THE EIGHTY-SIXTH PAGE

The naughty disk was inserted into the cafe computer.

I typed in the address of the intended, my former publicist. He was a pathetic thing who had enough show biz contacts for an occasional radio or television publicity break for a non-book. Usually, he was never given fiction, rather how-to’s and tell-all’s. Why he was given mine is but a tiny piece in my Great Big Puzzle Box of Life. It’s doubtful he knew the differences among The New York Times, the New York Post, or the New York Review of Books as sources of book reviews. If he did, he surely didn’t have their addresses when my book went out for review.

The return e-mail address, of course, belonged to the cafe. My e-mail name was “cerberusdawg.” The joke would be lost on the silly lad, but the “dawg” bit would sound friendly and inviting, maybe even intriguing if he had any curiosity at all. That was the greatest challenge of the endeavor--getting him to open his goddamned mail.

Then under the delightful alias of my editor, of course, I appended a note, telling my little gamesman that I was sending e-mail from home, where I had downloaded a fantastic game the night before and I was sending it along for his edification and amusement. A gift from a friend. And like herpes, a gift that kept on giving.