O+F | Page 3

settling down?" Oliver asked.
"I'm trying, man. Who do you like in the NCAA's? Duke?"
"No way. Robots," Oliver said. "Smug. Bred to win from birth."
"I got a hundred on them." Mark made money helping executives scale
the job ladder. He was amused and ironic about it. They knocked
themselves out; he got the dancers--for a time.
"Hey, Richard!"
"Mark . . . Oliver . . . The boss let us out early." Pleased with this
statement, Richard O'Grady, who acknowledged no boss but "The Man
Upstairs," shuffled to his customary place at a long table on the other
side of the bar. He was bright eyed, slight, and stooped, a survivor of
diabetes and severe arthritis.
"Amazing smile!" Oliver said.
"A world authority on blood chemistry," Mark said. "You'd never know
it--in here every night drinking scotch."
"Every night but Sunday," Oliver said. "I asked him, one time, where
he got that smile. I thought he'd say something like: it was his mother's.
He said, 'Don't know.' Then he said, 'Use it!' It was like a command
he'd been given."
"Not too many around here that haven't had a drink on Richard," Mark
said. "I'm outa here. Duke, man."
"Boo."
"Oliver," Richard called, "Help me with this plowman's lunch." Oliver
sat on a wooden bench across the table from Richard.
"I'll have a bite," he said. "What's happening?"
"Oh, the usual," Richard said. "Palace intrigue. Too many chemists in
one lab. I shouldn't complain; they do a good job." He bent over the
table and lowered his voice. "One of the supervisors is a bit rigid. I hear
about it, you know. I've tried to talk to her. It's delicate." He brightened
as he straightened. "I'm sending her to a conference in Amsterdam.
Maybe something will happen."
"That would be the place," Oliver said, cutting a slab of Stilton.
"How are you doing? Working?"

"In between programming projects at the moment," Oliver said. "Not
sure what to do next. Sometimes I wonder what's the point of doing
anything."
"Oliver . . ." Richard reminded him, pointing at the smoky ceiling,
"you've got to trust The Man Upstairs. It's His plan." This would be too
corny to take if it weren't coming from Richard.
"I wish He'd let me in on it." Oliver took a long swallow of stout.
"I'll tell you what I do when I feel bad," Richard said. "I find somebody
who's worse off than I am, and I do something to help him out. Or her
out. Works every time." He turned toward Sam and held one crippled
hand in the air. "Over here, Sam, when you can." Oliver didn't think in
terms of other people. He related to them as required, but his focus was
inward. He imagined Richard's process: let's see, I feel bad; therefore,
it's time to find person X who is worse off than I am and help him out.
Or her. He could picture eligible persons, but he stumbled on the help
part. What did he have to offer? Was a dollar bill going to make a
difference? He felt blocked from the part of himself that might contain
helpful things he could pass along.
"I like this chutney," he said, "good with this cheese. What was your
father like, Richard?"
"Great guy," Richard said. He sloshed the scotch and ice cubes around
in his glass. "I'll tell you a story about my father. He couldn't tell time.
Someone gave him a watch, but he didn't want to learn. He was proud
of the watch, wore it every day. He used to go to people and say, 'I'm
having a little trouble reading this,' and then he'd hold his wrist up."
Richard raised his arm proudly out in front of him. "And he'd squint, as
if he had eye trouble. 'Oh, it's a quarter to nine,' they'd say." Richard
threw back his head and laughed. "My dad was a great guy--could
barely read, always singing. He worked on the docks."
"Hi, Richard." A thin woman approached. She had dark eyes and
bleached blonde hair pulled into a tight pony tail.
"Hi, Sally. How are you?"
"O.K."
"Do you know Oliver?"
"Seen you around," she said, appraising him. Oliver felt about a four
out of ten, maybe a three.
"Sally works at Mercy Hospital. That cigarette isn't doing you any good,

you know."
"Nag, nag, nag."
"You got one for me?" Richard lit up the room with his smile.
"Oh, Richard!" Sally felt in her purse with one hand.
"What are you drinking?" Richard asked.
"I'll see you guys," Oliver said, sliding to the end of the bench and
standing. Sally took his place. "Thanks for the eats, Richard."
"Stay warm," Richard said.
A plow rumbled by, as Oliver stepped out into the