“I beg to differ,” sneered the cripple. “I don’t think you left the business, as you call it, because you were sick of it. I think you left the business because you were able to put a zillion dollars in your pocket. I read all about your big killing in the trades.” The cripple started coughing again. New spasms, more savage and more uncontrollable than before, turned the sorrowful old soul into someone more helpless and pitiful. His arms waved about like a puppet’s. His back was hunched. Once again pedestrians watched as they walked by. The producer, his eyes riveted on the cripple, waited for what seemed like an eternity for the old fool to stop coughing.

When the cripple finally finished hacking, his hand shot out like a striking snake and stuffed a piece of paper into the producer’s coat pocket. As soon as the paper was safely tucked away, the cripple quickly retracted his hand and smiled.

The producer was appalled. When he got home he would send the coat to the cleaners immediately. “Damn him,” the producer said under his breath, feeling more and more queasy as he looked at the smiling bum’s infected gums and yellow teeth, teeth that were still in his mouth.

“When you sold your company, how long were you contractually not allowed back into television?” asked the relentless cripple.

“Five years,” mumbled the producer.

“It’s 2011 now, so your banishment’s over with. God, I have a toothache. Hurts like hell. Do you know a good dentist?” The cripple rubbed his left cheek. “So now you can come back to television, right? Could have come back years ago if you wanted to.”

“Yes, I could have come back years ago,” allowed the producer, “and no, I don’t know a dentist.”

“I don’t have a phone in my room,” explained the cripple. “But my name and the number of a pay phone down the hall are on the piece of paper I just put into your raincoat pocket.”

The cripple coughed several times quite loudly but quickly recovered. The cripple seemed to understand that what little hope he had of the famous producer coming to see him depended upon stopping the coughing immediately.

“It takes me a while to get to the pay phone,” said the cripple, trying to clear his throat. “This damn leg, you know.” The cripple presented a paralyzed leg with a flourish of his left hand as if introducing a vaudeville act. “So let the phone ring. There’s nobody on my floor during the day but me. They’re all working.” He took a deep breath, struggling to prevent another coughing attack. He inhaled deeply, gulping air like a drowning man. “Damn emphysema. Thank you, R. J. Reynolds and Company,” he whispered.