Who Am I This Time? (standard:Fan Fiction, 13390 words)
Author: Reid Laurence	Added: Jan 23 2006	Views/Reads: 5260/2606	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Who Am I This Time is the story of a man who is reincarnated many times, but in doing so, he finds that the best way he can help himself is to not focus on himself at all!

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

smelly boxin' ring. No more.” “Very well then,” replied the caretaker. 
“You'll have your wish, but it may take some time. There are many, many 
spirits here I must attend to. For now, visit with them if you like. 
Share your thoughts and stories of your past, but one day Kelsey, there 
will come a time when all this will change and the bright light of the 
sun will shine upon your face once again, this I promise.” “Thanks 
Mac,” answered Kelsey. “I'm startin' ta miss all those things I used ta 
take for granted. Sunny skies, warm air, all that stuff. But I can 
wait. I got time.” “Yes indeed,” replied the voice of Kelsey's 
caretaker. “You have time. Lots and lots of time. Good-bye now Kelsey. 
You won't be needing me anymore, for now at least.” “Be seein' ya.” 

“Doctor Cohen, you're wanted in emergency,” announced the faceless voice
over the intercom. “Doctor Cohen, you're wanted in emergency...” “Oh 
shit,” said David Cohen, as he looked up from the corned beef sandwich 
he was eating. “This thing was too high in fat and calories anyway. 
Wonder what happened this time?” “That's half the fun isn't it Dave,” 
replied Tom Kirkpatrick, another doctor on the hospital staff. “Not 
knowing what the hell to expect until you get there. Don't worry about 
the other half a that corned beef, I'll find a good home for it.” “I 
bet you will,” answered David, as he stood up from the lunchroom table, 
neatly pushed his chair in and prepared to leave. “I can always count 
on you.” “That's the spirit tiger. Give ‘em the ol' one, two,” said 
Tom, standing up, while playfully taunting David in a boxing stance. 
Smiling, and still chewing a mouthful of his lunch, Tom raised his fist 
as if to catch David off guard with a right hook, but countering, David 
blocked with his left arm and swung through the air with his own quick, 
right hand. Stopping his fist before it came to its intended target. 
“Gotcha that time,” remarked David. “Somehow, you always do,” replied 
Tom. “I don't understand it. Did you ever box for real, when you were a 
kid or something? You seem to have a natural affinity for it.” “Nope, 
never have, remember? We've been all through this before.” “Yeah, I 
remember. It just seems really strange if you ask me. Uncanny even. Oh 
well,” continued Tom. “You'd better see to your patient. If you need 
me, page me okay?” “You're the first one I'll call,” said David, as he 
walked from the lunchroom table, out the doorway and into the corridor 
of the modern, state-of-the-art hospital. “What have we here?” asked 
Dr. Cohen, as he leaned over a small boy who'd just arrived. A 
makeshift bandage loosely covered a wound on his head, which was still 
bleeding profusely and as the doctor began cutting the bandage to 
remove it, the boy flinched with pain. “Easy there champ, no one's 
going to hurt you. I just want to see what's going on under your 
bandage here...hmmm,” he continued, “that's quite a nasty cut you've 
got there. How did it happen?” “I was ridin' my bike an some kid threw 
some kinda shiny disc at me. They're buildin' a new house in my 
neighborhood an I bet he found it there, in with a bunch a junk the 
carpenters left. It sorta whizzed right through my front spokes, an 
came up an hit me right in the head.” “We're just lucky it missed your 
eye. You'll be okay. What's your name anyhow?” “Donny,” answered the 
boy. “I'm ten. I'll be eleven in July. I wanted my brother to go beat 
him up but he wouldn't.” “You mean, beat up the boy who threw it? 
That's not a real good thing to do you know.” “I know, but that boy who 
did it...he's a real bully. He always picks on kids. He deserves it. My 
dad went lookin' for him,” continued the boy, “but you know, my dad's 
not gonna beat him up.” “Donny,” replied Dr. Cohen. “I just want to say 
one thing about that, and then I'm going to put a few stitches in that 
cut of yours but don't worry, you won't feel a thing, I'll numb the 
pain for you. In my many years of experience Donny,” remarked the 
doctor as he filled a syringe with a topical pain killer, “and I do 
have a few years on you. If there's one thing I've found to be true, 
it's that violence isn't always the best answer to violence. Do you 
understand?” “Yeah, I understand,” said the boy. “But I can't help it. 
I get so mad, I just wanna bash him one.” “I know Donny,” answered Dr. 
Cohen, purposely talking to the boy to keep him from focusing on his 
wound as he injected the numbing agent under his skin. “A lot of us 
feel that way sometimes. It's tempting to seek revenge on someone who's 
hurt us isn't it.” “It sure is doc.” “But it's not always the best way 
to resolve an issue Donny, unless there's just no other way. I would 
never tell you not to defend yourself, but reacting out of contempt, 
that's another story. Do you know what the great french general 
Napoleon once said?” asked the doctor, as his deft hand worked to put 
the sutures into place. “No, what'd he say?” “He said that those who 
live by the sword, shall die by the sword. And you know what that means 
to me?” continued the doctor, closing the wound and helping the boy to 
his feet as he finished his sentence. “To me it means simply that what 
goes around, comes around. If you hurt too many people Donny, you'll 
only end up getting hurt yourself. You see?” “Yeah, I see.” “I hate to 
admit it Donny, but it darn near took me a lifetime before I realized 
that. Take it from me, it's true. Now lets go find your mom in the 
waiting room. What do you say?” “Okay.” “How do you do?” asked Dr. 
Cohen, as he and Donny approached a woman who he assumed to be the 
boy's mother. She had an open magazine in her hands, and her attention 
was focused on a man seated next to her. A man who David believed was 
Donny's father, given the amount of attention she was giving him and 
the affable way she spoke. “You must be Donny's mother. I'm Dr. David 
Cohen,” he said, offering his hand to the woman in an effort to 
introduce himself. “Oh,” she said, bluntly. Looking up for just a 
passing moment as the smile she'd been wearing suddenly turned to a 
frown, and the gum she incessantly chewed suddenly grew stale in her 
mouth, setting the tempo for her new mood, in keeping with her 
character. “Glad ta meetcha. How'd Donny do? He didn't talk your ear 
off did he? I swear, he's always talkin' my ear off, ain't that right 
Donny?” “No ma, that ain't right at all. I didn't talk his ear off, 
honest.” “Don't you talk back ta me young man,” admonished Donny's 
rough edged, young mother. “If I have ta tell your father, he'll box 
your ears off.” “All I know is, Mrs...,” began Dr. Cohen, searching for 
a last name. “Cagliari. That's my name.” “Mrs. Cagliari then, Donny was 
a perfect gentleman, and a very brave one too I might add.” “Oh yeah? 
That's news. Anyway, thanks for patchin' him up. What do I owe ya?” 
“The nurse's at the service desk will help you there, I just thought 
I'd deliver Donny to you. I didn't want him to have to make the trip 
alone.” “What?” asked Donny's mother, keen for an argument. “What are 
you tryin' ta say? I'm a bad mother? Is that it?” “Why no Mrs. 
Cagliari. Not at all,” answered the doctor. Looking down at his watch, 
David searched for a reason to excuse himself. “I didn't realize what 
time it was. I really have to run now, but it was very nice meeting 
you,” he said, forcing a smile as he looked on at Donny's mother, who'd 
slowly lost eye contact with him more out of anger then anything else. 
Then, turning to Donny, the doctor reached out his hand to give him an 
affectionate pat on the head, along with some parting advice. “You take 
it easy now champ,” he said, “and remember what we talked about, okay? 
Take care now,” he added, ruffing up Donny's light blonde hair before 
turning to walk away. As the doctor slowly turned to leave the waiting 
room, he could hear Mrs. Cagliari questioning Donny, anxious to find 
out exactly what it was they'd talked about, as if it were some issue 
of great importance. “What'd he say to you?” she asked him. “You tell 
me,” she continued, taking him by both arms to get his complete 
attention and to scare him into giving her what she wanted. Looking 
back over his shoulder, Dr. Cohen couldn't help but notice the pitiful 
expression on Donny's face, as their eyes met one last time. It seemed 
to say, look at what I have to go through. Is it any wonder I feel the 
way I do. Turning away, he pushed the door open and entered the long 
corridor, clearing his mind as best he could to deal with the remainder 
of the day. 

After his obligations had been fulfilled for the day, Dr. Cohen was just
about to put his feet up and relax at home when suddenly, the phone 
rang. “Do you know what time it is?” asked the caller. “Yes I do,” 
answered David. “It's time for some potluck and eight hours of sack 
time if people will let me.” “Nope,” replied the voice on the phone. 
“How'd you get through school with an attitude like that?” “I didn't 
know it was deficient Tom. Just where is my attitude at fault?” “I'll 
tell ya where,” said Tom Kirkpatrick. “You're missing out on a world of 
fun, that's where.” “That's a matter of opinion Tom. Right now, sleep 
is the only thing I feel I'm missing out on. I'll see ya tomorrow.” 
“No, no! You're not getting away that easy you big baby you. Sleep is 
for children, I prescribe adult fun for you mister and you're gonna 
take your medicine. I'll be there in half an hour.” After Tom finished 
giving his advice, he hung up the phone, got into the small imported 
sports car he'd only lately been able to afford and drove off down the 
road headed for David's condominium. David lived in an impressive 
neighborhood in a part of town where very little violence ever 
occurred. Violence, thought David, was a product of poverty and of 
those who feel less then satisfied with themselves and their 
surroundings. At least he felt, that was the usual pattern, or course 
of events among the many disturbed patients who David came into contact 
with on a nearly daily basis. It was mostly poor neighborhoods which 
fostered such unspeakable violence, but wealthy people were not exempt 
from such fatalities. Suicide and death from drug overdose was an 
apparent flaw in the middle and upper middle classes that ran deep. So 
much so, that he found nearly as many fatalities in any given 
situation, either with money or without. Just as David was finishing 
dinner, a knock came at the door. Knowing who it must be, he took his 
time in answering it. “Who is it?” he asked smiling, knowing full well 
who it was but nonetheless, determined to make Tom wait in return for 
the way he'd been pushed into going out against his will. “It's your 
new neighbor,” came a female voice from the opposite side of the door. 
“I just moved in one floor above you.” “Oh, hello,” replied David, 
opening the door to reveal a very shapely new neighbor. “I remember 
seeing you around the building. Come on in,” he added. “What can I do 
for you?” “I didn't want to bother you, but I was in the middle of 
making cookies when I realized I was out of sugar. I guess I'm not very 
good at keeping track of things am I?” “Nonsense,” replied Dr. Cohen. 
“It could happen to anyone. Besides, who am I to judge you? Half the 
time, I can't even find matching socks. Why don't you have a seat and 
relax while I get you the sugar. How much do you need?” “Just a cup 
would be great. Thanks so much. Do you mind if I ask you a question?” 
she said, as David turned and walked toward the kitchen. “What's that?” 
“I can't help showing my curiosity. I hardly ever see you around,” she 
added. “Do you mind if I ask what keeps you so busy? If I'm being too 
nosy just tell me.” “I don't mind. You're not being nosy. I'm a 
doctor,” he replied, as he closed the pantry door and looked around the 
kitchen cabinets for a coffee cup. “But I haven't always been a doctor 
you know.” “Pardon me?” asked his pretty guest. “I'm not sure I 
understand.” “Oh gosh, I've worked every two-bit job you can think of 
to try and help my parents with the cost of medical school but I'll 
tell you, being a doctor keeps me pretty busy, and you wouldn't believe 
some of the things I see. You name it,” he said, walking back into the 
living room where his guest sat patiently waiting. “I've seen 
everything from stab wounds and bullet holes to motorcycle accidents 
and...” Interrupted by the doorbell in mid sentence, David put the cup 
of sugar down on a table beside his guest, excused himself and walked 
to the door to answer it. “Who is it?” he asked, smiling all the while. 
“As if I didn't know,” he said, opening the door to reveal his good 
friend, Tom Kirkpatrick. “Wow,” said Tom, as he laid eyes on David's 
new guest. “Don't just stand there, introduce me.” “Okay, okay,” 
replied David. “Don't lose your cool. We haven't even gotten that far 
yet, have we, Miss...?” “Adams,” answered the girl. “Joanne Adams, and 
I'm very glad to meet you.” “Likewise,” replied Tom. “I'm glad to meet 
you too. I was just feeling sorry for all-work-and-no-play David here 
when I walked in and found you!... David,” he said, as he turned from 
Joanne to Dr. Cohen. “The Lord works in mysterious ways doesn't He?” 
“He certainly does Tom. You know...,” continued David, reflecting on 
some long since, buried memory. “I remember the time when I...” “Hey,” 
interrupted Tom. “I got a great idea. Why don't the three of us do the 
town? Did you have anything planned for tonight Joanne?” “Not at all,” 
she replied. “Unless you consider making cookies a priority.” “Cookies 
are fine but they don't take the place of a good steak,” answered Tom, 
“and I know just the place where we can get one. How long will it take 
you to get ready?” he asked Joanne. “All I have to do is get my coat.” 
“Fine. We'll meet you downstairs in five minutes. How's that?” 
continued Dr. Kirkpatrick. “Sounds like a plan,” responded Miss Adams, 
as she picked up the cup of sugar David had given her and gracefully 
walked to the door. “It's not every day a girl gets to go out with two 
doctors,” she said, with one hand on the handle of the open door. “How 
lucky can one girl get?” “Holy cow!” replied Tom, as the door closed 
behind Miss Adams. “How lucky can two overworked bums get? I swear, 
good times just run after you Dave.” “Yeah right,” said David, putting 
on his coat and walking toward the door. “Every ten years or so 
anyway.” 

When the threesome arrived at Shannon's, a nightclub Tom often
frequented, it was nearly eight p.m. Looking around, David couldn't 
help noticing the crowd gathered around a piano player who was singing 
an old Frank Sinatra song from nineteen sixty-five called; How Old Am 
I? As David caught the attentive eye of the hostess, the song's lyrics 
filled every room of the club and very little else could be heard above 
the unknown but handsome crooner... “...If I make you happy today, I'm 
the perfect age, as for tomorrow...turn the page.” “What a pretty song 
that was,” remarked Joanne, turning to meet David's eyes. “I never 
realized that time was an issue to a man like Sinatra.” “It's important 
to all of us isn't it?” he answered. “We only have so much of it to try 
to live out our dreams.” “You sound like you're one of those, better 
have fun while you can type of people.” “I am,” replied David. “After a 
while in my profession, you just learn to accept the limitations of a 
life span.” Their conversation made brief by the seating hostess, David 
turned his attention away from Joanne. “How many in your party sir?” 
she asked. “Just us three,” he replied. “Hmm,” she uttered, looking 
down at a list of various names she kept. “I've got a booth just about 
ready. How would that be?” “Terrific,” said Tom. “We'll take it. Is it 
close to the stage?” “Practically on it,” answered the hostess, smiling 
at her own jest. “Just give me a name and I'll call you when it's 
ready.” “Cohen,” said David. “Dr. Cohen.” “Very well Dr. Cohen. You can 
make yourself comfortable at the bar if you like, but I don't think 
we'll need any more then five minutes to get your table ready.” 
“Great,” said Tom. “That's a good idea. I could use a blast off the old 
cork, couldn't you Dave?” “I suppose. Just one to be sociable wouldn't 
hurt.” “Oh c'mon Dave. You gotta learn to loosen up a little. You 
know,” continued Tom, taking Joanne by the arm and leading her to the 
bar. “The Jewish people were never known for their drinking habits.” 
“Probably better known for their lack of it, then a propensity for it,” 
interjected David. “There you go old man, that's just the point I was 
trying to make.” “I can see where this is going,” replied David, 
pulling out a bar stool for Joanne and himself. “He's always trying to 
get me to booze it up.” “Well, it wouldn't hurt you to have a little 
fun sometimes, that's all I'm saying. A man just can't live by the book 
every day of his life. You've got to take the time to stop and smell 
the roses, or life will just pass you by. Am I wrong or what? I mean, 
is work all we have to live for?” “Okay Tom,” replied David. “You made 
your point. I'll have two, how's that? Two drinks but that's my limit. 
I've got to get up early tomorrow you know old man,” he continued. 
“This isn't just about my heritage or the way I was brought up. You try 
waking up at six with a hangover.” “Touche Dr. Cohen. Here, just to 
show you what a right guy I am, this round's on me,” said Tom, 
motioning to the bartender. “What'll it be? And don't say sarsaparilla, 
I've heard that one before.” “Scotch on the rocks.” “Make that two,” 
said Tom, as the bartender listened to his order. “Joanne,” he 
continued. “Forgive me. I didn't mean to be rude. What would you like?” 
“Oh, don't worry about it. Make mine a whiskey sour.” As the bartender 
turned away to make their drinks, Tom struck up a conversation with 
Joanne to try to get to know her. She was a good listener, he thought, 
as he talked about the hardship of being a physician at a big city 
hospital. It's “not for squeamish people, that's for sure,” he said, 
stressing all the accidents he'd seen; injurious suicide attempts that 
didn't conclude in death, or even attempted murder, any of which were 
not pretty sights and some, left terrible memories in the minds of not 
only the victims, but also in the doctors who tried to save them, only 
to bring them back to a world where waking hours have been known to 
turn to living nightmares. “It's a wonder,” explained Tom, “Dave and I 
can sleep at all sometimes, isn't it Dave?” “You got that right,” 
answered Dr. Cohen, beginning to feel the effects of the first few sips 
of alcohol he'd taken, making his attitude more brash and his speech 
just a little less capable. “To tell you the truth Joanne, I take a 
little sleeping pill before I go to bed, just so I won't wake up in the 
middle of the night wondering why I go through what I do. It's not just 
the unnatural sights I have to look at from time to time, but the 
lawsuits are just crazy. Some doctors can't afford their insurance any 
more and get sick of the whole thing. It's a terrible thing to watch 
your life's dream of being a physician go down the tubes with someone's 
loved one who you just couldn't save. But try to explain yourself to a 
grief stricken spouse or relative who'd sooner turn their sorrow to 
vengeance then hear you out.” “Wow,” spoke Joanne. “I guess I never 
stopped to think about all the rough spots you guys have to try to 
smooth over. I just knew when I was a kid that medical stuff wasn't for 
me. The sight of blood and all...you know what I mean?” “I know exactly 
what you mean,” answered Tom. “It's a big load a crap sometimes, isn't 
Dave?” he continued, now feeling the effects of the drink he'd just 
finished and becoming more familiar in his mood with each passing 
moment. “But let me just add that it's next to impossible to try to 
tell what somebody else is going through without actually going through 
it yourself. I know you understand. It's occurred to all of us at one 
time or another, and I don't mean to belittle you, you're a very nice 
girl. I just always felt that way about my own problems or anyone 
else's for that matter. It's all just a bunch of talk, no matter how 
explicit we can get. It's our problem anyway. I'm sure you have your 
own crap to deal with, but all I can do is just sit here and try to 
understand what you're going through, never having lived through it 
myself.” “Thanks Tom,” said David smiling. “I'm enjoying your 
philosophical insight.” “Don't mention it. Anytime I can be of service, 
just ask.” Just then, as Tom finished speaking, the hostess called 
David's name over the restaurant's intercom...”Dr. Cohen,” she 
announced. “Party of three, your table's ready. Dr. Cohen,” she 
repeated, “your table's ready.” “Well,” said David jokingly. “Either 
that means our table's ready or we're wanted in emergency again. Which 
do you think?” “You can go to emergency if you want, I'd rather eat. By 
the way,” continued Tom, as the hostess arrived to show them the way to 
their table. “They make a great burger here served on dark bread, you 
really should try it.” “Can I get onion rings?” asked Joanne. “Oh yeah, 
one of the best parts of the meal,” replied Tom. “They come in big 
blocks right out of the fryer. I prescribe an order with dinner.” “Good 
for your heart too, I'm sure,” quipped David, as the three prepared to 
leave the bar and walk to the booth which was by now, completely 
cleared and waiting for them. Following the hostess, with his drink in 
his hand, David noticed a large overweight man sitting off to the side 
of the narrow aisle they walked along. He noticed him as the man cocked 
his head and seemed to scrutinize David with one, wide open eye. The 
watchful man was well dressed - in a dark colored suit with a neatly 
pressed white shirt - and when David returned his glance, he raised a 
glass he'd been holding and took a sip from it, as if to prepare 
himself before saying or doing something. Whichever the case was 
anyone's guess, but the man's body language was as transparent as the 
glass he held. “Dirty Jew,” murmured the man, as David walked by his 
table. “Huh? What?” asked David, shocked by the sudden assault and 
unsure of what he thought he heard. “Did you say something?” “I said 
‘dirty Jew',” repeated the man, as he pushed his chair back to rise 
slowly to his feet in front of David. “Why would you want to eat here 
anyway? Can't you see? Everyone here is white.” Expecting David to 
brood over what he'd said, the large man merely pushed the sides of his 
suit coat back and rested his hands on his waist as if to ask, ‘why are 
you still here breathing my air?' Looking back at Joanne and Tom who 
were standing just a few feet behind him, David set his drink down 
beside the stranger's, and acted as if he were in no rush to react in 
any way at all. Then, with the same air of surprise that the stranger 
had acted on in an effort to abuse and humiliate, David started 
swinging. It wasn't the type of thoughtless, reckless display of 
barroom brawlers, but the well planned and efficiently executed attack 
of someone who knew what they were doing. A hard right hook - which 
sent the man's head reeling to one side - followed by the equal and 
opposite force of David's left. This second impact cost him a broken 
nose and immediately, blood dribbled from his nostrils revealing the 
damage of the bitter shock. But no sooner had David's torso recovered 
from twisting in the direction of its force - as a vector with 
magnitude and direction traverses its path - he drove his right fist to 
the solar plexus, in the pit of the man's gut, knocking the wind out of 
him and dropping him to his knees, where in the opinion of many, he 
belonged. As David stood over the offensive, surprised patron he wore 
the unmistakable appearance of a professional boxer waiting for his 
opponent to rise up from the canvas, with legs perfectly spread apart 
at shoulder width; feet at right angles to each other to lend proper 
balance to the upper body, and both fists clenched tightly, pausing 
only to give fair chance, but only too willing to resume the attack if 
necessary. “Hey buddy,” said Tom, as he placed a hand on David's 
shoulder. “C'mon, you can quit now. He's done, it's over. Call off the 
dogs.” “Huh?” answered David, as if awakening from a dream. “Shit, 
what'd I do?” he said, finally taking notice of his own two clenched 
fists, and dropping his guard. “Hey,” questioned Tom, jesting over the 
situation. “Does this mean we have to leave? Could you take a break 
from your fight itinerary long enough to eat something? I'm so hungry I 
could eat my shoe, and all you can think of doing is beating up on fat 
Nazis's.” “Oh, I'm sorry Tom, Joanne, forgive me. I don't know what got 
into me. I snapped. I just went over the edge.” “Hell, you just did 
what you had to do Dave. I heard what he called you. I would've done 
the same thing,” said Tom. “Maybe not as gracefully executed, but I 
can't speak badly of your reaction.” “Sir,” said the headwaiter who 
approached them in a huff. “You'll have to leave now sir. We can't 
allow fisticuffs in our nightclub. I hope you'll understand.” “Sure, I 
understand,” answered David, thinking of making a beeline for the door 
as all or most of the patrons in the restaurant were watching his every 
move - making him feel very uncomfortable - and most of them 
disapproving of what they'd seen. “A grown man fighting,” remarked an 
older lady at a nearby table, between sips of her manhattan. “I swear, 
things like that just didn't happen in my day. The world just keeps 
getting worse and worse. Don't you agree Harold?” “Why?” replied her 
aging husband, sawing off another bite size portion of the porterhouse 
steak on his plate, with the tempered, serrated edge of his knife. “Far 
as I can see, the world ain't changed much at all. We've changed, 
that's for sure, but the world's just the same as it ever was. You 
gonna finish yer tater? I'll take it if you don't want it.” “Here!” she 
replied, dumping it in her husbands dish with a thud. “Can't you ever 
agree with me?” “Now Harriet,” he began to say. “What kinda world would 
this be if everyone up an agreed with each other all the time? Pretty 
borin' if you ask me. Now be a good girl an pass the salt, would ya?” 
“Damn,” exclaimed Tom, in the midst of all that had just happened. “Am 
I ever gonna get ta eat tonight? Somewhere back there in that kitchen, 
there's a burger on dark bread with my name on it.” “Don't worry about 
it,” answered Joanne, leading the two men towards the door. “I pass a 
steak house every day on my way to work. The night's still young.” “And 
so are we,” quipped Tom, holding open the big glass restaurant doors 
for his two friends. “Did you see the way Davy hit that guy? One, two, 
three. Like Swiss watch timing, that's what it was. Now you can't tell 
me you just picked that up one day while walking through the park,” he 
went on, looking squarely at David. “Fess up. You must've at least 
taken lessons.” “Nope,” replied David. I've got nothing to confess. I 
just got mad, that's all.” “If you say so...,” answered Tom, still 
finding it hard to believe in David's explanation of himself. “But I 
was wondering if you'd like to be my bodyguard? Whaddaya say? The pay's 
not great but the hours coincide with the one's you're already 
keeping.” “I'll think about it,” replied David, on the walk back to the 
car. “Don't think too long buddy, it's a rough world out there and I'm 
just a brawler compared to the likes of you. You're a finely tuned 
fighting machine, you are.” “Yeah sure,” answered David. “Joanne will 
you tell him I just got mad and that's all there is to it. Now,” he 
continued. “Who's driving this boat? I'm gonna sit in back and brood 
for a while. I haven't been in a fight in as long as I can remember. 
I'm really angry with myself.” “Don't get mad David, get even. That's 
what they say isn't it? Believe me, that Nazi bastard had it coming. 
You did the right thing, just forget about it. In a little while, we'll 
be at...where will we be anyway Joanne.” “Ryan's Steak House, that's 
where.” she said. “You guys just sit back and leave it to me, I know 
what I'm doing.” “You can't make any worse decision then me,” said 
David, beginning to brow beat himself, watching traffic pass them by 
from the back seat of the car. “That's for damn sure.” 

“I need to do more out there Tom. I'm just not doing enough.” “What did
you have in mind?” “I'd like to put in some hours at the clinic.” “I've 
got just one thing to say about that Davey boy...Remember the 
Hippocratic Oath?” “Of course I do. What about it?” “Remember the part 
that goes; Nor will I give a woman a pessary to procure abortion. Well, 
don't mind me but I thought it was good timing on my part to remind you 
of it.” “Good timing? To remind me of something written so long ago, 
now, in today's modern world? An ancient oath, nearly twenty five 
hundred years old. How is it even significant Tom? Really, I never 
thought you'd pull that on me.” “I can do better then that Dave - and I 
mean no offense - but I don't think the Jewish people understand. It's 
more an issue among Christians.” “Tom,” began David, taking his feet 
from their position on his office desk and moving them to the floor. 
“If I could convince myself that thousands of young girls who realize 
they've made a terrible mistake don't need my help, then I would never 
have mentioned it, but as far as I can see, there's only one path left 
for me to follow - my own discourse on the subject. A modernized 
version of the oath you mentioned, for today's world. If you don't mind 
my saying so, you really should write yourself an updated version. If 
we continue to take two steps back, for every step forward, we may as 
well chuck it all and live in the Dark Ages.” “This is where we differ 
Dave,” replied Dr. Kirkpatrick, rising from his chair to leave. “I 
became a doctor to save and preserve life, not kill it off.” 

As time went on, Dr. Cohen began putting in part time hours at a clinic
located within a few blocks of the hospital, which made it convenient 
for him to walk back and forth, from one job to the other. The part of 
the new job that bothered him though, was the part which would have 
bothered anyone..., the heated arguments and confrontations he found 
himself involved in with some of the many pro-life people who picketed 
the clinic, were a drain on his emotional energy. Time and time again, 
people stopped him in front of the clinic to tell him how wrong he was 
to do what he was doing. Even though his answers to their arguments 
were intelligent and well thought out, he tired of explaining himself, 
and the more tired he got, the more he questioned his resolution, and 
the more he wondered why his work went unappreciated among so many. In 
time though, he'd become a kind of martyr who would not, and could not, 
back down from his ideology. In the past, he'd always seen himself as a 
healer of the sick and needy, but recently, he'd come to believe in 
himself as a kind of helper, and representative of good, giving 
assistance to those who he believed, needed it most of all. For even 
though he wasn't resolving the age old struggle between life and death 
at the clinic, he saw his work as a necessary antidote, and an answer 
to many a young girl's plea for help. Help to those who were too young 
even to take care of themselves, let alone, a tiny, needy infant. Try 
as he did to avoid conflict, David happened to meet a man picketing one 
day who also refused to back down from his own brand of ideology, and 
moral, religious conviction. A man, who it seemed to David, was not 
going to let up or disappear any time soon. In fact, as the days turned 
to weeks, this man hounded David more and more. He waited for him to 
arrive each day, and each day he called David different shameful names 
like; murderer, or cold-blooded killer. “How do you sleep at night?” he 
asked David, one foggy, gray morning. “How do you sleep knowing what a 
butcher you are?” “That's easy,” replied David. “I only have to focus 
on all the good I've done to get loathsome idiots like you off my mind 
and neatly categorized in a special little place I like to call; 
purgatory.” “You're the one going to hell you sinner!” screamed the 
man, as David opened the door of the clinic. “You and all the rest of 
the butchers in there. You help run a death camp, don't you realize 
that. You're no better then a Nazi!” “That's where you're wrong,” 
answered David. “I help, I don't hinder. I heal, I don't harm, and I 
pity the poor and sick of mind who can't seem to understand that. By 
the way...,” he continued, pulling his shirt sleeve back to check his 
wrist watch. “I'm very busy. Don't you have someplace to go? A job or 
something? Ever think of getting a life?” “You'll pay you sinner! 
You'll pay!” screamed the man, as the door closed behind David, who 
walked beyond the inner vestibule down a corridor to the nurse's 
station, leaving behind him his own shrinking image in the dark glass 
of the foyer door, and his words. Words which seemed to rise above 
those of the protesters, not so much out of right or wrong, but of 
conviction to his duty as a physician, and the way he saw fit to 
perform the job. Weeks went by and turned into months since David's 
first chance meeting with the fanatic protester, and others like him, 
who he'd met on his way in to work. On many occasions, David found 
himself in the company of some very young women, usually in the 
seventeen to twenty-three year old age bracket, who came to him out of 
desperation and to confess that they'd made a terrible mistake in 
getting pregnant. But David listened to their confessions with an open 
mind and from the very start, knew enough not to blame them for making 
this one, very human error. An error which he felt, anyone could have 
made. “Don't take it out on yourself,” he said one day, as he counseled 
a particularly young girl who'd arrived with her mother. “How old are 
you?” he asked her. “Sixteen?” “I'm fifteen and a half,” she replied. 
“You're young,” answered David. “Very young. Nobody blames you for what 
happened.” “Oh yeah?” she said, looking at her mother, who returned a 
look of anger and misdeed. “Tell that to my mother.” 

Then one day between patients, roughly a year after he'd begun work at
the clinic, as David sat looking out his office window, he heard 
someone knocking at his office door. Turning around in his chair to 
face who'd come to visit - one of the nurse's he presumed - David 
called out in a welcoming tone of voice, as it was his habit to do, for 
his visitor to enter. Shocked at who he saw as the door swung open, 
David tried to regain composure of himself and act as if nothing out of 
the ordinary was taking place, when in fact, it was. “Do you know what 
time it is?” asked the man who'd hounded David for months. “How did you 
get in here?” replied David. “You never should've gotten past the 
nurse's station.” “Never mind how I got here. I asked you a question. 
Do you know what time it is?” “It's time for you to get the hell out of 
my office and stop bothering me before I press charges,” answered Dr. 
Cohen, standing up from behind his desk to emphasize, and put meaning 
to his words. “Very well,” said the unwelcome visitor. “If you won't 
answer me, I'll tell you what time it is..., It's time for you to 
confess your sins while there's still time to do it, because for you 
Dr. Cohen...,” he continued, as he reached into his coat to reveal a 
small, snub nose thirty-eight caliber hand gun. “Time is running out.” 
Amazed at the turn of events, and by the actions of the man now 
standing before him - brandishing the polished, nickel plated weapon - 
David contended to calm himself in the face of danger, finally 
realizing the nature and urgency behind the man's visit. “What do you 
want from me?” he asked, speaking and gesturing in such a way as to 
hopefully, gain time in what now had become, a struggle for survival. 
“It's not so much what I want,” replied the fanatic gunman. “I don't 
want to appear selfish. What I do, I do for the good of all. I'm 
killing the killer, and it's about time too.” “You know how many years 
in prison you'll get for killing me?” answered David, doing his best to 
stall for time. “Oh, I don't know. Five, ten, who's counting?” “Ten if 
you're lucky. How does twenty-five years sound to you? You might like 
it. Twenty-five years of answering to the word ‘bitch'. Getting passed 
around by the inmates like a new toy. And think of all the good you'd 
be doing for society, up at five every morning...you can make a hell of 
a lot of license plates in twenty-five years. Think about it.” “I've 
done my thinking you godless animal. I can't say where you'll end up 
after this, but I'm confident that God will reward me. Now let me 
reward you for the work you've done here,” offered the man, nervously 
shaking the revolver he held in his two sweating hands, and pointing it 
straight at David's head. “It's only fitting,” he said, as he squeezed 
the trigger with the index finger of his right hand, sending the lead 
projectile hurtling through space, and straight for David's forehead. 

“Oh shit,” said Dr. Cohen. “What happened? My heads killing me.” “Those
are familiar sounding words. Where have I heard them before?” “I don't 
know,” replied the ailing doctor. “Why don't you tell me. Where am I 
anyhow?” “Why do people always ask the same questions?” answered the 
loud, mysterious voice. “Don't you remember me?” “Oh no!” Answered 
David, after a few moments in thought. “You mean, I died... again? How 
many times does that make now?” “Who's counting David? What I want to 
know is, were you happy with yourself that time around? Were you 
satisfied with your intellectual prowess? As I recall, you wanted to be 
intelligent more then anything. You wanted to be a doctor, isn't that 
right? You wanted to help people. How did it all turn out?” “Okay, 
until some lunatic decided I was hurting more then helping. I was never 
going to change his mind. The last thing I remember, I was on the wrong 
side of a handgun. Strange how easily your life's ambitions can go up 
in smoke, with just one simple pull of a trigger.” “But before that 
happened, were you happy?” “I suppose. Well..., not as happy as I 
thought I'd be. I didn't realize all the terrible things I'd have to 
witness and go through. Patients dying; young, old, it hardly mattered, 
it was all so sad. Handicapped people; disease stricken; accident 
victims - let's just say, I'm not real anxious to go through it again.” 
“You don't have to. You're here now David. You can stay for as long as 
you like, or if you wish, you can go back to the world of the living, 
and try to make amends. Right any wrong, or erase any mistake you feel 
you may have made, it's up to you. What do you think?” “I think I could 
use a rest,” replied David. “But just the same, I'd like to go back.” 
“Very well,” answered the Caretaker, as David had come to know him from 
many previous encounters. “As who, or what?” “I think I'd like to let 
the chips fall where they may,” said David, thinking pensively as he 
spoke with one hand to his chin. “Why don't I leave that decision to 
you. I've tried so many times to plan things in advance, and so many 
times I've felt those plans weren't worth the time I spent on them. Why 
don't you decide for me. Whatever you deem appropriate, that's who I'll 
go back as.” “Then so be it, David. The next time around will be a 
complete and total surprise.” “It may as well be,” answered David. “I 
don't think it matters much anyhow.” 

It was a cold, rainy day in Chicago when the massive jet airliner
touched down on its runway, taxied to its terminal and finally came to 
a halt, but when the people on board began to file out of the plane and 
into the waiting area, the actual number of passengers, it was found, 
amounted only to some five or so people, not including the pilot and 
crew. But the weight that this handful of people carried more then made 
up for their lack in numbers, as each well groomed person either held 
office as a top executive in one of the biggest, and most powerful 
corporations in the world, or was personal assistant to the CEO who 
they accompanied. Once the group had assembled in the waiting area at 
their gate, they barely had time to ask questions before they were 
swiftly, whisked away by porters and a chauffeur who accompanied them 
to a waiting limousine and brought them to their hotel destination - 
The Palmer House, seated majestically on East Monroe Street, 
overlooking Lake Michigan. Shown to their respective rooms - all of 
which were on the same floor, very nearly adjacent to each other - 
every member of the entourage longed for some time to themselves before 
the big meeting that was about to take place that evening, in the large 
conference room of the hotel. It was a meeting of great importance, not 
so much to the staff who'd just begun to settle in, but mostly to the 
company whose very future lay in the hands of just five, handpicked 
men. Five men who were about to determine the life or death of the 
nearly defenseless corporation in question. Five men in whose hands lay 
the fate of thousands of workers, and thousands of families, all with 
the same questions in mind..., “How will we go on making ends meet if 
we lose our jobs? How will we put food on the table?” Questions not of 
stock yield or percent gain, but of basic human needs, primary to the 
instinct of survival. 

“Gentlemen,” announced the CEO, sitting at the head of an aging but
still attractive and very long, walnut table. “We all know why we're 
here today, so why don't we just get right down to business.” He 
continued, raising his arm and pointing out the many, varied, computer 
drawn three-dimensional bar graphs, pie charts and graphs that littered 
the table and stood like little soldiers behind his chair. “We've gone 
over and over the numbers and projections concerning the ill health, 
and the feasibility of bringing a tired old company like LitTelComm 
back to life. What we don't need right now are more charts and graphs. 
I don't know about you,” he added, looking around at the stiffly seated 
men at the conference table. “But for me the number crunching is over. 
What we need to do now - to put it bluntly, and excuse my French if you 
will - is to shit, or get off the pot.” “Right Bill,” said the man 
seated next to the speaker. “Exactly. That's exactly what we need to 
do.” “And dammit! Stop agreeing with me all the time Berger. Show me 
some backbone and give me your real interpretation of this merger. I 
want your honest opinion.” “Well, ahem,” began the man named Etan 
Berger, clearing his throat and stalling for time. “I'm still not sure 
sir. As everyone knows...” “I don't have anymore time to wait for you 
Berger,” replied the CEO, cutting his aide off in mid-sentence. “Who's 
got an intelligent viewpoint to add right now, before I tell you what 
I've been thinking? Yes?” added the curt speaker, upon seeing one 
lonely arm raise at the opposite end of the table. “Sir,” started the 
brazen young man. “Although the people at LitTelComm have already begun 
laying workers off in a desperate attempt to stay afloat, and it's true 
that their stock shares have fallen to an all time low, I still believe 
that with some work and diligence, giving special attention to the way 
we handle customer service - that LitTelComm will show larger profits 
then ever before.” “And what hard facts can you give us to substantiate 
your theory?” asked the CEO, rising from his chair to walk around the 
table, glancing now and then at each man as they sat with their backs 
to him taking careful notes. “I can only offer as fact LitTelComm's 
track record during it's first few years of operation. Also, I believe 
we're all aware of the fact that the companies customer service skills 
were sadly lacking. (You just can't run an efficient communications 
company without skilled, pleasant workers taking call-ins), and one 
more thing...” “Yes,” replied the executive officer. “What's that?” 
“Just my gut feeling sir. That's all I can say. There's really nothing 
wrong with LitTelComm that a little restructuring wouldn't solve. Good 
workers are just plain people, like all of us in attendance here today. 
All we need do is weed out the few employees who refuse to treat paying 
customers the way they expect to be treated, and reward the ones who 
will. If you want my opinion sir, I'd complete the merger.” “Good,” 
replied the chairman. “I couldn't have said it better myself. There's 
just one thing that bothers me about what you said.” “What's that sir?” 
“The reward you spoke of. I'm not about to finance any bonus program 
along with the burden of acquiring LitTelComm. That's out of the 
question.” “Oh no sir. By reward, I merely meant to establish a type of 
incentive program, which would enable some of the best workers to 
attain rewards for outselling and outperforming other associates. In 
other words sir, a pat on the back if you will, and a small piece of 
the pie as gratuity.” “Excellent! I like the way you think. What's your 
name young man?” “John, sir. John Dillinger.” “Huh? Who?” asked the 
confused looking chairman, now turning his head away from the gifted 
young man who'd garnered his interest, to the spot in which sat Mr. 
Etan Berger. Mr. Berger was by now, clutching his chest in agony and 
writhing wildly on the floor like a man possessed. But even as they 
watched, Berger's sudden lurching movements gave way to an even more 
shocking appearance of motionless, stone cold death. “Quick!” yelled 
the fast thinking CEO. “Call the front desk! I need an A.E.D. pronto. 
And call an ambulance. This man's in cardiac arrest!” “What's an A.E.D. 
sir?” asked one of the board members, as most of the others seated at 
the table looked around at each other with a confused, questioning look 
on their faces. “Nobody seems to know.” “It's an Automated External 
Defibrillator! Never mind,” he continued. “Just be quick and call 
9-1-1.” As the shaken executive left the conference room - bursting 
through the big double doors, running down the ornate, red carpeted 
hall of the stately old hotel toward the front desk - he couldn't help 
but wonder how, or where, the chairman had picked up knowledge of such 
a specific nature - like knowing what the heck to do with an A.E.D., or 
more simply, knowing what it was in the first place, especially when no 
one else in the room, out of an impressive list of ivy league graduates 
knew the first thing about what Bill Kildare was talking about. No one 
in the room had ever given Cardiopulmonary Resuscitation either, but 
even before the youthful volunteer had left the room, all eyes watched 
as Bill threw himself to the side of Etan and began working to first; 
clear the air passage of any possible obstruction, and then; to force 
air into Etan's lungs by mouth to mouth resuscitation. After roughly 
two minutes of this, and seeing no change in Etan's condition, the grey 
haired chairman began a series of chest compressions at thoughtfully 
planned intervals, to hopefully maintain blood flow to major organs - 
allowing for periods of resuscitation in between. Then, as the wail of 
an ambulance siren could be heard, screaming down the crowded city 
streets outside, Etan began to show signs of coming to consciousness. 
Gasping for a breath of air under his own power, his chest heaved 
upward and then back down, much to the relief of everyone in the room, 
but mostly, to Bill Kildare, who from Etan's point of view, had just 
given him the gift of life, and with it, the spirit of eternal 
gratitude. “Oh God, what happened?” said Etan, in a very hoarse, 
labored tone. “Mr. Kildare, you saved my life. I've got a wife and two 
little girls at home. I can't thank you enough.” “Never mind Berger,” 
replied the heroic CEO, getting to his feet as the paramedics rushed 
into the room. “You rest up now and take some time off. Don't worry 
about it. I'm sorry if I was hard on you. Your job will still be here 
when you get back.” Lifting Etan to a waiting gurney, the paramedics 
began the journey back to the University Of Illinois Hospital on Taylor 
Street, but as they rolled Eaton down the hallway, the same young man 
who'd rushed to call them found himself in the thick of things once 
more, boldly facing his curiosity, intrigued by skills he never 
realized his own boss had acquired. But how?, He thought. That was the 
question. “Excuse me Mr. Kildare,” asked the inquisitive exec by the 
name of Iben Verkin. “But I never realized you had CPR training. How in 
the world did you ever find time for it with the kind of busy schedule 
you keep?” “To tell you the truth Iben,” answered the puzzled chairman 
as he scratched his head. “I can't really say where I learned to do 
that. I know I like to watch medical shows on television when I get the 
chance. Maybe I just absorbed it without realizing. Sure,” he 
continued. “That must be it. I watch so much a that stuff, it just sunk 
in. But now then,” he went on, raising his voice appropriately to 
address the entire staff. “Without further delay, why don't we all sit 
back down in our chairs so we can come to some kind of decision 
concerning LitTelComm. Who's taking minutes here?” “Berger was Sir,” 
replied Iben. “But I can pick up where he left off.” “Great Verkin. Now 
then, where were we?” “Just one thing sir,” interrupted Iben, anxiously 
searching for an answer to the question he had on his mind. “I still 
can't understand how you knew what an Automatic External 
watch-a-ma-callit was. It sounds like pretty specific knowledge to me 
Sir.” “That's an Automated External Defibrillator Verkin, and I already 
told you, I must've picked it up watching T.V.” “Hard to believe Sir.” 
“Drop it will you Verkin. We've got hundreds of millions at stake here 
in this merger. Don't make me remind you again.” “Yes sir,” answered 
the bewildered exec. “Now then,” began the chairman. “Lets get back to 
the business of the day, shall we?” “Ah, Sir?” asked Iben. “What is it 
now Verkin.” “Nothing sir. It's just that, I've never taken minutes 
before and I'm going to need a little time to get things down on paper. 
Do you think you could speak a little more slowly? It would help me a 
great deal if you did.” “I'll see what I can do Iben. I don't need 
another heart attack on my hands today, one was enough. Good God,” 
continued the CEO, looking up at the ceiling and back again at the 
seated board members. “In my day, a man didn't fold up and die over a 
little pressure. But if we were due for a heart attack, we had them in 
private and didn't disrupt important business matters. Now can we 
please get back to the issue at hand?” “Yes Sir,” replied Iben, staring 
down at the fingers of his folded hands. “But could I interject here 
for just a moment?” “You might as well Verkin. Our schedule's all blown 
to hell anyway. What is it this time?” “Well..., Sir. I couldn't help 
but wonder what might happen to the board if one of its members just 
suddenly dies. Like Berger for example. I mean, in the middle of a big 
deal like this and everything. We'd be missing a vote if he died 
wouldn't we?” “We'll be missing two votes Verkin if you don't let us 
continue today. How would you like that, hmm?” “Not very much Sir. I 
just couldn't contain my curiosity.” “Then remember that it's curiosity 
that killed the cat Verkin. Maybe that will help you contain it next 
time.” And as the other executives sat smiling at each other, doing 
their best to stifle their laughter, the meeting was once more underway 
- or a slowed down version of it anyway, allowing for Iben's lack of 
secretarial skills. “Now then,” began the executive officer, pausing 
for a moment in his chair at the head of the table to adjust his tie 
and suit coat. “As Mr. Dillinger so aptly put it - that is, before that 
little fiasco with Berger a few minutes ago - the merger between us and 
LitTelComm does seem to be a sound maneuver for the various reasons 
stated, and therefore, if there are no further objections to the 
ruling, I'll ask you now..., all those in favor of acquiring 
LitTelComm, raise your hands and be counted.” As every executive from 
the giant telecommunications company, SuperTeleComm fell in line and 
raised his hand as expected, the CEO merely made the decision to bring 
to a close that portion of the meeting, and as he did, each of the ten 
members of the staff from LitTelComm pushed their chairs from the table 
and left the room, leaving the executives from SuperTeleComm to pursue 
other in-house related business affairs, both domestic, and abroad. 
After some hours of conversation based mainly on departmental disputes, 
human relations and other more petty squabbles that will arise from 
time to time whenever large teams of people are forced to cooperate 
with each other, the CEO saw no further reason to detain the group any 
longer and advised them to get to bed early, as the next morning was 
sure to arrive sooner then expected for most of the group of young, 
sometimes serious revelers. “It wouldn't hurt you guys to slow down a 
little on the booze tonight,” advised their callous leader. “I like to 
have a good time as well as the next guy, but I don't want to see any 
stragglers tomorrow. We leave bright and early at six a.m. Do I make 
myself clear?” “Certainly, Mr. Kildare,” answered a very frustrated 
looking Iben. “But that's a bit of a conundrum isn't it sir?” “What? 
What are you talking about now Verkin?” “A conundrum sir, is a tough 
problem to solve.” “Yes, and...I still don't get it Iben. Does anybody 
here understand what the hell Verkin's talking about?” But before 
anyone else in the room could intervene, or explain what Iben may have 
meant, he decided to speak out for himself. “Well..., what I mmmean to 
sssay is,” stuttered Iben. “I need a drink!” he blurted out. “I need 
something to help me calm down. This has been a rough day. After all, 
Berger almost died today, right here, in front of us.” “That's true,” 
agreed John Dillinger. “I believe Iben has made a good point. It's not 
every day you watch someone fall to the floor and go into cardiac 
arrest. It sure didn't make our day any easier.” “All right, so what 
would you people have me do?” asked the executive officer. “Bring in 
dancing girls? How about a geisha to walk on your backs? Tennis 
anyone?” he added, searching the table, making eye contact with every 
man present in order to get his point across. “I swear,” he went on. 
“In my day, we didn't rely on alcohol and sex to relieve stress. We 
left home in the morning and came back in the evening like clockwork. 
Nothing got in my way, absolutely nothing. Tough minded people don't 
need booze.” “We understand sir.” “Then what's the problem?” “If you 
were to call it a problem sir,” answered Mr. Dillinger. “I'd be tempted 
to say that because everyone is different, we all handle our stress in 
different ways. Some people get violent and commit crimes; some people 
exercise their stress away; some scream and yell to vent their anger; 
some turn to religion; some beat their wives, and some sir, like Verkin 
here, have a few quiet drinks, get inebriated and fall asleep.” 
“Whatever,” replied the CEO. “I've had enough of arguing for one day. 
Just remember what I said about six a.m. For now, lets consider this 
meeting adjourned.” And with that, the conference room slowly emptied 
out, and each of the members of the board from SuperTeleComm retired to 
their respective rooms. 

Early the next morning, the small group of executives from SuperTeleComm
arrived back at Chicago's international airport, checked their bags and 
boarded SuperTeleComm's special company jet as planned. So far, the 
events of that morning were running like a fine, new, Swiss timepiece, 
but as the day was still quite young, there was plenty of time left in 
it for things to go wrong. With so many variables at work in so many 
ways, doing their best at times to lead any one of us off our intended 
course, any number of things can, and will go wrong. As the age -old 
rule of nature commonly known as Murphy's Law instructs us. Need we be 
reminded of it, especially when the things we think we've best planned 
out, never seem to go as they should? “Can I get you anything sir?” 
asked one of the execs of his boss. “This might be a long trip. The 
Captain tells me we might encounter some turbulence over Kentucky or 
Tennessee.” “Come to think of it Chuck, I could use a cup of coffee, 
extra cream. I'm having a tough time waking up today. Say..., Charles,” 
replied the CEO as the young man turned to leave. “I couldn't help 
wondering why you were so quiet at the meeting yesterday. You usually 
have plenty to say. What happened?” “Oh, I can't say exactly, but the 
reason might just be the concern I feel for some of the employees at 
LitTelComm. It's tough being unemployed. I myself can remember back 
when my wife was ill and I couldn't afford to buy the groceries we 
needed to get her on her feet again. Poor thing, I grieve for her 
still.” “You've got to put all that behind you now Dickens. We need you 
here at SuperTeleComm, and I dare say, I'm very pleased with your work. 
The future is here Charles, with SuperTeleComm. I don't want to sound 
cruel but I need you here now, focused and alert. Yesterday is behind 
us, and let me remind you that time waits for no man Charles, remember 
that.” “I will sir.” “Good then,” replied the executive officer. “And 
one other thing.” “What's that?” asked the brooding exec. “Extra cream 
Charles. I like my coffee with extra cream.” As poor, dejected Charles 
walked down the aisle of the jet on his way to the kitchen - doing his 
best to put behind him the tragic loss of his wife - who should strike 
up a conversation with the reticent CEO, but the bright and energetic, 
Mr. John Dillinger. “Magazine sir?” “What? Oh, yeah, sure. How about 
the Business Week you've got in your hand there. You can keep that 
movie star stuff, I don't read that crap.” “I didn't know you felt that 
strongly about Hollywood entertainers. Any reason in particular?” 
“Sure, I've got a reason. Damn good one too..., You think for one 
minute they care about who I'm married to, or who you're married to? 
You think they give a damn if my marriage goes sour or if my wife up 
and dies? Hell no. What's more is, they'll never, ever hear about it 
either. Let me tell you something else John,” continued the irritated 
executive officer. “I keep my private life to myself and I like it that 
way. You should too. People think I keep to myself too much, but for 
me, there's only one way to live, and as long as I go on like that, 
nobody's ever gonna get the opportunity to pick me apart under a 
microscope, farshtaist?” “Sure, I understand. Still, I can't help but 
wonder how your viewpoint developed so radically different from the way 
most Americans perceive things today.” “Maybe that's what made me boss 
John,” remarked the CEO, smiling as he spoke. “I don't see things the 
way everyone else around me does. I know that makes me seem different, 
but I've finally reached a position in my life where I can sit back and 
say, ‘I don't give a damn what people think.' You should try it, it 
seems to have worked okay for me.” “That's a thought sir.” “You know 
it,” answered the brash leader. “And while we're at it, there's 
something else I'd like to say...” “What's that sir?” “I never did, and 
never will get into adulation. It's just not my bag. There's just so 
much more to worry about then to go wondering who's dating who, or how 
much so and so's wedding cost. Get my drift?” “I do sir.” “Great, and 
now I'm about to read something of far greater importance then what 
goes on amongst the stars.” “What's that?” asked the bemused, Mr. 
Dillinger. “The crossword puzzle in the back of the magazine, what 
else?” 

No more then forty-five minutes of the Chicago to Atlanta flight had
gone by when the full size business jet began to bump its way through 
an anticipated storm about a hundred miles east of Nashville, 
Tennessee. So far unaffected, and still sipping his morning coffee 
given to him by Mr. Dickens, the chief executive officer slid open the 
cover of his airplane window, revealing the rain soaked outer glass of 
the weather-beaten, transparent panel. If this storm delays our flight, 
thought Bill Kildare, I'll lose hours out of my day. I wonder if the 
pilot has any news on our arrival time. I'll just give him a call on 
the intercom and find out. That outta set my mind at rest... “Hey Ron,” 
inquired the curious CEO. “It's me, Bill. How long you think before we 
get to Hartsfield-Jackson? I got so much to do today, you wouldn't 
believe it if I told you.” “Don't know exactly Bill. Now's a bad time 
to ask if you really want to know. I can't see a damn thing. I'm flying 
totally blind. In fact,” he paused, waiting for the turbulence they'd 
just encountered to pass over the still shaking jet. “In fact, I was 
even thinking of turning east to McGhee airport in Knoxville. It's 
still clear there, and they can land us no problem. Whaddaya say?” “I 
was afraid you were gonna say that Ronnie. I can't afford to lose the 
time. Just do your best to get us back to Atlanta wouldya? You get us 
back to Hartsfield airport and I'll throw in a bonus with your next 
check. How does that sound? I've just gotta get back to the office this 
morning.” “Okay Bill,” answered the pilot, showing concern in his 
voice. “You're the boss. Over and out.” I just don't have a choice, 
thought Bill Kildare to himself, as the big plane shifted from side to 
side and bucked upward, surging into the head-on, gale force wind. If 
he knew for one minute what my schedule was like, I'm sure he'd see 
things my way. Besides, I can't go cancelling appointments over a 
little rain. But just as the determined boss had finished his thought, 
a terrible whine emitted from the starboard side of the craft and an 
awful gush of blood and bird feathers suddenly appeared, splattered all 
over the exterior of the fuselage. “What was that!?” questioned the CEO 
over the intercom. “It sounded like hell and there's blood everywhere!” 
“Flock of birds, geese I think.” “At thirty thousand feet! Birds! How 
the hell did that happen?” “I dropped down to try to get us outta this 
storm Bill. Nothing I can do about it now. Starboard engine's out. 
Turbine blades must've been damaged by the geese, and wait...,” 
continued the noticeably shaken pilot, while listening to yet another 
ear piercing shriek of grinding metal and erratic, failing engine parts 
- this time coming from the port side wing. “I can't believe it 
Bill...Number two engine's not responding. I can't keep her in the air 
like this...we got no power at all. We can glide for just a few minutes 
Bill...long enough for you to get your chutes on, I hope. Hurry!” was 
the last word Bill Kildare heard his pilot speak, as he looked from his 
window at the carnage of feathers and blood spattered over the 
port-side of the plane, left behind by the thick flock of unfortunate 
birds they'd passed through. 

“Did you have a nice life that last time around Bill?” asked a familiar
sounding voice. “You weren't gone very long, that's for sure. What did 
you accomplish?” “Huh? Where am I? I had this dream I was flying, but 
all of a sudden, I couldn't stay in the air anymore, and...” “And you 
fell, didn't you. All the way to earth - about twenty thousand feet I'd 
say, wouldn't you?” “I guess so,” replied the shaken spirit of Mr. Bill 
Kildare - once the CEO, leader and head decision maker of the largest 
telecommunications company in the world... SuperTeleComm. “What exactly 
happened anyway? I can't remember.” “You were coming back from a 
business trip, and your jet ran into some rough weather. To complicate 
things more, you flew though a flock of geese.” “Oh shit,” exclaimed 
the ex-CEO. “Any survivors?” “No,” replied the ageless Caretaker of the 
spirit world. “None at all, that's the bad news. The good news is that 
they have the opportunity now to come back as whoever, or whatever they 
wish. Which reminds me Bill, I need to ask you what you want to do 
about your next life. Who would you like to go back as?” “To tell you 
the truth,” remarked Mr. Kildare. “I really don't have a preference 
right now. In fact, if it's all the same to you, I'd rather not go back 
at all just yet.” “That's fine Bill. Whatever you wish, but do you mind 
if I ask you why?” “No, I don't mind. I guess what it all boils down to 
is the great mystery of life. There isn't any, is there?” “Isn't any 
what?” asked the inquisitive voice. “I'm not sure I understand.” 
“Well...If there's one thing I've come to learn in all my years of 
living on earth, it's that there's no great plan to our lives. We just 
live and die, don't we. Like anything else that breaths air and walks 
the planet.” “I could've told you that several lifetimes ago Bill.” “I 
suppose, but I think I had to find out for myself. I used to believe my 
life was part of some grandiose scheme, too awesome for me to figure 
out or control.” “But now?” “Now I know - we just live out our lives, 
like goldfish or birds, we're just there.” “So now that you understand, 
wouldn't you like to go back and be a part of it all again?” “Nope,” 
replied Bill. “Don't think so. I may just retire here.” “Forever?” 
“Yep, that's right. Forever.” “Do you mind if I ask why?” “Well, for 
one thing, in all my living, I've found that the grass is never greener 
on the other side. It's always the same. In other words, no matter who 
I go back as, my life's always filled with a bunch of lousy problems. 
You name it...money problems, religious/political issues, conflict, 
argument, stress, natural catastrophe, a whole long list of things. 
Headaches I haven't even experienced yet, I'm sure. Besides, I never 
felt any personal fulfillment from any of the jobs I held. Even when I 
was CEO of SuperTeleComm, all I did was line my own pockets. I never 
did help anybody. I was too busy running the business and making money 
to even ask myself if I liked what I was doing.” “So that's it?” asked 
the Caretaker. “It's all over? Your quest for the perfect life has come 
to an end?” “I guess you could say that, yes.” “That's fine by me Bill, 
but don't you think you'll get tired of all the idle time you'll be 
spending? No goals to fulfill, no obstacles to overcome, nothing to 
achieve. I would think a spirit like you would go stir-crazy after 
awhile, don't you?” “Now that you mention it, I suppose there exists 
that possibility.” “Then consider this,” replied the Caretaker. “What 
would you think if I asked you to work for me?” “Doing what?” “Helping 
others, that's what.” “What kind of help can I give? I barely learned 
how to live life myself, let alone tell others what to do.” “That's not 
true Bill. You were just telling me a minute ago about what you've 
learned from your past. You're much more valuable then you realize. 
Come on,” continued the Caretaker. “I have something I want to show you 
that may seem familiar to you.” And in the time it takes to snap one's 
fingers together, the two spirits found themselves standing in the dim 
light of a boxing arena, watching stiffly, as a referee counted his way 
to ten over a young man who lay prone on the canvas, both arms arranged 
haphazardly like two pieces of spaghetti at his sides. “Look familiar?” 
asked the Caretaker. “Are you kidding? Sure, I remember. I went through 
that myself once, just a few lifetimes ago. How could I forget? Is he 
unconscious or what?” “He's beyond unconscious Bill. In fact, we'll be 
welcoming him to the spirit world any second now, that's why I brought 
you here. You have experience. Remember how you felt when Kelsey died?” 
“Yeah, I remember. I remember being flat on my back, listening to the 
ref count me out, and then...” “And then?” “Nothing for awhile. It was 
as if I fell asleep and started dreaming. Then I remember waking up and 
hearing your voice.” “But now,” began the Caretaker. “Now you can speak 
from experience Bill. I bet you can relate to this poor kid better then 
I can, and you know what else?” “What?” “The more you help people like 
this, the better you'll feel about yourself. This is your true vocation 
Bill. This is what you were meant to do all along. No more 
soul-searching for you Bill, you're home now. Your life is complete.” 


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