One moist winter evening as I ambled to the Quik-Mart for my morning
nachos, I spied my old college buddy Don Josephson. Though we speak on
the phone thrice daily, it's always a joy to see him. I hollered to
Don, and we embraced with grunts of joy.
Then I noticed her. The woman.
She studied me, sized me up, her emerald eyes penetrating my soul in
search of I knew not what. Apparently I passed muster, for she bowed
"I'm Goldman's researcher," she announced. "I'm the one he sent to
"In Japan, I found that John and Yoko's romance was a love affair of
epic proportions. They rose with the sun each morning, gazed into each other's eyes, and sipped iced lattes. They bathed in magic water,
prayed in ancient temples, inhaled the aroma of a thousand blooming
bonsai. They dressed in antique kimonos, meditated on the teachings of
the Dalai Lama, and knelt at the feet of Sai Baba. It was just like
their interviews, only better!"
"But Goldman would hear none of this. He crumpled my findings and made
up from whole cloth steaming tales of Tokyo's 'red light' district.
Japan, as everyone knows, is notorious for its homosexual male
prostitutes. Guyshas. Goldman's reasoning was, 'Since there existed a
"red light" district in Tokyo, John must have gone there, ergo the
guyshas charmed John out of his kimono, ergo John ejaculated, ergo John
ate ergot, extinguishing his ego.' But it's all Goldman's lurid
The woman's words electrocuted me. But my researcher's instinct
briefly flickered to life, prompting me to ask: "If Goldman merely
wanted to make things up, why did he send you all the way to Japan?
Why did he hire you at all?"
The woman paused. Her face scrunched. Her turquoise eyes darted back
and forth, like carp in a silent pool. The city traffic grew louder,
reaching a crescendo. Then there was silence, the most peaceful
silence imaginable. The woman smiled enigmatically. "Goldman," she
said, "works in mysterious ways."
That did it! I could no longer question the woman's words! Her
sources were firsthand. Her data were complete. She had given me
I hurried home in a state of euphoria, resisting the temptation to
visit nightclubs pulsing with Yoko's latest #1 hits. I realized two
things. One, I would never eat meat again. Two, anytime anyone asked
of Goldman, I would recount my marvelous experience with the woman.
Cynics may doubt that these events took place. Very well then. My
friend Don is a regular at Pee-Wee's Comix in downtown NYC. He is
fifty-four years, three months in age. He weighs 148,324.7 grams, and
is 154.94 centimeters in height. He dresses in T-shirt and fashionable stained jeans worn round his midsection. On his neck (which is hairy),
you will find a slightly tarnished platinum light saber pendant. Don
is stylishly hunchbacked and proceeds with a shuffling gait. The sent
you notice about him is Stouffer's pizza, pepperoni flavor
(microwavable), available at Stop & Shop at $4.99 a pie. Don is hard
to miss, should anyone wish to verify my words.
Unfortunately, he died decades ago.
And I never got the woman's name...
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