his new golf putter and grinned. "Cuz I’m a winner."
"That all they give you?"
"And the afternoon off."
"You’ll get a bonus at the awards tonight."
"Another one?"

Bob Bedemeyer sauntered across the parking lot, breathing in the fresh air of success. He had been named ValueBuy salesman of the year earlier in the morning. The formal presentations would be later that evening at the Holiday Inn. It was about what he expected, about right. Sliding into his car he tossed the putter onto the back seat and checked the clock on the dash - 2.10, plenty of time. Time to pick up his suit from the cleaners, be on the greens by three. He looked for the cleaning ticket, slid his fingers into his shirt pocket - nothing. His wife had given it to him, he remembered that, yesterday after breakfast, practically thrown it at him. In his wallet, probably. An unconscious whistle fanned his lips as started the car and pulled out past the mall into traffic.

In time to the heavy beat on the radio, Bedemeyer drummed out his mood on the steering wheel. A glance at the Dairy Queen slipping by on the other side of the road brought Betty to mind. Betty was something. She'd put some mustard on his life. He'd met her a few weeks ago outside that same Dairy Queen, her little Escort next to his Taurus the bull. She was standing there wiffling embarrassed giggles into her vanilla swirl because she'd locked her keys in her car. And Bob the bull was full of playful snorts making her laugh even harder before pointing out that the back window was wide open. Betty didn't look like any heart-breaker that day – sweat pants and unwashed hair, she'd just stepped out to the market. But she was fun he could see that. It was reflex for him to pitch and she surprised him. When she showed up for their date there wasn't a guy in the restaurant could keep his eyes off her.

Bedemeyer brought the car to a stop outside Stainaway Cleaning. He'd see Betty tonight - after the awards. His wife, Connie, didn't want to go. She never wanted to do anything anymore. He'd called her from the store -"Hey, Babe, I won." And she says, "Oh, yeah. 'At's nice." Like, who gives a shit. Bitch hadn't even asked what he'd won. The hell with her. He got out.

In the middle of the sidewalk he swiveled to lock the car. Bob liked that, the gunslinger swerve on the ball of your foot, bring up the remote and whap! He hung for a moment taking pleasure in the metallic zaps of the little bolts shooting into the locks. Hey, that's a wallet. He saw it laying at the curb near his front wheel. It looked like his own. He stepped toward it, hovering a before bending to scoop it up. It was his. How come? He hadn't felt it fall. He gazed dumbly at the leather pouch for a moment before the obvious occurred to him. He reached back and pulled his own wallet from his hip.

The two wallets were almost identical. He held them side by side. The same broken stitching, same familiar imprint of the credit cards, same worn patch. Uncanny. He lay the two wallets next to each other on the hood of his car. They had same layout, the same organization: cash card, the same credit cards. One by one he went through the items, everything in one duplicated in the other, even a similar amount of cash. Apart from the guy's name - Maitland, William D. – they were practically interchangeable, except Maitland didn't have a dry cleaning ticket. Bob closed the wallets slipping his own back into his pocket as he crossed the sidewalk to the cleaners. He'd think about it later.

The young woman at the counter was very still when Bedemeyer walked in. The wheezy door and Bob's bluster didn't budge her. Her small body had a Buddha like stillness as if the chemical air and the humming florescent held her in a trance.
"Hey there, beautiful." Bob set his ticket in front of her.
She left the greeting in the air and studied his ticket without expression. It made him smile, he knew that game. Without a glance a small gesture of her hand set the conveyor rack in motion. She turned her gaze to the bare wall and waited. Bob stared at her. The look of spite about her intrigued him, as if she blamed him for her job. When the rack stopped she pulled off a hangar of clothes and lay them across the counter. A sports coat and pants in plastic wrapping. Right away Bob could see it wasn't his suit, but the outfit looked familiar. Had his wife dropped off the wrong clothes? It took a moment for him to see they weren't his.
"These're not mine, sweetheart. Give it another spin."
"What?"
"Give it another twirl, girl. These aren't my mine."
A hint of panic showed in the woman's eyes as they darted back and forth from ticket to garment. Then with relief she said: "Match the ticket,"
"But they're not mine."
"Numbers match."
"I don't care about the numbers. I have a blue suit, sweetheart. This is not my suit."
"They match," she said, then took her lower lip between her teeth and sank into a downcast stare.
"Ah, shoot!" Bob snapped the frustration with a sharp laugh. He glanced at his wristwatch, then out the window at his car beyond the pulsing backwards neon Stainaway.
"Look, sweetheart." He turned back.
Now there was a man there, a man with lacquered hair who took the ticket from the woman.
"Ah. Here we go." Bob nodded. "Now we're getting somewhere."
"All right, Rita," said the man. "I'll deal with this," His voice was flat and hard. "I'm the manager, sir. What seems to be the problem?"
"Good. How y'doin'? No problem, really. It's just - this is not my suit."
"Numbers match." The assistant beeped like some irrepressible electronic device.
"Yeah, you said that."
"She's right, sir. They match."
"Then there's some mistake." Bob prodded the garment bag. "That is not only not my suit. It's not even a suit."
"You sure it was a suit?"
"Hey, what am I? 'course I'm sure. It's a blue suit. It's obvious the ticket got pinned to the wrong garment."
"Doubtful, sir. Not usual." The manager gazed at Bob Bedemeyer with undisguised mistrust - a troublemaker. He looked down at the ticket.
"What was the name?"
"Bedemeyer … Bob." He pointed at the ticket the man was studying, then checked his watch again.
"D'you have any proof of that..."
"Proof?" Bedemeyer popped. The words rushing, the finger poking. "What is this, I'm buying a handgun or something? Whaddo I need proof for? I know who I am." His thumb jabbed his own chest. "I know I've got an appointment to keep, and I also know that's not my goddamn suit."
"Calm down, sir. We got a problem here. I'm tryin' to help, all right?" He pointed to the wallet in Bob's hand. "Can't you just show me some ID?"
"Ah, man!" Bob dropped the wallet on the counter. "Here." He pulled out the driver's license and shoved it across the worn Formica.

The manager picked it up and held it firmly before his stocky chest. "Well, Bob. This says William Maitland," he said with satisfaction.
"What?" It took Bedemeyer a second to get it then he snatched the license back and began to struggle with his pockets. The manager made a point of not looking at his assistant. She trapped that lower lip again and they stood waiting for Bob to produce an identical wallet and set it down next to the first. Then they couldn’t resist.
"Hah! I see what happened." Bob forced a laugh. "I just found this wallet outside on the sidewalk. I gave you his license by mistake." And as he spoke he picked through his wallet and slid his own license toward the manager. "Here."

"You sure this is you?" said the manager picking it up and reading.
"Very funny, yeah. That’s me."
"Milton Bedemeyer?"
"Yeah."
"Milton?"
"Yeah, Milton. Bob’s just a nickname. Look at the photo."
"So, it's not your ticket."
"Whaddya mean?"
"The ticket says Maitland."
"Show me that. I just gave her that ticket two minutes ago. How can it possibly say Maitland?"
"You tell me. Where'd you get it?"
"My wife gave me the ..." Bob began rooting through his pockets. His embarrassed grin turning sour with failure. "I had it. I don't know. I don't get it."
"Maybe you took it out of his wallet," said the woman. "Looks like yours."
"Yeah, must've." The manager nodded.
"No, no. What I want his crummy sports coat for? What I want is my suit. You gave it to some one else is what happened."
"Not without a ticket we wouldn't."
"Then he had my ticket."
"How did he get it?"
"How should I know? You must've give it to him." Ron looked desperate. "I've got a ceremony tonight. I can't go like this. This is golf, and look at this cheap sports coat, it's not even golf."
"Can't help you, sir." The manager turned away smiling. "Maybe you'll find it at home."
"Listen, I've gotta have my suit! That's my best suit." He slapped his palm on the counter sending manager and the woman back a step. "Where's my goddamn suit?"
"We don't have it," said the manager. "And you don't have a ticket. That's it!"
"That's it?"
"That's it!"
"Fuck this!" Ron pounded his fist on the counter.
"None of that. Not in here." The manager edged away behind his assistant who leaned forward cautiously to whisk the clothes off the counter.
"Oh no!" Ron grabbed them out of her hand. "I gave you a ticket for these. I'm taking 'em." He threw money on the Formica and backed toward the door clutching the cleaning bag.
"You gave my suit to this guy. If you won't fix it, I will."

Bedemeyer stood by his car looking up and down the street for answers. Nothing came. He got in and jerked open the wallet looking for an address. He found the driver's license and stared at the photograph of Maitland.
"Who is this guy?"
Maitland, William. The name meant nothing, just another guy with the same wallet. Their birthdays were close too, just a few days difference. There was a membership card to a local golf club, just like his own. Bedemeyer felt his hand clenched on the steering wheel to the point of pain. Was this worth it? He forced himself to lean back and calm down till his body relaxed. What about his golf game? He checked his watch, it was either golf or the suit. He’d paid a lot for that suit and the suit meant the awards. There was no choice.
He tossed the wallet on to the dash, and started the car. Pulling out he could see the manager of Stainaway Cleaning standing at the window watching him from behind the neon. Bob gave him the finger.

Maitland's address was on the far side of town it wouldn't be too hard to find. A twinge of embarrassment pinched his cheek as he drove. That Milton thing. He’d always hated the name, felt like a sissy all through childhood, every time anyone called it out. First chance he had, he remembered, when he left home he changed it. Down at the bus station he booked a seat on the bus and the clerk asked him what name, and he said Bob, Bob Bedemeyer. Then he’d held his breath expecting the clerk to look up and say, you ain’t no Bob you’re a Milton. But he hadn’t and he’d been Bob ever since. Bob was a man’s name. Waiting at the light Bedemeyer realized he'd lost sight of the details in his fit of indignation. Now he could visualize the two wallets laying open on the hood of the car. There was no ticket in Maitland's wallet. He remembered thinking they were alike except for the ticket. So, how the hell did he get Maitland's ticket? And how did Maitland get his ticket. Bob had never seen this guy in his life. Maitland's wallet was near his car when he picked it up. There was no ticket inside, which had to mean he'd already been into the cleaners and left.

"With my fuckin' suit." The anger jumped back at him and he took a swipe at the dashboard sending the car swerving into on-coming traffic in a welter of blaring horns. "Damnit! He's walkin' around in my best suit. Probably stretching the shit out of it. Poppin' the seams."

William Maitland lived in a suburb just like his own. The planning, the set of the houses, the park full of kids chasing soccer balls was all too familiar. He found himself making turns along the tree lined streets without even thinking, inhaling the smell of fresh mown lawns without surprise.
"I bet he's the sweaty type, this Maitland. Anyone who'd wear jacket like that. Better not be. All I need, great wet patches under the armpits."

Suddenly the house was there, as if he hadn't had to find it at all. Some sort of instinct had brought him right to the door. He rolled the car to a stop and let the engine idle. Look at this place - a contractor's boilerplate without distinction, four walls and a roof. Not a bit of character, like all the others on the street, like his own. The yard was neat with a pebble path, dividing the scrap of lawn, leading to a door garnished by bougainvillea blooms on either side. It was quiet. If anyone was home he couldn't tell from where he was sitting. He cut the engine and got out taking the cleaning by the hangar, then reached back for Maitland’s wallet.

There was no sign of life through the windows as he crunched up the path. Was this whole thing going be a waste of effort, miss the game and the suit? He pressed the doorbell and waited. A yellow-jacket hummed, trapped in the coach lamp that hung on the door jamb. The door was yellow too. He watched the wasp buzzing back and forth building its irritation, smashing itself against the glass. The lamp had more patina than the one on his own door.
If he comes to the door in my suit I'm gonna pop him one. Bob glanced back at his car talking out loud. Wrecked my whole goddamn afternoon. Missed my tee time, everything. Ask him. You have to ask, right? Didn't you fuckin' notice it wasn't your clothes? Asshole!

Muted Latin music began playing somewhere in the house interrupting his thoughts. Bob reached for the buzzer again and gave it an irritated jab. It had taken longer than it should for the door to open, and then it did.

His wife Connie reacted first - a little gasp, hand up to her mouth, stepping back out of range. Bob blinked. She was all dolled up. Was this the wrong house?
"What the fuck're you doing here?"
"Whaddya think, clearing the drains?"
Her defiance threw him, standing there with her hands on her hips. His face, like a marble on a slow roll across a tabletop, finally fell.
"You!" He suddenly held out the cleaning at arms length. "You! That's how I got his ticket." He looked back and forth from his wife to the jacket as if there was some one inside it. "You're screwing this guy."
It wasn't accusation. It was a gasp of realization.
"You're screwing him!" Now it was accusation.
"What of it?'
"What of it? You're my goddamn wife. That's what of it!"
"Oh, yeah! What about all the women you're screwing? What about Sharon?"
"That's finished."
"What about Betty?"
"Betty?" That shook him.
"Didn't think I knew about her did ya?"
"That's different." He recovered, shouting to make his point.
"No, no. She's not different, she's just like all the others. You want me to name them all? They're not different, he's different," Connie shot out a finger at the empty jacket. "He's special."
"Him!" Bob gave the jacket a violent jerk. "Special? Different? He's not different he's just like me!"
His own words caught Bob off guard, his eyes burning with frustration as he glared at the furious wasp in the lamp. Confused, he was in the closet with Sharon, turning wallets on the hood of his car, staring at the face of the shop girl in flashing neon full of spite. It wasn't right. It was all wrong. He'd won. Salesman of the year, people liked him. There’d been applause. Now everything was wrong. Connie‘s venal sneer clenched his fists, and curled his body to lash out, to smash his fist into her taunting face, but the clothes snared his arm. And she was quick, she knew what was coming and with a sharp yelp she slammed the door in his face. Bob punched it so hard he turned away howling, smothering his crumpled hand in his armpit.
He trampled the sports coat and pants in a futile dance of rage, then gave it up in favor of throwing a rock through the window. The glass shattered leaving a jagged black hole and muted Latin music. And then it stopped. Bedemeyer stood in silence with a look of thoughtless concentration on his face.
"Hey! … Hey!"
Bob turned to the sound of the voice. A man streaming by on a bicycle, waving.
"Hey, how you doin’ Milton?"