“Handkerchiefs are revolting relics of bygone times,” he commented. “They just don’t make sense. Sneeze and cough into them, then put them back in your pocket only to sneeze and cough into them a few minutes later. Walk around with a collection of your entire day’s snot in your pocket. On the other hand, one doesn’t have to carry a handkerchief anymore, does one? They’ve got Kleenex now. But would you believe I can’t afford Kleenex? I go through box after box. Doesn’t pay. Better to carry a handkerchief. A footnote on my fall from grace. Can’t even afford Kleenex anymore. You’re absolutely sure you can’t recommend a dentist?”

“Good-bye, Mr….”

“Hey!” shouted the cripple, taking a few limps forward. “I know I’m not a very pleasant person to look at, let alone talk to. I also know you won’t believe me when I tell you this, but I used to be respected and rich. That was many years ago. I’m eighty-one. Be eighty-two next June. Old age sucks. The only good thing about it is, it doesn’t last very long. Me, I’m just about worn-out now, but back then, back in the sixties and seventies, I was hot as a pistol. Had more energy than ten of you combined. And enough money to live happily ever after. But times change. Things happen. Now I can’t even afford Kleenex. Now I’m not worth a fart in a wind tunnel. Shit. Life’s funny, isn’t it? ‘All the best days of life slip away first. Illness and dreary old age and pain sneak up, and the fierceness of harsh death snatches us away.’ Virgil.” The cripple shook his head despondently. “I can tell you my life story some other time. Virgil gave you the short version. As if you’re interested in my life story.”

The slovenly geezer started coughing again.

When he stopped, he said, “Listen, I’ve got to speak to you. You won’t be sorry to hear what I have to say nor sorry to see what I have to show you. And more important, the timing is perfect. Perfect!”

“Perfect for what?”

“Perfect for making it happen.”

“Making what happen?”

“Trust me, it will be worth it,” said the cripple. “My father used to say never trust someone who says ‘trust me.’ But trust me.”

The producer said nothing.

“Listen. That piece of paper I stuck in your coat pocket with my name and number on it? I carry it in case I drop dead. That way at least somebody will know who I am and they can notify my family. No. No. Just joking. I don’t have any family left to telephone. I always carry the paper with my name and telephone number on it on the off chance I’ll bump into you. You think you can force yourself to believe that? So please call me.”

“I’ll call you,” said the producer, willing to say anything to get rid of the walking pestilence.