Answers

By Alan Kohls

Who is Andrew Elric, and whats he doing here? Says hes here with answers. As Andrew would explain it, We live our lives shrouded with mysteries. Were compelled to show faith in explanations that we really dont believe inthe origins of our being, the nature and existence of God, are we alone in the universe? Less weighty issues as well as stuff wed just like to knowwho really shot Kennedy? What happened to Jimmy Hoffa? You think about it and know there really are answers to all of it, but you dont have access to them. Ive got those answers and, more importantly, proof for all of it. Some of it you can hold in your hand. You follow the news, you know this place is going to blow. Im here to try and stop it. Religion, race, nationalism . . . We all come from the same place. But the world has suffered through too many charlatans and false prophets. Im going to use these proofs to get you savages to settle down.

Andrew has recruited renowned attorney, author, and sports agent Aron Samuelson to help him get the word out. Aron, in the throes of a midlife crisis, is looking for the next big thing in his life. As they say, be careful
what you wish for.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jul 31, 2015
• ISBN: 9781503574120

Alan Kohls

A Northern California transplant from San Diego. Has a BBA in business economics from the University of San Diego and MBA in management from Golden Gate University in San Francisco. Father of three sons. Spent the bulk of his most productive writing years working too much, coaching youth sports, and generally being a typical doting husband and father. Keenly interested in history and music. Was a decent guitarist and vocalist back in the day. Small college football hero, Renaissance man, and general bon vivant.

Book preview

ANSWERS

ALAN KOHLS

COPYRIGHT © 2015 BY ALAN KOHLS.

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CONTROL NUMBER:   2015908654

      ISBN:   HARDCOVER   978-1-5035-7410-6

      SOFTCOVER                  978-1-5035-7411-3

      EBOOK                            978-1-5035-7412-0

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 07/31/2015

Xlibris

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Contents

Part One

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Part Two

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Publisher’s Note

At the time of this printing, the whereabouts and condition of Aron Samuelson are not known. It is not my normal practice to include a statement of any kind along with the writings of our authors; in fact, this is a first. But readers will likely agree the following testament is a rather unusual case. The pages that follow represent either the most incredible ruse in recent memory or perhaps the most important words communicated since the Bible. There is compelling evidence from both directions, and what has already caused a hailstorm of controversy around our world may indeed be inflamed by the contents of this book.

Our decision to publish this work was not an easy one. Penryn Publishing has enjoyed a sterling reputation for well over a century. Arthur Penryn founded the company in 1893. We have established ourselves as a benchmark for quality in this industry. According to some pundits who track this kind of endeavor, we are at risk in making Answers available to the public to the point where there seems to be a shared opinion that this will be the last book bearing our name that any serious individual will ever again purchase. It is a risk we feel compelled to take. The subject matter, Andrew Elric, whether a scam artist or crucial to our understanding of man’s history on this planet, is too important to ignore. Even if the following is not true, the story tells us some incredible things about ourselves.

For those of you heretofore unfamiliar with Aron Samuelson, here is some information on this remarkable individual’s background, career, and previous works. A native of New Rochelle, New York, Samuelson earned a BA from Brown University with a dual degree in political science and economics. He went on to earn an MBA from the University of Pennsylvania and a law degree from the University of San Diego. Aron met his wife (now ex-wife) Anna while at Penn, where she was an undergraduate studying English literature. Anna, who was raised in Southern California, made the decision upon graduation to pursue a master’s degree in education closer to home and selected the San Diego school, so Aron followed her west.

It was while in law school where Samuelson began to chart the career path that led to a very successful enterprise that came to be known as ASA (Aron Samuelson and Associates) International Management, Inc. Always a political junkie, Aron became involved with the 1980 presidential campaign of Ronald Reagan. His drive and organizational skills were exceptional. By election day, Aron was a key member of the local effort. In 1984, Aron managed Reagan’s California campaign effort and had become quite the political insider, involving himself in numerous local and statewide efforts.

Concurrent with his growing political involvement and nearing the end of his law studies, Samuelson began a practice as a representative (agent) for professional athletes (and subsequently other fields of the entertainment industry) by befriending a University of San Diego baseball star. Brent Marshall was ultimately a high first round choice of the San Francisco Giants. The deal negotiated by Samuelson on Marshall’s behalf was the stuff of legends in the business and led to more and more opportunities. Thus, after passing the bar, ASA was born.

In the ensuing years, the demand for Aron’s services in both the political and personal management fields grew at an astounding rate. Staff, facilities, and assets multiplied in support, making Samuelson not only unimaginably wealthy but also immensely influential among the elite of the sports and entertainment world as well as political decision makers, both in the United States and around the globe. Interestingly, Samuelson kept a very low profile through all of his endeavors. He shunned publicity whenever possible, always seeking to remain in the background while promoting those whom he represented. He has been variously described as a kingmaker, a power broker, and the ultimate insider, though before his association with Andrew Elric, few outside of power would recognize him if they saw him on the street. Samuelson refused to have his picture on the cover art or even the inside of the three books he authored for Penryn, nor would he agree to book tours or televised discussions of his writing. He was notorious for not making public appearances with his clients or the candidates he represented and for refusing to negotiate through the press. However, Samuelson is certainly not a shy or timid individual. I once asked him to explain this unusual stance on such matters. He told me, It’s really quite simple. Two reasons. Most importantly, I think it’s a matter of some guilt on my part. I make these ridiculous amounts of money doing this on the backs of the abilities of others, but I’m not the product. I add no value to the art. I cannot sing a lick, I can’t act, I can’t hit a curve ball, I run like a school girl, I don’t have the courage to put myself in front of voters and offer my vision to lead them. I’d not be able to make a decision that would benefit some and hurt others. I’m a hustler, a poker player with a gift of gab and the ability to run a bluff. I’ve become rich for doing something that, while I love it at times, is nothing that I deserve to be admired for. Secondly, just a matter of anonymity and privacy. I like to be able to move through life unencumbered and allow my family to do the same. And from what I’ve seen, fame can be a real pain in the ass.

Samuelson’s earlier works for Penryn were well received in certain circles though by no means runaway best sellers. Primarily of a political, historical, and sociological slant, they seemed to find favor with other insider types and those conservatives who were subsequently swept up with the Republican/Conservative revolution of the early nineties. Though critical to both sides of the aisle, the libertarian tone in most of his writings found greater acceptance on the right than the left. His first, titled Spin This! was a look at political mouthpieces and apologists since the heyday of the Hearst media empire, how these people explained events and incidents, and how these explanations were interpreted and disseminated by various news media. The second book, Unequal Angle, was an attempt to verify the long-purported view that there is editorial bias (mostly liberal elite) in the major mainstream media. Lastly, and very much his most provocative work, is the book titled Experts. This was a scathing review of academia in the Western world whose publicly funded and often-spurious research somehow becomes gospel, relevant and true.

Samuelson’s favorite quote from the writer that he admired the most, Hunter Thompson, seems to sum it all up: When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro. Not surprisingly, in retrospect, Samuelson has been none too popular with the news media, college professors, and bureaucrats over the last few years.

It should be noted here that I personally met with both Samuelson and Andrew Elric in my office a few years ago, before all of the subsequent controversy. Samuelson encouraged our firm to publish Elric’s book, Answers. We were the first to see it. Obviously, the book subsequently found a publisher. We turned it down. We felt too many things were reported as facts without sufficient proof or research. Today I can’t tell you that I’m positive that we were vindicated in this decision. Most critics would say we were. I personally found Andrew Elric to have a very unusual, convincing, and magnetic personality. He was different from any man I’ve ever met. Still, after our meeting was over and they had gone, my instincts reverted to what they were before we met. In any case, I feel this is a story that needs an outlet, and this is it. We’ve included the message written by Samuelson, explaining the book, his circumstances, and how the manuscript came into my possession. It’s either the greatest story ever told or a fictional tale that would at a minimum make you think.

Robert Benedict

President

Penryn Publishing

Mr. Robert Benedict

Penryn Publishing

400 Madison Ave

New York City, NY 10016

Bob,

Well, my old friend, by now, you may have received this manuscript by e-file or perhaps due to its length, it’s caused your system to crash trying to open it. This copy via FedEx may be redundant. Paranoia is a funny thing. My hope is simply that one or the other will find its way into your hands; you will read it and get it out on the street. I fear that due to our relationship over the years, you too are being watched and these words will not see the light of day. As you might guess, I am, on the run. I’ve been reluctant to write or call for fear of being found or, more importantly, for fear that you may become implicated and guilty by association. While I’m not wanted by any official governmental agency, there are some dark forces out there that see me as the point man in the introduction of the status quo’s biggest recent problem. Andrew Elric is dead, at least the body he was using is. Since no body was ever found, there is a lot of speculation out there that he may be in hiding. He’s not, but the body has been retrieved, and he’s moved on. I’ll move on at some point as well, but for now, I have work left to do. Not sure at this point how I’ll proceed, but hopefully, you’ll not have seen or heard the last of me.

Bob, you’ve known me for a long time, and although I imagine my reputation with you has been damaged as it has with so many of my old friends, I’m telling you again that what Elric said is true. Absolutely true. After you read what is enclosed, it may well be a bit easier for you to buy into. This is an unadulterated account of Elric’s time with us. You will understand that statement with clarity as well. The writer in me doesn’t want to spoil the plot, so read on.

To confirm you have received this, I’ll ask you for a favor. Please take out a classified ad in the personals section of the LA Times. Write, Darling, have received your proposal. If you can publish this, continue the ad with The answer is yes! If you need more time to consider this, write, The answer is maybe. If you cannot publish this, write, Hope to see you soon. In any case, close with Love, Mary. I’ll be looking for your message. I must get this word out, and I will by some means.

Please don’t be too fearful for me. I’ve got access to funds, IDs that will get me wherever I need to be, and a small but trusted network of individuals of similar beliefs that will protect me to the best of their abilities. I also have some special help to do my work here. In any case, I’ve seen the great beyond, and it’s beautiful. You should take comfort in that as well.

Till we meet again.

Yours in peace,

Aron

To all those of positive spirit, seeking meaning, and able to open their minds to the possibilities. With love and hopes for comfort to Jenna and David.

Preface

The following is my true testimony of my time with Andrew Elric. My goal is to clarify and explain his mission and peel away the layers of misinformation that have become a cottage industry since his first appearance. To those who have proof to the contrary, bring it.

PART ONE

Chapter 1

On an otherwise unremarkable Saturday evening, May, 2004 around 9:00 p.m., I sit in the Compass Room of the St. Francis Hotel in San Francisco, nursing a Bombay Sapphire martini, two olives, up. I’m not really much of a drinker. I’ve only discovered martinis during a business dinner when I said, Make it two, after my guest’s order. Always gin. The only scene I remember from an old Sinatra movie was he and some hot sixties woman in a bar ordering drinks; she says, vodka, Frank says, gin. That was good enough for me. I actually got to drink with him once, sat at a table with him at a fund-raiser. He seemed to prefer Jack Daniel’s. It was no Rat Pack replay. He was getting on in years, and Barbara had him on a pretty short leash. Jack had actually always been my drink of choice, through college years (high school too) when I lacked the sophistication to order anything else, and it seemed to be an acceptable callout. Whatever.

At this time of year in the city, there’s a bit of an older crowd, less touristy than it would be in a couple of weeks. The business types went home on Friday. These visitors were mostly those not restricted to school schedule vacations. Still, it was crowded, and there was a bit of a buzz in the air. I was lucky to find a small table to myself, far away enough from the jazz quartet that was setting up, that I could relax and explore my own thoughts. I’d describe my mood as bemused and somewhat lacking in motivation and direction. I was in town to attend my daughter’s graduation ceremonies nearby at St. Mary’s College in the East Bay. I sat in the bleachers of the Gaels’ football field for most of the afternoon, waiting for her name to be called. My ex-wife was in the crowd with her latest escort. I spotted her and sat on the other side. A degree in religious studies, with the intention (this week at least) of teaching at some point, like her mother intended at one time. I’d have loved to have taken her and some classmates out for a night on the town to celebrate the day. But at this hour, she was at SFO, waiting for a red-eye to London. My baby Jenna, her boyfriend, and another couple were going to do Europe this summer, maybe longer. My reluctant graduation gift. She didn’t really need me to look after her anymore; and hadn’t for a while, but it’s damn hard to let go.

Business was great, but it didn’t really need me either. I’d always hired and paid for the best, but the thing could run itself now. I’d become a figurehead of sorts, the kind a lot of companies had that didn’t really need to do much—meet with the other big shot bullshitters on occasion, offer a bit of advice and direction. That’s about it. I was scheduled to speak at the Commonwealth Club the following Thursday evening, the subject being the federal government’s fiscal skullduggery and excess. I had decided to stay in town, just kind of dick around for a few days, maybe visit some old haunts. I had plenty of folks I could round up for a golf game if I wanted to or for dinner or a show.

Really, though, I sorta felt like being alone, marking my own time in my own way without the benefit of any itinerary. I’ve always been pretty much a loner at heart. I enjoy my own company and don’t really need others around to be occupied. My ex always enjoyed telling others that I really didn’t like people. While there may be some truth in that statement, I never thought it particularly funny. Sitting alone, drinking in a bar was not something I did with any frequency. I’d be far more likely to be sitting in my suite with a ball game on the tube and room service on the way. I’d ultimately feel some guilt about my natural tendency of being a hermit and feel the urge to be out doing something, but I could get over that, at least for an evening. Tonight, though, I was out among ’em. A member of society and open to suggestions.

Going back to my younger single days, the instinctual purpose for coming out of the cave was to scout for women. I think it was in the back of my mind that evening that I might run into a lady that was interesting, beautiful, and missing some part that I could supply. And if I were sitting in my room, the likeliness of this person knocking on my door and asking to come in was not good. It wasn’t very likely either that I would actively pursue companionship this night. I just didn’t have that energy anymore. I’ve always loved having a woman at hand, a relationship that I could have when I wanted and put aside when I chose, one that would respect my need for solitude yet be there when I was in the mood. It’s not that this type of woman is impossible to find. I’ve found them before. But subservience and attentiveness, to me anyway, can become a bore. My wife changed me in many respects. She was contrary to an extreme. We saw eye to eye on very little. We couldn’t agree on much of anything, couldn’t watch the same TV shows. We would argue over restaurants, vacation plans, how to raise the kids—pretty much every goddamn thing you can imagine. When I wanted to make love, she didn’t. I don’t remember when she ever really wanted to make love. It might take hours to get her in the mood. If I could have made minimum wage for every hour of foreplay that I performed, I’d be on the cover of every Forbes issue. And you know, I really miss it all. It’s been two years since we came to our senses and made our divorce official. But a void remained, and no quantity of flings and affairs has been able to fill it.

The band was now in action. Four pieces— piano, upright bass, sax and drums—with vocals by the keyboard man. Very nice, tasteful. Smooth music and the standards. The singer, an older gentleman, sounded like a cross between Mose Allison and The Velvet Fog. The crowd was well dressed for the most part. Gentlemen in nice suits, a tux here and there, and the ladies in evening gowns with a fur or wrap adorning a few. Most are middle-aged couples with the odd, free agent interspersed. Tables were full with a handful of small groups lined up on the stairs leading to this elevated area. Had I arrived a bit later and seen a queue of people waiting to get in, I’d have gone elsewhere, but I got my spot and was going to stick around for a while. I had a good view of the proceedings from my table and could see just about the whole procession. I noticed that some singles were allowed in, if they didn’t mind standing at the bar, and a pretty good crowd was gathering there. Other than ordering myself another drink from a very efficient and pleasant waitress, my outward focus was on not looking desperate. I felt a little like the high schooler at the sock hop, standing at the side, that nobody is asking to dance and hasn’t the nerve to ask anyone themselves. Not that I was on the prowl, it’s just a little awkward sitting alone. If you’ve ever gone into a nice restaurant and they ask you how many are in your party, and you answer one, you know the feeling.

There was one small group standing at the bar that caught my eye. They seemed to be having a better time than the rest of the assembly. Three very beautiful women, late twenties or early thirties, gathered around an equally striking gentleman of about thirty-five, I guessed. The young ladies seemed to be hanging on the man’s every word. They were all smiling broadly and laughing occasionally. It looked a bit like an Esquire ad for Chivas Regal or the like. I’d normally have disdain for a guy that so clearly had the world, or at least the situation by the ass, but he seemed so pleasant and sincere as he was holding court that my only feelings about the scene were ones of admiration and respect. I was never, on my best day, able to do what this guy was doing. I pictured a hot tub with champagne and wet skin for these four before the evening was too much further along, and he seemed like such a nice person that I was pulling for him. He was about six foot two or three, built like a free safety, with medium-length sandy-colored hair and a well-tended goatee. A very handsome fellow wearing a sharp, tailored charcoal suit, white shirt, and black tie. Very tasteful all around. He had what looked like a school ring on his right hand. I noticed this because not too many men wear them more than a couple of years after graduation. I wear mine from USD. It was a gift from my ex-wife.

I guess I was kind of staring at the group for a while because for a moment, the man turned around and looked straight at me. There was no mistaking that his eyes were aimed right at mine. It kind of shook me out of my haze, and I felt a bit embarrassed. Before I could look away, a broad smile came over his face. He gave me a little wave that turned into a thumbs-up sign. In a few seconds, it was as if we had a conversation on what he was into. He spread an open palm and cocked his head as if to ask if I’d like to join them. I sheepishly shook my head with a look that I hoped said thank you. He shrugged a bit and nodded, telling me it was OK and that he understood. I pulled my gaze back toward the band and felt a bit like a coward for not joining his group.

After another twenty minutes or so, as the band was about to take a short break, out of the corner of my eye, I saw the gentleman give a hug and a warm kiss on the cheek to each of the lovelies and bid them adieu one by one. I still figured the smart money was on a later get-together for this group, but I sensed, a bit of disappointment on their part as the women filed by, but I really couldn’t tell. My lord, they were beautiful. As my gaze followed them down the stairs and toward the lobby, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around to my left and saw the outstretched hand of the fellow in question.

You’re Aron Samuelson, aren’t you? he asked with a broad grin.

Why, yes, I am, I responded, somewhat taken aback by his presence. I don’t get recognized very often in public, and I kind of had the feeling that this man was going to question me on my intrusive eye. Have we met before? I asked.

No, sir, he said, but I am a great admirer of your work, he added as we shook hands.

You could tell his hands had the vise grip potential, but the grasp, while firm, was really gentle and warm. I had a quick flash, being in San Francisco and all and since he had just dismissed three women that were too good for a Victoria’s Secret catalogue, that he might be playing for the other team—gay, I should say. But this was a man’s man by any measure, and I was quickly convinced that this was in no way true. But my attraction was more than a bit disturbing. He looked very deeply into my eyes as we shook.

My name is Andrew Elric, he said. Do you mind if I sit down?

Be my guest, please, I said, pointing to the empty chair. He noticed my drink was down to the toothpick that held the olives.

Looks like you could use a refill … Brenda, honey, he said to the waitress about twenty feet away, motioning politely. She came over directly as if she’d been waiting for his summons. I think my earlier waitress was on break. This gentleman will have a Bombay Sapphire martini, up, two olives, and I’ll have another glass of that Merlot. Put these and any that follow on my tab. Did I get it right, Aron?

Yeah, I said. As guesses go, that was pretty good. The waitress left us with a smile. How did you know what I was drinking? I asked.

You look like a Bombay Sapphire man, he said and laughed out loud. No, really, I was standing at the bar while Jim mixed the first two, he said, nodding toward the bartender. It’s just a matter of paying attention to things that go on around you. Besides, I knew I was going to introduce myself before the evening was over. Good conversation starter, eh?

It is indeed, I answered. But here’s my question for you, I said. How could you possibly be paying attention to anything beyond those three beautiful young ladies you were entertaining over there? I apologize for staring, but my god, what’s the skinny on that group? Are you going to hook up with them later?

Oh no, those three? he said. You should have come over and said hello. Just three very charming girls. A bit lonely I think and open to having somebody pay attention to them for a while. I know you’ve heard this before, but it’s often true, sometimes the most beautiful women have the least number of opportunities for companionship. They tend to intimidate most guys who’d offer up their left nut just to hold hands with them. The guys that tend to approach them at all are either too full of themselves to be good company or some clown on the lunatic fringe that has no shame and consider it a moral victory just to have somebody that good-looking tell them to get lost. In any case, these women spend more time alone than you might imagine. Anyway, they were all here from out of town, attending a wedding of an old schoolmate. The reception was here and let out a couple of hours ago. I think they felt compelled to go out and have some fun in the big city. They head back home tomorrow. I won’t see them again unless we bump into one another in the morning. They have lives at home to go back to. I didn’t think I should complicate them by doing more than talk. You should have come over to meet them. Why didn’t you come over?

That intimidation thing, I said. Besides, you looked like you had things wrapped up. I was just admiring your work.

No work, he said. Just four humanoids being nice and respectful to one another. Though I must admit, they anticipated a bit more than I was offering. As if in their minds, an encounter like that should lead to what you were thinking. Like a script or something. Oh well, it just had a different ending. I sure enjoyed their company. Another experience to remember for us all.

So how is it that you know me, but I don’t know you? I asked, changing the subject.

Just another example of paying attention, he explained. Though you keep a pretty low profile to the general public, anyone who is aware of the real power structure in this country knows Aron Samuelson. You have the ear of the current administration as you’ve had to those previous. You can phone the president, and he’ll take the call. You can do the same with many of the leaders around the world. You are an A-list guy in the sports and entertainment industry. I know you kind of scuff your toe in the dirt when you hear that type of thing, but as embarrassing as it might be to you, you know it’s true. You’ve earned a place with the elite, the movers and shakers on this planet. It all seems a little odd to you, though.

You must be reading my mail, I said, beginning to wonder where this was going, but for some reason, really enjoying the conversation. This man was exceedingly easy to talk to.

Andrew let out a hearty laugh No, man. But let me ask you, have you ever looked yourself up on the Internet? Just type your name in sometime, and you’ll see details of your life that even you may have forgotten about. For instance, I learned where you went to school, about your parents, your own family, how you got started, who you know, who you represent, your political views, your critics, those who praise you. It’s all there.

And you looked me up? I asked. Any particular reason?

Just an ongoing and general desire for knowledge, Andrew replied, smiling broadly still. "Don’t worry. I’m not a stalker, but I admire good work, and that’s you all over. Besides, your obvious success as a representative of the rich, famous, and powerful, I have a particular regard for your writing. I think my favorite is The Experts. It truly struck a cord with me. In some respects, it ties in with my own work. May I ask, what possessed you to write it? What was your frame of mind as you took on this task? You know, you ruffled a few feathers with that one." About this time, our waitress arrived with the fresh libations, somewhat causing me to lose my train of thought.

Thanks, honey, he said, causing the young woman to grin sheepishly and blush.

You have a style with women that is both effective and refreshing, I remarked. I’d guess you don’t have much of a problem staying warm at night.

Andrew laughed this innocent little laugh again that oozed a guileless sincerity.

Where were we? I asked.

"Motivation for The Experts," he said, refocusing me.

Ah yes, I remembered. Well, as an example, and this is one I considered using in my book but the publisher considered it too trite, how about eggs?

Indeed, he said stifling a chuckle. How about eggs? What on earth do you mean, ‘how about eggs?’

Well, I explained, you hear reports on the TV news, newspapers, journals, on the radio in the morning on the way to work is where I’d hear them. The topic doesn’t matter, but we’re talking eggs here. Over a span of twenty-odd years, maybe more, we’ve gone back and forth on the subject. Medical experts warn us of the danger in eating too many eggs. A while later, another expert tells us that perhaps we were a bit hasty in our condemnation of eggs, that they are really good for us. Another report suggests they are good in moderation. A diet guru bases his latest weight-loss plan on eating a dozen for breakfast and so on and so on. During the course of this discourse, if you will, the egg industry mounts an ad campaign, with the support of other experts that one might assume now have a financial stake in the promotion off eggs. After a while, you might assume that a dozen or so individuals have made some money on the continuing egg debate, no definitive conclusion has been reached in the process and the public, which is only half paying attention anyway, has no damned idea if eggs are poison or the answer to eternal youth. My own conclusion is: fuck it, I like eggs, and I think I’ll have some.

So, comrade, he said, "this is the result of capitalism run amok?’’

Not really, I said, trying to stifle a laugh and get back to serious pontification. That can be a factor. Shit, I guess it is in fact a by-product. My point was really in another direction. I’m as capitalistic as anyone you’ll ever meet. It’s in the interest of academia to publish. Everybody has an angle to justify his or her own existence. You have, I don’t know, but let’s say thousands of people that do research, financed mostly at the government’s troth and thousands of college professors, for whom teaching is really a sideline, not to mention those bureaucrats directly on the government dole, and they all need to do one thing: publish. It’s how they get more research money, how they get tenure, how they justify keeping these make-work jobs. You and I foot the bill, assuming you are a taxpayer, of course. And can you tell me, yea or nay, if you should eat a goddamned egg or not? I can’t.

Fuck it, he said, still grinning. I like eggs, and I think I’ll have some.

You see, I continued, it doesn’t make a fucking bit of difference if any of the reports on eggs is accurate. I’m guessing we still aren’t sure and may never be. I assume you’re educated. I noticed your class ring and guess it’s not from high school.

Michigan State, MA, class of ’87,’ he said, holding his hand up to cast a light on the green stone.

Right, I went on. Tell me you never did this, ’cause I sure as hell did. You need to write a paper, you’ve got an MA—maybe it was your thesis. You’ve got to pick a topic. It’s a course requirement. You select a subject that you may have somewhat of an opinion on. You research the topic and select the articles that some other experts have written which seem to support your opinion, most likely to the exclusion of the dissenting opinions of other experts.

Sounds familiar, he said. You been reading my mail?

Don’t have to, I continued, but very likely, the net result is bullshit based on bullshit. Now this is fairly harmless in the hands of a college student. That paper isn’t going anywhere, just as likely as it isn’t very carefully read anyway. You turned it in, spell-checked it, and wrote the correct number of pages, next case. Here’s the kicker though. For the shit that the media presents from the experts, the news you hear may very well be as much BS as the paper you wrote to get out of freshman English lit. Why does it hit the media? They’ve got time to fill. If the topic has any amount of buzz factor to it, it will make the rounds. I remember when I was a kid, you could get what you needed in a half hour. Now you have the four-o-clock news, the five-o-clock, and six-o-clock editions, twenty-four-hour news channels, news talk radio. Lots of time to fill, a much larger demand for bullshit than ever before. If a report can say ‘from the professor of such and such, of East Bumfuck University comes a report …,’ that’s enough. It will become today’s gospel. And for whatever fucking reason, our example of eggs gets more ink than government waste, world hunger, what have you.

Don’t sugarcoat it, Andrew said. How do you really feel?

Andrew got me laughing. Well, I guess I do get a bit worked up on the subject. Now you know why I had to write that book. Hey, I remembered, you said earlier that this book or subject kind of ties into what you do. May I ask, what line of work are you in? Let me guess, from watching you at the bar, hustler?

I thought that would get him laughing again, but all he gave was really just kind of a courtesy grin in response. No, that’s just a hobby, he replied. By trade, I am, you might say, an anthropologist. My specialty is early earth civilizations, though I’d say I’m pretty well versed from the beginning up to now.

Early earth? I said. That’s an interesting way of putting it. Is there any other kind?

Well, I guess for most folks that answer would be purely speculation, he said, smiling broadly again.

Oh, man, I said with some regret, you’re one of the experts I’ve been railing against.

No, no, he said. I’m not affiliated with any university, foundation, government, what have you. I rail against the same bullshit. You could say I’m kind of freelance. I’m into disproving all the crap we take for granted in history. I’m beholden to no one, financially independent, and I can go about my research in my own way.

Ah, old money? I joked. Rich parents?

You might say that, he answered. Hey, don’t go away. I want to talk some more if you have the time. Will you excuse me for just a minute? I have to do something.

Of course, I said.

The band was beginning to reassemble, and Andrew walked over in their direction. He introduced himself to the singer, and they huddled for a few moments. I was a bit afraid that I had insulted him on the topic of experts but only as I reflected on my own words. He really gave no indication of anything other than bemusement; in fact, I’m not sure how to describe this other than saying that Andrew just seems to exude pure joy. I’d never met such a positive individual. Such a positive attitude from a person usually annoyed me. I’m pretty low-key myself. Andrew wore this outlook like it was his natural skin. It was genuine and true. I was really enjoying our visit, there was some attraction here based on sincere admiration. For a moment, I considered that it might be the martini’s putting me in this state, and it made me consider drinking more often. I was having fun, which was somewhat unlike me. In high spirits.

Andrew was now speaking with all the members of the quartet, making some instructional hand gestures toward them as they nodded in agreement to something. They were too far away for me to make out what they were discussing. More people made their way into the bar area as others left. The line had nearly emptied. The new mix seemed to have more singles and fewer couples. Folks were settling in where they could in anticipation of the band starting up again. Andrew stood beside the piano, facing the audience, as the band’s front man adjusted his mic and began to speak in that cool affectation of bebop lingo.

Ladies and gentlemen, he started, we’ve had a request for a song that while we think we can play it, none of us are too sure of the lyrics. This gentleman here has volunteered to do the vocals. While this isn’t something we normally do, we’ve been assured that the cat has pipes. He said he’ll buy a round for the house if this doesn’t go well and will find us a new gig if management gets upset. I’d like to introduce, in his public vocal debut, Andrew Elric.

This was an interesting development indeed. I know I leaned well forward in my chair as the room gave Andrew a polite round of applause, which I joined. Andrew removed the microphone from the bass player’s stand and the room went still in anticipation.

My friends, thank you for indulging me. I must say, it is an honor to sit in with such a talented group. Aren’t they just terrific? he asked the crowd, nodding toward the group. With his ever-present smile, Andrew seemed completely at ease. All eyes were on him, and the crowd acknowledged the band and then became still again. The bartender and the waitresses all stopped their activities to watch.

I needed to hear this one tonight; it’s one of my favorites, made popular, in fact, by a San Francisco native. Written by Marvin Fisher and Jack Segal. I hope it brings back a nice memory or two. Gentlemen, B flat.

It was really eerily quiet,. Even the lobby traffic and the sound of the large doors leading into the hotel seemed to suspend as he began to sing.

"When Sunny gets blue, her eyes get gray and cloudy … then the rain begins to fall."

I felt a cold chill run up my spine as he sang. It was a song from my past that held a special memory. The voice was angelic, and those in attendance seemed dazed. So pure and like those great singers that are really storytellers and seem to live each song.

"When Sunny gets blue, she breathes a sigh of sadness, like the wind that stirs the trees. . ."

I don’t know. Was it the drink or my precarious emotional situation? The song hit a nerve, and I involuntarily teared up and was aware that I might make a scene or that somebody would notice. Nobody did. He had the room’s rapt attention.

People used to love to hear her laugh, see her smile; that’s how she got her name. . .

I don’t think I was alone with my emotion. The song was somehow perfect for this place and time for this group of people. Before it was over, I began to wonder unconsciously, Where do we go from here? Like the hunt was over and it was the last hunt.

Hurry, new love … hurry here … to kiss away each lonely tear … and hold her near … when Sunny … gets … blue.

There was a short moment of silence then the room exploded. Hand claps, cheers, and shouts of more, more! Andrew gratefully bowed to the group and mouthed the words thank you. You could not have heard him say anything initially. He shook hands with the keyboard player and nodded to the rest of the band. As he attempted to head back to our table, he received handshakes and a few hugs and kisses from each person he passed. I noticed that he looked each individual in the eye as he greeted them. Several people from the bar area headed over to add their comments. As he continued on and the noise died down a bit, the bandleader said, I’ll never follow that guy again! getting a few laughs. Thank you, Andrew! And the quartet started into a mellow and quiet instrumental. Kind of like background sounds behind the continuing buzz.

Andrew finally made it back to his seat. I extended my hand to shake his as a form of congratulations and due to the fact that I really did not know what to say, still emotional over the song itself and in some awe over the performance. He had his same open smile, and I detected that he wasn’t all that impressed, nor did he think it was anything out of the ordinary.

Our waitress arrived with two fresh drinks and said, These are on Jim.

Thanks very much, dear, he replied and hoisted his glass toward the bartender. I did the same.

After a few searching moments, I opened the conversation again, Andrew, that was absolutely beautiful. You’ve done this before, I mean, professionally? You have an amazing talent. It briefly dawned on me that, as a professional representative of several musical acts, perhaps our chance meeting this evening and the impromptu performance was for the purpose of gaining my interest in working together.

Well, the truth is, Aron, I can be heard every evening in my car and in the shower. That was a first for me and quite likely a last.

It was just great, I said. May I ask, what possessed you to go up there, and how did you select that song?

It was just a wild hair. I went up there to ask if they knew the song. These guys look like veterans and could at least fake anything. I wasn’t sure they would let me join in on it initially, against their personal policy or the house, but I got the sense that they would let me, and after saying they weren’t too sure on the lyrics, I just asked. You know, you go to a piano bar and the guy has a brandy snifter sitting up there to put money into. With a fin and a drink, you can probably sit in and sing ‘Stand by Your Man’ if you wanted to. But these guys are pros. I knew I’d insult them if I offered cash.

Why that song? I asked again. And by the way, Johnny Mathis would have been pleased, though at first blush, you don’t look like the Mathis type.

Hey, Mathis is brilliant, he replied firmly. Any man who can’t admit how great that guy is has some latent issues of their own. Can you imagine how many children were conceived with his greatest hits album playing in the background? We’re talking about a whole generation here, maybe even you. Why that song? I’ve just loved it since the first time I heard it. The song seemed to fit the mood of the room, don’t you think? I considered ‘Folsom Prison Blues.’ It didn’t seem to fit.

Well, I can tell you this, I said. That song hit me in a very deep spot. I don’t think I’m alone in this room in feeling this, but you could not have selected a tune that could get to me like that one. I’m still choked up by it.

How so? he asked.

I swear, it was almost like you knew. Short version, if I can. My nickname as a small child was Sonny, Sonny, not Sunny. An uncle of mine laid that one on me, and it stuck. Anyway, my mom was a big Mathis fan, and she used to sing a variation of this song to me when I was sad or difficult, which I was with some frequency. As you were singing, I could hear her, I could see her, I could hear Johnny, and it took me right back to that place. And I feel empty. I lost her about a year ago, and things just haven’t been the same. I never realized it until she was gone, but she was my anchor here. I’ve lost some focus or meaning or I’m not sure what since I lost her. Like I said, you took me there, and it was … It’s hard to describe. It was warm and safe, and I’m not sure why I was about to cry. How do you have joy and loathing at the same moment? Anyway, this is getting a bit heavy, and we don’t even know each other. Pardon me, please. This is silly.

Aron, this isn’t silly at all, he gently replied. And I think I know you better than you might expect.

What is it that you think you know? I asked.

You really want to hear this? I mean, this kind of flows against the mood of the evening.

No, that’s OK, I said. I’m in a talking mood, and you are easy to talk to. I know little about you, but for whatever reason, I value your opinion, unless you need to move on here, and please just tell me if you do. But I’m curious, how do you read me?

Nah, I’m all yours, he said. This is how I see it. You have achieved great things in your career and amassed tremendous wealth. You’ve always been driven by the thrill of the hunt, the next deal. The wins were more important than the money or the fame. Now you’re starting to question the value and importance of what you have been doing. That thing inside that drove you is starting to wane a bit. Your company is still knocking down the big contracts, but other than serving as some sort of a power icon, you don’t have all that much to do with the successes. You don’t have the hunger for the work that you once had, yet you continue to prosper, and you feel a little guilty about it all. You look at some of your clients as prima donnas. You once admired their talents, but you now see them as spoiled or lucky. How am I doing so far? Do you want more of this?

I don’t know why, I said, but yeah, please proceed. I may need another pop before we get too much deeper, but this is cheaper than therapy.

Remember, you asked, he said, holding up two fingers toward our waitress, with a smile, as always. She and Jim got busy. "You’ve got houses, palaces really, on both coasts, a penthouse apartment in Manhattan, a forty-foot boat at Marina del Ray, on and on, and none of it means very much to you.

Politics has been a passion in your life, but you’re getting fed up with the lack of morals and character of the players. You grew up admiring our public leaders, and you wanted to be a part of the process. Now it seems to be all about special interests, pandering for the purpose of staying in office and in power. You have probably wondered if it’s really always been about this, but you just didn’t see it before, and you feel like a sap for helping some of these guys get into the positions that they are in. You consider your own views to be common sense, but they get labeled as right wing or ultra conservative, and you are described as a fat cat by these liberal fat cats who claim to be serving the average American, while you are underpaying your illegal immigrant gardener and housekeeper. You think the liberals are getting away with ‘the big lie,’ but then you find some of your own standard-bearers doing things that seem equally ingenuous, and it pisses you off. But as much as you fight it, you’re starting to think you can’t win.

Thankfully, and on cue, the waitress came by again, and we reloaded. At the time, I couldn’t explain why we were having this conversation and what was turning into a life review, but it was compelling for some reason. The message was difficult but presented in a pleasant and interesting manner. Andrew always smiled, and for whatever reason, I’d hang on every word. It was becoming like a show or a book that you hoped would not end because when it did, then you’d be right back where you were before it started.

On the home front, he continued, "you’ve spent all your adult years trying to provide your family with the good life. You worked your ass off to give them everything that you didn’t have and so much more. You succeeded beyond anyone’s wildest dreams or expectations. In the process, you spent a lot of time away from home. You didn’t see many of your son’s little league games or your daughter’s recitals. You were on the road busting your hump. The relationship with your wife deteriorated. Your work caused you to live separate lives. For all that you gave them, each of them resented you in some manner, or so they’ve told you, for not ‘being there’ when they really needed you. When you did get home, you were almost like a stranger, as if the norm of life for your family was one without you. The gratitude, or at least some semblance of respect that you felt you deserved for your efforts, didn’t seem to be there. Your son went off to college across the country, as far from home as he could get. It got to the point where he didn’t come back much, even for holidays. About all you got was the bill. Now he’s about to finish law school, like his old man. You’d like to bring him into the business, but he almost treats the suggestion as an insult.

Your daughter went off to school, after your boy. A little closer to home but still far away enough. Now she’s out, armed with an American Express on your account. She’s closer to Mom than to you, and as your relationship with your wife got dicey, so did your relationship with her. Empty nest syndrome. Big shot husband, part of the ‘jet set’ to some degree. The missus wondering what to do next and sets about trying to ‘find herself.’

As I fiddled with my swizzle stick, I said, If I didn’t know better, Andrew, I’d get the feeling that you were the mystery man she had her first affair with. Some of these scenarios you might be able to guess, but you seem to know some details that go beyond a seat-of-the-pants diagnosis. I was forcing a smile, trying to match his, but it wasn’t working as well as I’d hoped.

I’d never sleep with my friend’s wife, he said.

But we just met! All this was on the Internet? I asked.

He bypassed that last question. Allow me to continue, he said, being on somewhat of a roll. In retrospect, you are not really sure if you ever loved your wife. In fact, you sometimes wonder if you have the capacity to love a woman. Unlike your kids, whom you love so deeply despite it all that it sometimes literally hurts, you kind of got into a routine with your wife. Once the kids were gone, there was no sensible reason for the routine to continue. She finally told you she ‘needed her own space,’ that it just wasn’t working anymore. She started the process for the split. Deep down, you feel you probably had it coming, but you also feel violated and betrayed, and that feeling not only hasn’t gone away, but also hasn’t subsided at all. You may not have loved her, but you trusted her and counted on her being there. Combined with the loss of your mother and a father that you don’t see eye to eye with, it’s been kind of a tough stretch.

You know, Andrew, I said, "you read me pretty well. In fact, if you got much closer to home, I’d swear you were the reincarnation, though far better-looking I must say, of the Amazing Kreskin. This is all pretty obvious on some level. Isn’t this a classic case of midlife crisis?

I think you could pick any gentleman in this room with some gray in his hair and make some of these same assumptions if you knew something about their background, as you obviously know about mine. It makes for a hell of a parlor game. It’s almost like the old vaudeville act, where there is a guy up on stage with a blindfold on and an assistant in the audience holding up an object. He guesses what it is with a few well-timed key hints, and everyone thinks he has powers. I was not at all upset with Andrew, but I was getting a little defensive. He had pegged me, and hearing some of the truth was painful.

Well, I didn’t mean to dig too deep, he said apologetically. Remember, you asked. Not a parlor game either. I’m telling you this merely to get your focus on some issues you’re going to have to sort out in order to be at peace with yourself and live, not just exist. This is very different from a typical midlife crisis. For one thing, you’re in the prime of your life, at the height of your powers and accomplishments. A ‘midlife’ is typically when a person starts to realize that they ain’t getting any younger and they have missed so many of the dreams that they had in their youth. They know that these particular ambitions have passed them by, and there is no way to recapture the opportunity. The ‘woulda, shoulda’ shit. They feel the room for growth and achievement is no longer available. You, you’ve achieved everything you set out for. You aced every test.

This is not unique to me, I don’t think, I said.

No, but it’s pretty fucking irrational for somebody like you to get stuck in it, he said. You’ve got too many options, too much intelligence to wallow in this kind of funk. You’re doing the Peggy Lee bit. With this, Andrew sang a few bars of Is That All There Is?

These kinds of crises pass, do they not? I asked. It’s a natural part of life.

Yeah, Andrew replied. They usually pass in one of two manners. A certain number of people turn to their faith, put it into the hands of God, make the circumstance ‘God’s will,’ and just roll with it the best they can. Trust me, I don’t discount faith, but so few people research what they claim to be their beliefs that I sometimes feel it’s a cop out. You aren’t really a religious man, are you?

Not really, I said. I’m Jewish, of course, you probably already know that. I wasn’t really brought up in the faith. Growing up, I felt as if my father was trying to distance us from identifying with the faith. I studied some on my own from time to time, but to no great effort or effect. You’ve heard of ‘Jack Mormons’? I guess I’m kind of a Jack Jew."

This comment got a good laugh out of Andrew. "Maybe I’m an agnostic. You said ‘two manners.’ What’s the other one?

Resignation, he said flatly.

So, Doctor, I asked, what’s my prognosis?

Vell, he said, affecting a German accent for one word, you’ve lost focus, and you are short of meaningful goals. Remember, you’ve always had a focus up to now, usually multiple. It was your education, then business, then family, wealth, possessions, security, then influence, and acceptance. Well, you got them all, and now none of it seems particularly fucking important.

You’re about to tell me that I need to find my next ‘focus,’ I interrupted. No offense, but there isn’t anything particularly profound in this.

You are so right, he agreed. "It’s obvious. And I know you agree with me. But given the simplicity of it, it ain’t too damn easy either,