Chapter 1

Mitchell’s father called him in the morning.

“Boy, did I have a wild dream last night. I’ve gotta tell you. You’re gonna like this one. I was at the doctor. Having my prostate removed! And I was telling the doctor and his team, ‘You’ve got a good gig here.’ At the hospital, I meant. I like their set-up, how they handled tasks together. ‘If I had it to do over again, I might go into this line of work. But of course it’s too late. What am I, pushing seventy?’

“And before I could finish sharing my thoughts with the physician and his team in their light blue uniforms, kind of gauzy, things you throw away after surgery, the doctor’s darker, identifying him as leader, I guess- before I could say even half of what was on my mind, they were starting the operation. They were busy, couldn’t spare time to listen to an old man’s ramblings, hah hah.

“So then there it was, my prostate, the damned thing, on a table in a tureen, whatever it’s called, steel tureen surface, and it looked like a squid or an octopus, rubbery thing brown color, like a sea vegetable, you could say, and the doctor looked at me, a little proud of his performance, regarding the glittering object he’d delivered me of, and warned- cheerfully, mind you- ‘Don’t touch it. Even out of the body it’s still dangerous, has poisons.’

“I tell you, what a dream! You still there?”

“Dad, I have to get to work.”

Last week all seemed good. A woman at work, attractive secretary who helped administer the English language test Akemi took at the college with hundreds of other ESL students- it was a necessary exam- addressed my questions- I’d come to ask if Akemi had finished yet- I hadn’t been able to find her- and Melissa the staff person said she’d seemed to polish the thing off in just a few minutes- she even wondered if Akemi had missed most of the test questions, simply not seen them. Melissa and I talked across the table where she and others worked, taking questions, handing out and maybe also receiving completed test booklets.

We flirted. She had light blond hair, very light, like meringue- you thought of Florida, the beach, eternal youth, short wavy hair, just enough to make a bright frame for her face, which was clear, fair and almost heart-shaped. I finally said to her on impulse, seized by the moment, “If you’d like to go out for coffee later...” She smiled and said no, she had things to do and “Anyway, luckily, you’re not my type.”

Cheerful, just dispensing information, no offense intended. I took none, but walking away noted that “not my type” is a euphemism for “I don’t find you attractive” and thought from out of nowhere (it seemed on the subject) of underwear I wore, trunks, and that they were more appealing to women than briefs I used to. Men Melissa did like probably wore trunks. Funny moments in funny days.