I, with something of a stabilizing position, try to ease the quiet desperation in the room. I have, at the back of my throat, disarming names to a certain something enjoyed for its own sake. Emily. There is her name, at the back of my throat, a little there to choke me. Being recognized at cocktail parties, Emily is here getting acquainted in the hope her large bosom and broad hips create a memorable impression. I am stable, saying only her name. At the Kiwanis Club, it is an opportunistic chance (at least for me) to explore my past. Her eyes are beautiful though her mousy hair is lifeless as she stands, shouting toward me, “Mister!” Then the room whispers, “General Motors…”

Suddenly, the sound of a shot outside through the deluge of rain. “Outside!” I direct. Emily is well-banked on the floor as shots fire against the down pour.