Postings such as these were like the great wars: they provided one with opportunities for distinguishment. There was another thing, too—hard work took Harold’s mind off the inner turmoil resulting from so many recent life changes. He had been racking up big numbers on the Hans Seyle Stress Scale. In less than two years he had weathered a divorce, suffered the death of both parents, and then, with the last of his inheritance, had come down from Canada—come down to Detroit to polish off the course work on a Ph.D. Now everything was done except for the thesis. It was just one last detail. A little trifling. Why, he would have it out of the way faster than you could say John Harold Hammermeister.

The principal who hired Hammermeister was scheduled to retire in a year, and Hammermeister, with his doctorate all but finished, had a “feeling” that the principal’s job was his. All he needed was to whirl like a dervish for one year, a mere two hundred and twenty-six school days—dazzle them senseless—and the kingdom from on high would be his. And Harold was most definitely in contact with the kingdom. Before falling asleep each night Hammermeister tuned into the Universal Cosmic Broadcast. He was a psychic radioman who not only transmitted but received. He was connected, on the inside. It was beautiful, wonderful, mar-ve-lous!

Yeah, eyes closed at night, in red flannel pajamas, Hammermeister lay in the ancient Murphy bed of his studio apartment and created the future—and in that future he saw himself in the principal’s office, in full command, in one year’s time, a mere two hundred and twenty-six school days. The principal’s office was just a little pit stop on the way over to district office proper, and he would most certainly ascend the ladder there. From the Murphy bed he created glorious visions of supreme success. He watched himself climb from the modest position of junior vice-principal all the way up to the summit of State Superintendent of Public Instruction! Why not try that one on for size? Heh heh.

The old Murphy bed was Harold’s magic Persian carpet from which he could encompass the “big picture.” He plotted his moves and savored future pleasures. Harold saw, smelled, felt, and practically tasted the smooth, dove gray leather seats of the burnished black Lincoln Town Car that would replace his ancient Ford. A car so quiet, the only thing he would ever hear was the ticking of the clock. In their gold-plated frames, the Lincoln’s vanity plates would read: HAMMER!