I never got the call from the firm that interviewed me. A month had passed, so, taking the bull by the horns, I called the firm and said that I had enjoyed our meeting and would be grateful for a job. I knew it was too late, and it made me angry. Just because I’m five feet tall! I hinted at the possibility of a discrimination suit. A vice-president got on the line and told me that my size had nothing to do with it. They were impressed by my qualifications. I had the job in the bag, but my former boss had given me a poor recommendation: he said I made harassing phone calls at three in the morning. The man said I could have even skated on that charge, but he’d noticed an item in the police blotter involving an incident at a Greek restaurant. I was so shaken by this disclosure that I said it must have been someone else with the same name as mine. A transparent lie. Despondent. I went out and bought two six-packs of beer. The next day I couldn’t get out of bed. Nor on the following. I got a violent, three-day hangover and vowed never to drink again.

Court. Oh, God! The very thought of it. I went over to the restaurant and offered full restitution. Nothing doing, they said. I tried to explain what had happened but they made furious Greek gestures at me—God knows what they meant. They said, “See you in court, haffa pint! Broke-a-back. Shorty pants!”

Well, wait a minute, I said. It was the other guy’s fault. I gave them the whole story. They said, “Tell us who the other guy is and we’ll drop the charge.” Actually, I don’t know the guy. I mean I “know” him, but he told so many lies I don’t know if up is down with him. At one point he told me he was an actor and had been engaged to Catherine Deneuve. He was a smoothie, and handsome—I half believed him.

I threw myself on the mercy of the court and got reamed with a two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar fine, court costs, six months’ probation, and a hundred hours of community service. Plus, now I’ve got a record. Also, I got hit for a hundred and fourteen in unpaid traffic tickets.

After court I lost interest in the mice and fell into a deep, Stage Five no-job depression. The Nobel Prize? Screw it. I went to a clinic and got prescriptions for antidepressants and anti-anxiety drugs. On them, all I wanted to do was sleep. Twenty hours? No problem. It was a pleasant escape. After years of insomnia, I was in heaven.