

### Facelift

By

JC Canon

SMASHWORDS EDITION

* * * * *

PUBLISHED BY:

LeisureDoc on Smashwords

Facelift

Copyright © 2013- - Ernie Olson

This is the first in a series of books featuring botany professor

Chesterfield Belton Oldenberger, Ph.D.

"CB," as his friends call him, is a wizard in the lab, a constant

annoyance to the administration, and terribly concerned about getting older.

It also turns out that he is pretty good at finding trouble.

Follow CB as he wrestles with getting older, stumbles into an

international spy ring, and ultimately, nearly gets the girl.

Thank you for downloading Facelift.

I had thought of adding a subtitle. Something like, "A Male Midlife Crisis Transformational Journey Thing," but thought better of it. However, if you are currently going through a mid-life crisis, have done so already, are likely to go through such a phase in the future, or for that matter if you know someone in the previous categories, then this is a must read. It will make you laugh. It will make you feel better.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

CHAPTER 1

I had an insight recently, but then I forgot what it was.

This led me to another insight: no matter the insight, if you don't remember it, it isn't.

My name is Chesterfield Belton Oldenberger. My 40s are passing quickly and age 50 looms on the horizon. I'm happily divorced, and I have a very comfortable job as botany professor. Yes, by all accounts, I have a good life and should be rather pleased with my status and success, but quite frankly, at this moment I am more than a little distressed. I just read a book by Erika Lopez, _Flaming Iguana's_ , and it pissed me off. It was too damn good, too honest, too much fun, and it was about a solo motorcycle ride across America. It was similar to the book I wanted to write years ago. In 1986 I rode a Yamaha 650 from San Diego to Chicago, from Chicago to Louisiana, headed west before cold weather and ended up in Sacramento. Erika rode solo from the East Coast to the West Coast, settled in San Francisco, and then wrote a remarkable book about the experience. I frequently talked about, thought about, and occasionally wrote about my motorcycle adventure, but I never got past Chapter Three. Time flew by more quickly than I write. The book was never finished.

Of course, trying to finish my Ph.D. in botanical science, and working in various jobs to make a living didn't allow much time for writing a story about my great road adventure. It was easy to argue against venturing into the literary world when faced with the tasks that daily life foists upon you, and, of course, staying abreast of my academic career. However, the story never dimmed in my mind, and now these many years later it is as fresh in my memory as though it were just yesterday. But, it wasn't just yesterday, and I'm no longer the young man who traveled coast to coast on the back of a Yamaha 650. I am now comfortably situated, I am a full professor, and my research has given me a certain measure of status and discretionary income, and, now for the first time in life, I have time to write. Nevertheless, the idea of revisiting those early memories and writing a novel about my motorcycle adventure is just as distant now as when pragmatic concerns made it easy for me to put off writing to a later time. Shed now the excuses of earlier times, I can see a more fundamental reason for my failure to have tried my hand at writing: I lack the self-confidence, the inhibition and fundamental irreverence that characterize the work of someone like Erika Lopez. The truth is, I am a botanist who would like to be a writer, but who is more fearful of writing than I am of teaching, researching, or riding a motorcycle coast to coast.

There was another book I wanted to write. It involved another adventure, this one shared with my friend Maryann. In some ways Maryann, reminds me of Erika Lopez. When Maryann was a young woman, she was creative, bright, and as gutsy as she was pretty. One hot and humid summer, Maryann and I set out from Chicago for Seattle. We hitchhiked westward, but on our return decided to hop freight trains. We'd seen a movie about Woody Gutherie and thought it would be cool to ride the rails and see America framed by a boxcar door. While riding the rails, Maryann wore overalls, hiking shoes and a baseball cap. We tried to pass her off as my little brother. That was like trying to disguise a Mercedes as a VW by draping a car cover over it. Nevertheless, the disguise usually worked until she had to go to the bathroom or sneak a shower in a roundhouse or someone got close enough to see her full lips, the curve of a hip, a stray lock of long blond hair, or her pale blue eyes. I was going to write about the great "train-hopping-adventure" as well, but didn't even come close to getting started. I was okay with that. In the back of my mind, there was a firm belief that there was still time, and that someday I would write about catching freight trains across America with a winsome girl named Maryann.

Maturity and marriage put my adventures on hold, but not my desire to tell the tales. In my mind, there was always time to write a book about a solo motorcycle ride across America or my great train adventure. Rarely a day would go by without my reflecting on the stories I would tell once I had time. There was always tomorrow, and I knew that someday I would find both the time and words to become a novelist. Someday...someday....

I was procrastinating quite nicely when along came Erika Lopez. _Flaming Iguanas_ was Tabasco sauce for the conscience, a literary meteorite blasting through a rock hard skull, exploding, illuminating my unconscious denial. Although _Flaming Iguanas_ was wonderfully entertaining, it also reminded me of how quickly time passes, and how easy it is to be lulled into a fog of denial. It gave rise to insight, a clear understanding of my reality. My life flowed like molasses on a winter's day. Erika was a tsunami of emotion, energy, creativity, and productivity. I was like the old codger sitting in a rocking chair carefully considering whether to sit still or rock. And, it pissed me off to realize that it had been so many years since I took that long ride, hopped those trains, and wrote those three chapters.

I saw Clint Eastwood in a trailer the other day. You know, a _preview_. (Why do they call them trailers? Shouldn't a "trailer" follow a movie, not precede it? I suppose you could say that the preview trails the main production—okay, I get it now.) Anyhow, the Clint Eastwood, in this movie was clearly not the real Clint Eastwood, not the _Dirty Harry_ Clint Eastwood, but a really old, really old person who vaguely resembled Clint Eastwood. This Clint Eastwood looked like a craggy cadaver. His face looked like an aerial view of Grand Canyon. That pissed me off too. It always makes me sad when I see actors age, and even sadder when they die. I think what disturbs me has more to do with my own mortality than sympathy for the demised celebrity. Nothing reminds me more poignantly of how quickly time passes than the death of a popular figure. I refuse to see Clint East Eastwood in whatever his new film is. I possess neither enough optimism nor denial to endure such a display of the aging process.

The light bulb that hangs over your head only gets turned on once in a while. It doesn't stay on very long either. Blink and you miss it. Get distracted and you forget it. Then Erika Lopez comes along, flips on a spotlight and there is no place to run or hide. The insight slaps you in the face, and for a few pathetic moments you see yourself in third-degree bright light and deep shadow. The inquisitor aims the bright light in your eyes and coldly asks you what you wanted to do with your life. You reply, "I wanted to be a writer." The heat from the lamp makes you perspire. The inquisitor asks what you did with your life. You reply, "I rode a motorcycle and I wrote three chapters of a book." You peer into the intense light and begin to make out the figure asking the questions, inflicting the pain. He has an uncanny resemblance to someone you know; you look more closely at the inquisitor and you see yourself.

Under the bright light of day, even molasses warms up and moves more quickly. Moved by the light of introspection, I warmed up and set out to write my road-novel. But, that was days ago, and I feel myself slowing down, my enthusiasm for writing a book waning.

There seems to always be a convenient excuse for not writing: I just don't have enough time, I'm not feeling very well today, I'm not in the mood, I don't feel inspired, I need a muse. And, then of course, there are always other things to do; things that have a certain outcome like shopping, going to the health club, and watching my favorite sitcom. Erika Lopez has a new book out, and the Book Emporium has a 30% clearance sale. If I hurry I can get a copy before the weekend, and maybe I will compromise and see that Clint Eastwood movie. Maybe I will write an article instead of a book.

Chapter 2

If I had more money, I'd have so many facelifts that

my nose would end up on the other side of my face.

The image of a frail Clint Eastwood still haunts me. It's not that I am a big fan of Clint Eastwood, but does he have to look so bad! Hasn't he heard about cosmetic surgery? Like my friend Kathy said, "He's got all the money in the world, he could get that fixed." I suppose there is something pure about not getting a facelift, or liposuction, or a tummy tuck, a nose or a boob job. And yet, when your skin takes on the texture of a shriveled prune, and the only fat found on your face is in the tip of your nose, maybe its time for a little cosmetic surgery.

Image is important, ask anyone in advertising. It certainly isn't limited to corporate America, everybody advertises in one way or another. We constantly advertise engage in self-promotion, we are walking billboards. What is the message? People are constantly seeking companionship, friendship, sexual relations, and status. Even people who appear to be slobs are busily communicating their message: "Single, WM nonconformist, looking for single white female who enjoys trailer living and pickups." Humans are constantly sending out these kinds of messages, demonstrating what psychologists call their "need for affiliation." And so Clint Eastwood comes along with his blotchy skin, balding scalp and craggy face, and you say, "Why doesn't he do something about that?" And Clint replies in a most eloquent nonverbal manner, "I don't give a lick what you think."

I've been thinking about cosmetic surgery. I'm tired of people saying I look tired. And, since I don't have the status of Clint Eastwood, I do care what others think. I want to look how I feel, and I certainly don't feel tired. Maybe the muscles in my face are tired, maybe my skin is tired, but the rest is just fine. I stay out of the sun, use lubricating ointments, and take my antioxidants. But, time and gravity make formidable opponents, and no matter how hard I work to defeat them, they are prevailing.

Basically, I like gravity--it keeps me from flying off the planet and exploding in the vacuum of space. However, when it comes to one's appearance, gravity is the enemy! It is an equal opportunity enemy. It affects us all, men and women both. Kathy tells me that women have it more difficult than men. Her argument goes something like this: Premise 1: Women have boobs and boobs show the adverse effect of gravity more than any other part of the body. Premise 2: Men don't have boobs. Conclusion: Gravity exacts a heavier toll on women than men. She's probably right.

I have a friend whose breasts were so tired that when she reclined they spread out like eggs in a frying pan. She practiced denial as long as possible, but eventually she decided to have them surgically energized. Knowing I was an artist, of sorts, she asked if I would help design her newer, perkier breasts. So, using modeling clay and the working end of a plumber's friend for a base, I fashioned a variety of breasts. Once pried from off the plumber's friend suction cup, they were sufficiently hollow to fit over the real breast, and sufficiently adhesive to stay in position while my friend studied them in the mirror from various angles. She eventually decided on a C-cup with a slight upward tilt. I went with her to her surgeon's office and she modeled the modeling clay breasts while the doctor and I discussed the aesthetic merits of the various designs. She underwent the procedure and when it was all done, she was ecstatic with the results. The odd thing is, after all of that, I never got to see the final products.

I've never met a woman who had breast augmentation surgery who wasn't happy with the results. I am certain there are cases where the surgeon screwed up and over-inflated, or misarranged nipples, or left noticeable scars. There are claims that silicon seepage has caused women immune system problems, but I personally haven't met a woman who wasn't happy with the results of the procedure. The same seems generally true about noses and facelifts. Then again, what I am attributing to satisfaction may just be the product of having spent a lot of money. I've often thought that these procedures cost so much, not because there is really any justification for such high fees, but rather when people spend a lot of money they are less likely to complain. It's that image _thing,_ nobody wants to look like a fool or a pauper.

So Kathy and I were talking about how wrinkled and worn Clint was looking. That was when Kathy said, "If I had enough money, I'd have so many facelifts my nose would end of on the wrong side of my head. If I had enough money I'd be more tucked and rolled than a 1965 Impala." In a way, I can understand that sentiment. There is something appealing about surgically changing the effects of a poor roll at the genetic craps table and simultaneously thumbing your new nose at Father Time. No one wants to get old, and no one wants to be less attractive than our national standard, which I think was defined by _Bay Watch_. So, it's really not hard to understand why so many people employ the services of a cosmetic surgeon. What I don't understand are those people that look at cosmetic surgery as an all you can eat buffet and just keep going back for seconds.

What is clear is that for some people plastic surgery must be addictive. First you get that blemish removed, then you have dermabrasion, then you get your nose straightened, then to balance the new nose you get a chin implant; and even though you know you should stop, you can't. You get a facelift, but your face is so tight your lips disappear. To give shape to your missing lips you get lip implants. You go on to liposuction, then breast augmentation, then you have fat sucked out of your butt and injected into your wrinkled forehead, and then, if you have one, you have your penis enlarged. You just can't help yourself.

I don't think I would ever become addicted to having my body surgically remodeled, but I am tired of being asked if I am tired, and tired of saying, "I'm not tired, but thanks for your untiring concern." Clint Eastwood showed me the future, and I didn't like what I saw. As Kathy puts it, "A stitch in time saves nine-years." And, so I am thinking about having a mini-facelift. In fact, if I actually do have this done, I intend to get the surgeon to agree to do the lift in such a conservative manner that no one will know that it was done. Just a little tuck here, a little lift there....after all it isn't very manly to stoop to cosmetic surgery. Just ask Clint Eastwood.

Chapter 3

If you have a facelift and no one notices, did you

waste your money?

I have a house that I rent to comedians, real comedians. Actually, I rent the house to Sacramento's premiere comedy club and they use my house as sort of a hotel for the comedians that they book to play the club. So, every week, three different comics reside in my rental property. Every time I visit the house, I meet new comedians, and without exception, I have found them to be sensitive, intelligent, and pleasant people. I respect comedians immensely, not just because they are nice people, but because of what they do for a living. Night after night, they stand in front of strangers and try to make them laugh. If they fail, they don't have to wait for an annual report, they know immediately. There is nothing louder to a comedian than the silence of a gag that doesn't work. It's much harder than, say, _writing_. A writer never really knows how a book is being received. Sales and reviews only tell part of the story—nothing like the immediate feedback a comic gets. The nearest thing a writer gets to immediate feedback is a rejection notice.

Comedians are always gifted observers, and rarely hesitate to share their opinions, so I asked the current tenants their opinions on facelifts for men. You would expect quips and jokes from comedians, but most of them are pretty serious off stage. After all, doctors don't do surgery away from the office, and scientists don't do research away from the lab. Why should comedians be funny off stage? Anyway, it seems that my panel was too young to have really given much thought to facelifts, let alone facelifts for men. About the only experience any of them had had with cosmetic surgery was second hand, and most of that dealt with breast augmentation. The most cogent statement that emerged from this conversation went something like this, "Men don't have facelifts, they have beards." This comment proved to be a humor stimulus, and was followed by, "Men don't have facelifts, they buy a convertible, cowboy boots and _Viagra_." Followed by, "Wear your bangs like Pete Rose, grow a beard and you will look like a 21 year old--a 21 year old Chewabaca." On the other hand, they all thought breast implants were wonderful. They all agreed that they would defend a woman's right to have breast implants no matter what the cost. I left no closer to knowing whether I was going to try vanity surgery or not. One thing was certain, I wouldn't be having a breast implant.

It was raining when I left the "Comic House" and headed back to my apartment. The roads were slick with rain and traffic was light. The reflection of city lights transformed Main Street into an art piece. The black of the roadway contrasted vividly with the reflected lights, long streams of neon bright paint spilled on the shiny black surface of the street. As I drove home, I remembered a similar night, years ago when I rode my motorcycle across America. I had just passed through Colorado Springs, a light rain had turned the interstate slick and I was tired. I was wearing my helmet, which was rare, and I had to keep wiping the rain splatters from off my visor. The headlights from oncoming traffic reflected from off the glistening black roadway, and from cars ahead of me was the red glow of brake lamps reflecting from the inky highway. My shoulders ached, and I could hardly keep my eyes open. Denver was only a few miles down the highway, but I was slowly wondering if I had the energy to make it. The rain increased, and as my bike sliced through the storm I could feel the sting of drops that missed my visor and struck my neck and chin. My jean jacket was soaked through, and I began to chill. The highway began to undulate and the reflected light began to squirm like giant snakes, the overpass that I was approaching was slowly sinking into the roadway, blocking my passage.

I shook my head violently, trying to awaken myself from the hallucinatory stupor into which I had slipped. I pulled over to the side of the road, took off my helmet and lifted my face to the rain. It played down upon my face, I opened my mouth and drank from the sky. The drops were hitting me with such force it felt as though they could puncture skin. I would have laughed at the idea of a facelift in those days. Men don't get facelifts, they lift their faces to the sky and drink in life.

As I continued my drive home, I fantasized about actually completing a book describing my motorcycle adventures. There were so many interesting things that had happened on that trip that I could easily fill hundreds of pages. The reverie of hallucinating just outside of Denver was certainly worth writing about. I had never experienced anything like it. Fatigue induced hallucinations can be horrifying. That was just one experience among many. I visualized myself returning to my apartment and pounding out on my computer a chapter about the Denver experience. I played with different opening sentences, "It was a cold, wet night on a mile-high freeway." "My body was trembling from the cold and exhaustion as I left Colorado Springs." Everything I came up with sounded trite. This wasn't going to be easy. As I got closer to my apartment, I felt my enthusiasm for writing diminishing. I am no Erika Lopez, and in truth it would be a major undertaking to put my adventures on paper. The reality of my ever becoming a novelist seemed even further away now that I no longer had a list of excuses for not taking pen in hand. I pulled into my parking space and looked out at the row of cars nestled in their stalls. They glistened in the rain. As I sat there I slipped off into another reverie--another idea for my book.

In the Midwest, it is not uncommon to see cars with pock-marks; marks not unlike the scars you see on someone who had bad acne as a kid. Hail damage. In Illinois I got caught in a hailstorm. I didn't have my helmet on that day, and there had been no rain. The sky wasn't particularly threatening. There were cumulous clouds, but there was also a lot of blue in the sky. I was driving the back roads, somewhere near Springfield, when the first stones started to fall. At first they weren't very large, pea size, but within seconds they increased to the size of golf balls, and they were smashing down all around me. I took a few good clunks on the head, before I found a county park with a covered picnic area where I joined a small congregation of park users who were also seeking shelter from the hail shower. I sustained a few bumps on my head, but intuitively new they would quickly subside without the aid of cosmetic surgery.

Nature puts on the greatest show on earth. All you have to do is visit Texas in the summer and watch the skies. My motorcycle journey took me through Texas, and it was in Texas I chased a tornado. I know that sounds crazy, but how often do you get to watch a tornado form. The sky was very much like the sky that dropped hail on me in Illinois. There were huge billowing clouds hanging low over the Texas plains, gray, swirling and threatening. Yet, there were huge windows in the cloud cover revealing a brilliant, cerulean blue sky. I was traveling east, and dead ahead of me was a mass of clouds that looked like a hundred huge balls were pushing down on the floor of the cloud cover. I had never seen such clouds before, and it wasn't hard to imagine a huge ball eventually falling through the clouds and onto the flat prairie over which I was traveling. I was transfixed by the magnitude and drama of it all. Eventually, one of the convex forms became conical and started to drop slowly to the earth. I pulled to the side of the road and watched the birth of a tornado. It was mesmerizing, beautiful, and terrible all in one.

As the tornado took shape it appeared to move away from me in an easterly direction. I pulled back on the road and raced toward it. It lengthened and took a snake like form curling down toward the ground and then retreating in a winding, twisting motion. This continued for what seemed like hours, but from the distance I traveled it couldn't have been more than a few minutes. It never did touch the ground, and by the time I rolled into Houston the sky was clear.

It was 1976, the Bicentennial Year, and I wanted to see America in the most personal way I could think of; I traveled by myself, and had more adventures in that one trip than I suppose many people have in a lifetime. There were times when I was scared, times when I was tired, times when I felt like I was flying, and times when I was awestruck by the beauty of the American landscape. The _me_ that soloed across America on a Yamaha 650 would probably laugh at the idea of vanity surgery. Men don't have facelifts, they have beards.

I guess, I there is part of me that tends to agree that facelifts aren't very manly, sort of the ultimate red convertible and cowboy boots. Throw in a gold chain, too. But what if the lift is so slight that no one would know? Would that count? Or what if I had a real manly facelift and let the scars show? Maybe I could convince the doc not to use an anesthetic--what could be more manly than a swig of booze and a pencil between the teeth? Gosh, maybe I could just do it myself. Now, that would make an interesting book!

Chapter 4

If you can turn back the sexual clock with Viagra, what's wrong with

turning back the calendar with a nip and tuck?

Now men can have raging erections for hours, all thanks to a whiff of Viagra from an inhaler. Think about it for a moment, doesn't it seem ironic that a person who looks like a cadaver can have the erectile capabilities of an 18 year-old. What's wrong with that picture? Stop, save yourself. Don't even think of that picture. But there is a point here: Freud was probably right: everything has something to do with sex. The car you drive, the clothes you wear, the places you go, the food you eat all have something to do with sex. Getting a facelift has something to do with sex--it's sort of a social Viagra.

I was standing in line at Starbucks, pondering whether I really wanted to undertake writing a novel, when a woman entered the shop. She stood momentarily in the doorway, the light from the street projecting her silhouette. As she came toward the line in which I was standing, I was startled by her beauty. She was exotic, elegant and sexy. Her features were Persian, dark eyes, raven hair, full-lips. We spoke for a few minutes, her accent was European, and her conversation sprinkled with laughter. I was attracted to her, but realistic enough to know that unless she suffered from some older-man-syndrome, the attraction would not be mutual. She invited herself to my table and a most pleasant dialogue ensued. She was indeed Persian and had been in the country for only 8 years. She had spent a lot of time in Europe and wanted to be a writer. We laughed and had wonderful time, and for awhile I forgot that I was old enough to be her father. I was feeling pretty good when I went to the restroom. I caught my reflection in the mirror, but it was stranger that looked back. It felt entirely wrong to see this middle aged person staring incredulously back at me. My God I was looking at Clint Eastwood. My natural high naturally fell, and I went back to the table subdued. God getting old sucks.

Some psychologists say the fundamental motivation of humanity is a common desire to be happy. Freud suggests that underlying our desire to be happy is the even more fundamental desire to get laid. Unfortunately, the period in our lives were we are best suited for getting laid doesn't last very long. We spend the first years of our life looking forward to young adulthood when our chances of sex are greatest, and then we spend the last years of our life trying to figure a way to get back to that brief period in time when we looked our best, were most virile, and certainly the sexiest. Eventually some of us give up and allow the aging process to have its way with us. That's probably what's happening to Clint.

Motorcycles have something to do with sex. When I bought my first motorcycle, a Honda 375 I was living in San Diego in a district known as Normal Heights. It didn't take me long to realize that there were better places in San Diego to live. My first clue came when I learned that the locals called the area "Abnormal Highs." So, I set out to find a new apartment--near the ocean.

I perused the paper and found an ad for a room in a house in Ocean Beach. It was another disgustingly beautiful day in San Diego when I pulled the motorcycle into the driveway of the house listed in the ad. I was little nervous when I knocked on the frame of the screen door. You never know what you are getting into when you knock on a stranger's door. I wasn't quite prepared for what happened next. The door popped open almost immediately and there standing behind the screen was this California dream woman--totally naked. "I heard your motorcycle, what I can do for you?" I stood there like the proverbial George W. Bush in the headlights wondering if she really meant what she had just said.

She smiled brightly, "Oh, I'm sorry, I forgot that I don't have any clothes on, just a minute."

"No, that's uh, uh perfectly all right, no need to put clothes on for me, nope I'm fine with that...probably easier if I just took my clothes off."

She slipped into a pair of cutoff jeans and a tank top, "Are you here about the ad in the paper?" Marketing, the old sex sells theory--this must be a ploy to encourage renters, this place probably costs a fortune--such were my thoughts.

"Yes, I am looking for a room."

"I'm sorry--the room's gone. Rented it two days ago. But, I'm available--for a ride on your bike."

Motorcycles are magnets to some women and she was one of them. So Miss Suzuki straddled my Honda, wrapped her arms around me and off we went to roam the seaside community of Ocean Beach. We eventually came to Sunset Beach, a place where she told me she often sunbathed in the buff. She was an organic girl and her fragrance was mostly lavender with a hint of garlic. Her hair was sun blond and her skin was sun bronzed. Across her cheeks she had a sprinkling of freckles. Her lips were full and naturally dark. What a woman! What a town!

I didn't ever rent the room, but I did get the girl, at least to some extent. There was the out-of-town doctor and the musician of course, but they were rarely around and so I became her local squeeze. It was the _70's_ after all and people were doing all kinds of social experiments. At night when I would stay at her house she would fill her room with candles and we would lie in bed watching the shadows dance on the ceiling. Making love to her was always a slow and artful experience, she orchestrated it that way. And, then there were the seemingly endless days and long motorcycle rides. I remember feeling strong, independent, and wholly unaware that my youth was slowly dying in that California sun. I too had sun blond hair and bronze skin, hardly a wrinkle, and my eyes were bright and blue. Not once did I ever imagine myself as anything but young. Elaine eventually left California for Aspen, Colorado where she became John Denver's personal massage therapist. I stayed in San Diego. A year later I made my motorcycle journey across America.

It's denial isn't it! You think back to those times when you were in the bloom of youth, and it is really annoying to realize that you just aren't as young and fit as you once were. Where you see it the clearest is in the mirror. You can't stand to accept the fact that you are getting older, that even with the best bike money can buy it's not likely that an Elaine Suzuki is going to straddle sun tanned legs around your machine, wrap her arms around your waist, and talk trash in your ear as you cruise the boulevard. So, you entertain the idea of a facelift, knowing that it won't take you back in time; that it won't really change anything, but at least in the morning when you look in the mirror you won't feel quite so far away from Ocean Beach.

During the formative years and youth, the brain is a very busy organ. It takes experiences and turns them into a network of nerves that are locked in place for the rest of one's life. As we get older, this process becomes less effective and so the ability to recall new experiences diminishes. The result of this decline in neural activity makes it easier for us to remember important experiences from our youth, than it is to remember why you are standing in Aisle 6 of the grocery store. This is one of nature's nasty tricks on us. It's not enough that we get old, wrinkled, worn and tired. We are constantly reflecting on how it was when we were fresh, energetic, and invincible. The comparison rarely yields a positive response. I suppose people eventually come to grips with the aging process, Clint for example. But, the transition, no make that _transformation_ , is a taxing process.

Don't get me wrong, I am grateful for the memories. During the '70s and '80s, for example, I spent a lot of time in Hawaii, and have treasured memories of one adventure after another. It was in Hawaii I met a Hawaiian singer who went by the name Penny Pinto. And, then the country and western singer Dawn Parker, and the actress Kimber Lee and...see what I mean about memories. It doesn't take but a heart beat to be sitting on the black sand beach on the Big Island with a beautiful free-spirited woman who made her living transporting Pakaloa to the mainland. In a blink of an eye I am on the nude beach with Nancy the United Airlines flight attendant who stole my heart and left me mesmerized by her flawless figure and effortless grace. The memories come flooding far too fast. They arrive as a stark contrast to my current, predictable life. What I wouldn't give to go back there. How many times have you heard that?

So it's not really a nip or a tuck that I want. It's my youth. I want the excitement and adventure that I had when I was younger. I want it back. I was just catching on to how to enjoy it when it packed its bags and moved to Melrose Place.

Chapter 5

Of course it's okay for men to have facelifts,

I am an equal opportunity lifter.

If you don't feel old, and you really don't think old, it just seems wrong to look old. Once I asked my father how old he felt, and he responded, "As long as I don't look in the mirror I feel like I'm in my twenties." He was 83 at the time. As long as your neurons are still kicking, and your body works reasonably well, what's wrong with conveying your vitality through a relatively youthful face? I asked Kathy to tell me, point blank, if in her heart of hearts she really believed it was okay for a man to have a facelift. She said, "CB, of course it's okay! I'm an equal opportunity lifter."

Still, I am troubled by the admission I'll be making if I get a facelift. There seems something wrong with not accepting getting old. There is a natural order to things, and that includes the gradual shutting down of the metabolic functions that allow your body to crank out replacement cells and thereby keep you growing and youthful. I was reminded of this fact when my friend Gail and I took a drive out to Sutter Buttes to see if we could find wintering Canadian Snow Geese. It was an absolutely glorious day. The sky was probably the color that God intended it to be. There wasn't even the slightest hint of pollution in the sky. It was the kind of sky dinosaurs saw every day--at least up until interstellar pollution turned their skies dark. At any rate, after several hours of exploring the towns of Yuba and Sutter we drove off in search of Snow Geese. We didn't find them at the Gray Lodge Wildlife Preserve or anywhere in the immediate vicinity. No problem, it had been a pretty fine day and it was time to return to Sacramento.

It was about 4:30 in the afternoon, traveling southbound on Highway 99 when Gail said, "What's that over there?" Off in the distance we could see what appeared to be numerous birds in the sky. As we got closer we could see that the birds were flying in formations, filling the sky with long v-shaped lines. We took a side road that took us to heart of the action. Overhead were thousands of Canadian snow geese, their white bodies silhouetted brilliantly against the crystal sky, their honking drowned out the sounds of the interstate just a mile away.

We got out of the car and stared in amazement at the incredible show that was occurring overhead. But there was more. In a nearby rice field, more birds began to rise from the water. Again, there were thousands of them, and as they rose the flock briefly took the form of a gigantic mushroom that continued to grow until it seemed to fill a good quarter of the sky. The setting sun, reflecting from off the white bodies of the birds, caused the rising flock to look like a benign explosion of golden rod confetti. It was incredible.

Gail commented, "Isn't it amazing how these birds know just where to go and what to do, and when to do it. The rhythms of nature are so beautiful."

"Yes, a time for every season unto heaven," I responded.

Nature can't be fooled. It knows, and one's body knows, when certain things are to occur: a time to develop disproportionately big feet, hair in strange places, breasts, time to reproduce, time to shut down different organ systems, time to get old, time to "lay this tired body down." There is a time to get old, and part of it includes creases and wrinkles and sagging skin. It's all in the DNA, and no surgeon can make a cut small enough or large enough to change that simple fact. I'm not really keen on this kind of getting old--I'd much prefer to be more like a light bulb, stay constant until the filament burns out in one glorious poof.

So you can't fool your own DNA, but if you get a facelift, and it's really good, maybe you can fool someone else's DNA. "My you are looking good, new haircut, working out?" And, maybe, since humans have an opposable thumb and have developed a rather large cerebral cortex, it's natural to use these adaptive mechanisms to do whatever it takes to hang on to youth as long as possible. It wouldn't be natural to do otherwise, would it?

Maybe I'll become an equal opportunity lifter....but then again maybe I will just manly it out.

CHAPTER 6

I can run faster with my dress up than you can with

your pants down.

I'm catching a cold. No. I have caught a cold, and now I am feeling the symptoms. I trace this back to the cinema. The movie was _Shakespeare in Love_. Now, if you haven't seen this movie, I highly recommend it. It is well written, nicely paced, and well acted. Unfortunately, the people sitting behind Kathy and me were obese, obnoxious, and ill. They both suffered from some sort of upper respiratory infection that presented itself with irritating frequency on the back of our heads in the form of a viral mist from rumbling coughs and sneezes. We would have, should have, moved to another seat, but the theater was nearly full and so we did our best to cope with an uncomfortable situation. We covered our faces with our coats, tried to avoid breathing when they were coughing, and finally in a last ditch attempt to stave off the viral bombardment, I placed my umbrella over my shoulder and opened it in response to a thundering cough. The offenders didn't say a word—a sure sign of guilt.

What's wrong with people! How can a person, in this case two, come to a theater full of people and cough, wheeze, and sneeze through the entire show. What's wrong with people! And, what about barking dogs! There is nothing more disruptive to one's sleep than a barking dog. You wake up in a rage and since you don't own a gun you search your house for _Halcion_ to stuff in a hot dog that you can fling over the fence. Of course, you end up doing nothing; rather you lie in bed with your ears twitching like a rabbit, and even if the dog quiets down you still don't get any rest because you lie there anxiously waiting for the next round of barking. And, naturally, while you are lying there, you wonder why the owners of the dog don't do anything. Eventually, you get around to mentioning to the owner that his/her dog's barking, which vaguely resembles the sound of Godzilla in heat, kept you awake. "Oh, that's strange I slept perfectly well, didn't hear a thing." Someone needs to do a scientific study to find out why dog owners can never hear there own dogs bark. It must have something to do with a part of the brain shutting down the minute you buy a dog. Or perhaps it speaks to an inescapable fact, most people are jerks!

So, at any rate, thanks to someone's discourteous behavior, I have a cold! When I have a cold, it is hard to remember what it is like to be well. Plus, since I remember in great detail virtually all the previous colds I have had, it is easy for me to convince myself that I am a chronic cold sufferer. (In actuality, I have a cold about every 12 months.)

Yes, I can remember colds with exquisite detail. Take for example the big cold of 1973. In 1973 I was teaching at a major midwest university. During the winter break, a group of us decided to drive a motor home to San Diego, purportedly to attend a conference. We decided to travel straight through, a journey of about 36 hours. I hadn't been on board for more than a few hours when one of our party started showing signs of a cold. The coughing and sneezing got worse, and soon one after another of the group started showing signs of a cold. I kept trying to isolate myself from the cold sufferers. I was determined not to be sick in San Diego. By the time we reached Nevada, almost everyone was sick--but me. I kept my head out the window so much I started to feel like the group's pet dog. When we arrived in San Diego I was the only one not showing symptoms of a cold. "Yay for my immune system!" I checked into my hotel, got comfortable and just as I was about to meet the group for dinner, I noticed a dry tickle in my throat and tightness in my chest. I spent the next two days in bed with a fever, coughing and aching. By this time most of the other members of our group were over the worst part of their colds and enjoying the beach! Fortunately, my cold abated quickly, and I joined my group.

When I sensed that I was recovering from the cold, I called a friend I once dated and asked if she would like to get together. She replied in the affirmative and volunteered to pick me up, and as an added bonus she invited me to stay at her place until I was to return back east. Now, let's put things in perspective, she was an actress who was cursed with a stunning resemblance to Marilyn Monroe. The only work she got seemed based on her similarity to a cinematic legend, otherwise she was a part-time student and model. She also still liked me, and that may have been because I never made reference to her resemblance to Marilyn Monroe, and I genuinely liked her, as they say, as a person. Since most my group was in Ocean Beach, and since she lived in Pacific Beach, she suggested she pick me up at the place where my group was staying.

What an amazing sense of superiority and well-being I had when she strode into the room. Mouths were agape, grown men were stuttering as they watched this goddess in the off-white blouse and dark brown Capri pants stride into the room and slide up next to me in a suggestive greeting. I could have fallen in love with that girl, but at the time I was operating on a simple axiological dictum, "The only obstacle between you and the next woman is the one you are with." After a few days of rapture, I left and returned to Illinois. She shortly left San Diego to join the Auroville commune in southern India.

I never saw her again. I doubt that I had anything to do with her decision to leave California for India, it was most likely a function of looking like a cinematic goddess, and neither wanting or being capable of meeting the stereotypes foisted upon her by an adulating and endless audience. But, that was then and this is now, and the cold I have now doesn't want to give up as easily as that time in San Diego. And, there is no golden haired beauty to tend to my weary bones and dripping nose.

I always seem to catch colds at the most inopportune time--like when you are about to go on your first date with an incredible woman that you have lusted after for months. And, what do you do, you pretend you don't have a cold, and you continue to pretend until only a fool would believe you are having an allergy attack. You take so many antihistamines that not only do your sinuses dry up but your eyes start to shrivel and roll around in their sockets. And, if she catches your cold, and you are lucky, she will start to show symptoms before she catches on that you gave it to her, and then you can relax and blame her for giving you a cold. Now, I'm not saying I have done that, but I have heard of people who have--Jerry Seinfeld for example.

It seems that no matter how hard you try to organize your life so that barking dogs or _rhino_ _viruses_ don't mess up your life, you just can't win. It's like Marie, the entertaining waitress at the Corner Stone said when talking about her encounter with an over aggressive suitor, "I can run faster with my skirt up than you can with your pants down." No matter how fast you run, you never can catch the life that you want. There will always be a barking dog or some nasty virus that catches you with your pants down.

And, so I have a cold, I Chesterfield Belton Oldenberger, a paragon of good health practices, have fallen victim to a virus, discourtesy of two discourteous theater-goers. Yes, I know: lots of fluids and bed rest. But would someone please do something about that dog! The good thing is that since I haven't had a date in months and have no immediate hope of ending this sexual drought, I don't have to wrestle with the moral dilemma of having to decide whether or not to try and conceal the miserable fact that I have a cold from some attractive woman. Maybe getting older has its virtues. I'd like to think that I am sufficiently mature to keep my cold to myself regardless of the circumstances. And, there is an upside: now that I have some free time, I suppose I could log some time on my novel!

Chapter 7

You know your are getting older when your tongue becomes your

primary erogenous zone, and Ding Dongs become your favorite partner.

I hate getting sick. I know--you too! What I hate most about it is that my house, which is never a model of neatness, becomes unbelievably messy. Clothes pile up, the bed covers end up on the floor, the vaporizer makes big bubbles of water form on the ceiling, and food and dishes accumulate on the kitchen counter, kitchen table and anywhere within 15 feet of the television. Vanity and appearance cease to be an issue. I don't shave, I wear the same T-shirt for days, my hair takes on the appearance of a frightened poodle, and my nose puffs up to add balance to the bags under my eyes. Plus, my appetite goes to overdrive! I eat every comfort food known to man and beast.

I can never remember whether it's "feed a fever and starve a cold," or "starve a fever and feed a cold." So, I eat continually when I'm sick. I feed a fever and I feed a cold. I have my own formulary: Ding Dongs for congestion, Oreos for coughs, Snickers for lethargy, and Mud Pies for fever. This naturally leads to a weight gain, feelings of self-disgust and eventually a promise to go to the health club. Of course, between over-eating, coughing and wheezing, all you really can do is check out some videos and lie around the house and find solace in more simple carbohydrates. The more depressed you get, the more you eat, and the more you eat the more depressed you get. By the time you get over your cold, you need a psychiatrist, a Richard Simmons support group, and a dozen chocolate chip cookies.

I think food is the answer to a lot of things. For example, it's easier to eat a cookie than make your bed, do your homework, pay your bills or do your income tax. You ask, "Chesterfield, did you do your incomes tax yet?" You answer, "Not yet, I'll get to it right after I eat this cookie."

Oddly, after eating a cookie you don't feel quite so stressed about doing your income tax, and so you put if off for "a little while." It has something to do with the narcotic effects of simple carbohydrates. There is definitely a chemical connection between sugar and a feeling of well-being. If sucrose were to be invented tomorrow the FDA would never approve it. You'd have to look for a seedy guy on a street corner to get your daily supply of simple carbohydrates. You could go to jail for possessing Sugar Frosted Flakes. Lucky Charms could get you 10 years. And, instead of a prostitute, Jimmy Swaggert would have been found in a shabby motel room in Memphis masturbating to a large bag of chocolate chip cookies.

I think it is an accepted fact that the most powerful simple carbohydrate food product known to science is the common chocolate chip cookie. Actually, anything containing chocolate is pretty good. I read once where there is a chemical compound in chocolate (phenyl ethylamine, I believe) that is exactly the same chemical that is produced by the brain when someone first gets sexually involved with another person. (That explains terms of endearment like "Sweetie," "Honey," and "Nibbles.") Now, that's a powerful chemical, no wonder chocolate is so popular. That probably explains why people who aren't in love eat so much chocolate. Or, maybe the reason people fall in love, in the first place, is that they aren't getting enough chocolate. This information probably shouldn't be shared with too many people, it would put dating services out of business, those wedding chapels in Reno would go bust, and people would stop having children. Chocolate would soon replace dating, sex, and reproduction. All of the industries related to sex would disappear. Imagine what this could do to the porn industry-- _Debbie Does Ding Dong_. The end of human civilization, as we know it, could end as a result of a huge global chocolate binge.

Farfetched, you say! I have it from a really good source that in China, where population control is really big, they pass out chocolate to people of reproductive age. Fudge has replaced condoms. In Japan the government is paying people to have babies, the birthrate has fallen that much. And don't you doubt for a minute that chocolate consumption hasn't reached an all time high in the Land of the Rising Sun. In Amsterdam, they combine Dutch Chocolate with marijuana. They call this confection "Space Cakes." Just imagine marijuana, without the munchies. Nobody dates in Holland anymore, and the only sex that goes on there is among tourists and professional prostitutes, who incidentally are prohibited from eating chocolate. I think these are demonstrated demographic facts.

There are some good arguments for replacing dating with eating. It's a lot cheaper to eat chocolate chip cookies than a person. Easier too! Kathy says cookies are superior to men because "the cookie doesn't care how big your boobs are." Yes, there are lots of reasons why eating is superior to dating: you never have to deal with rejection; you never have to pace the floor trying to get the courage to call the cookie; you don't have to worry about the cookie cheating on you; and of course, you're not limited to just one cookie. After you have enjoyed a chocolate chip cookie you don't have to wonder whether you should call the cookie in the morning. And, when was the last time you heard of a chocolate chip cookie getting pregnant!

Now, there are some people who don't agree with my adoration and high opinion of chocolate. Heath Norton disagrees with my cookie philosophy. "CB, you're hiding behind your cookie. Nothing beats human contact, you're just suffering from loneliness induced performance anxiety. You're in denial man. Nothing beats hiding the salami, loading the cucumber, lathering the jelly roll, to follow your food metaphor."

"No, I'm just being realistic." I calmly replied. "Love and sex always complicate life, cookies don't."

"What you need is a Gummy Bear laced with Viagra?" Heath started to chuckle, and then continued, "What do you call a Viagra Gummy Bear?"

Without waiting for Heath's answer, I concluded, "A hard candy."

"See, your using humor do avoid the issue. You haven't had a date in years, and you are just scared."

"No, I'm not."

"Yes you are."

"No, I'm not."

"Yes you are!" Heath templed his fingers and looked menacingly at me, "Okay, Chesterfield, prove it, get a date."

I didn't blink, I looked right in his eyes and said, "I will, but first I have to get over this cold and then write my novel. Want a cookie?"

"Got milk?"

Chapter 8

When memories become your life, you don't have one.

Well, it has been weeks now since Heath challenged me to get a date. My health is back to normal, I have made a few furtive attempts at writing, and, no, I haven't had a single date. Heath on the other hand, to hear him tell it, has embarked on a whirlwind of activity that will either kill him or get him married. Of course, that would essentially be the same thing, so in any event, it appears that I am winning. Maybe getting old isn't so bad after all.

No really, I am seeing the advantages. For example, just a few days ago I saw a young male runner intimidated by mating sounds being shrieked by women in a passing car. A carload of nubile women can be terrifyingly aggressive when they see a tight butt and broad shoulders wearing nothing but running shorts and perspiration. Imagine how it is for a young male runner now days: alone, running along an urban road, with carloads of women yelling about his butt! However, fortunately, as one gets older, one's butt gets smaller and the attention it gets from women diminishes. If my butt gets any smaller, I will start slipping off chairs and my pants will slip down so far I will look like I'm trying to impersonate a teenager. It must be awful to have women undress you with their eyes. So demeaning! Of course, that never happens to me. On the contrary, women look at me and mentally cover me (no doubt with an imaginary body bag). So, there you have it, a definite advantage to getting older.

I know older people tend to reminisce more and do less. Old people seem to live in their memories, because for many I suppose that's all they feel they have left. For many older people, the options for play and activity are limited by ailments and illness. As Kathy says, "It's tough dancing when your walker keeps bumping into your partner." Too many older people lose sight of their present, get lost in the past, and stop experiencing the joys of daily discovery. As I think about approaching sixty, I am beginning to understand what Betsy Edwards meant when she said, "It isn't so much the hardening of the arteries that kills you, but rather hardening of the attitudes."

My friend Fred says I shouldn't dwell on getting older. He says it alters my state of mind, which he claims is really quite youthful. So, enough of this kind of thinking. "You are only as old as you talk," says Fred. Plus, getting older, according to Fred, just allows you to become the younger woman's older man fantasy. Fred is an incredible optimist. With this refreshing perspective, I picked up the phone and called Heath.

"How is everything, young man?

"Hey, long time no hear, thought you had died or something," Heath chuckled into the phone.

"I thought I'd check on our wager and see how you were doing in the woman department?"

"You know I've been going out a lot, but no one special. No one until just recently that is!" He beamed into the phone. "I've been dating, met a very nice woman."

"That's wonderful," I lied.

"And you?"

"Oh me, things are good, I met a beautiful woman who just couldn't keep her hands off me."

"Your massage therapist?"

"Oh yeah, I used that line on you before, didn't I?"

"So, CB, I take it you aren't doing too well in the love and romance department," he said with a hint of a smile.

"On the contrary, women love the older man. Didn't you see the movie _Entrapment_? I am just great; I am in so much demand that I alone have depleted the nation's Viagra inventory. Thanks to me, Bob Dole can't even get any. So tell me about this woman."

"Well, her name is Debbie. She works for a title company. She is 23, blonde, blue-eyed, about 5' 4" and 120 pounds. She is athletic, a rock-climber, loves dancing, has two kids, loves cooking, really likes football, loves all sports, and hopes to go back to school in the fall to become a dental hygienist, she...."

"Whoa! Whoa!" I interjected. "Did I hear you mention kids, she has two kids?"

"Yeah, but they are small, almost invisible."

"Married, divorced, husband in prison?"

"Uh, well, all three. She was married, is now divorced, and the father of the last baby is in Folsom Prison."

"Throw in a dog, a pickup truck, and some yellow ribbons and you have a country song."

Perspective--that is the fundamental difference between the young and the mature. As an older man, I can see beyond the succulent breasts, sultry lips and sensuous curves. I see kids with runny noses, angry jealous fathers, laundry, diapers, road trips filled with perspiration and exasperation, and a life characterized by bills, bills, and more bills.

"How serious is this young Heath?" I said in a tone that somehow reminded me of the movie _Brave Hear_ t.

"We get along well."

"I don't believe that was the question."

"Okay, we are kind of serious."

"Sex, have you had sex? No, let me be more precise, have you had sexual intercourse?"

"Absolutely."

"Protection?"

"No, we just, you know once we were alone, you know...after all she's just a woman and I am just a man and it just happened. We didn't have time to put on a condom."

I banged my head against the phone and moaned loudly, "Heath, Heath, Heath, for someone so bright you certainly have a stupid side. The reason we have the big head is to control the little head, it's not supposed to be the other way around." I regained some composure and asked, "When did this deflowering occur?"

"Well, the first time was last week and since then we have been together almost every day. She's incredible--we even did it in the restroom during the lunch break at her office."

"I don't suppose you used protection any of those times, but then why would you since I am sure she's on the pill."

There was a pause and a hint of irritation in his voice, "Of course, she's on the pill. Neither one of us want her to get pregnant."

"And, disease isn't a possibility?"

"She's clean."

"You never know, today, you can't be too careful. Take _candida_ for example, it can...."

"You sound like my mother...you worry too much. Nothing's going to happen...trust me."

The phone beeped indicating that I had another call, "Hold on a minute, got another call."

It was my travel agent, and since I wasn't really enjoying my chat with Heath, I used the interruption as an excuse for saying goodbye. Talking to Heath had been like talking to myself when I was about his age...an exhausting exercise.

The agent informed me that my tickets to Vienna could be picked up at anytime. Yes, I was going to Vienna. For the price of a facelift, I was going to Europe. I'll be damned if I am going to sit around and let the world pass me by. I refuse to become one of those people who constantly hearken back to their past and ultimately get lost in it. I intend to stay abreast of technology and someday I will even master programming my VCR (of course they are self-programming now). It was my friend Kathy who said, "When memories become more important than your present, it means you have stopped living." I don't want that to happen to me, but then again in reflecting on my conversation with Heath, it was easy to see which one of us was more alive.

Throw caution to the wind; jump face first into the hurricane. Yep, that will be me from this day forward. No more daydreaming about writing a novel. I'm going to live a novel! I'm traveling coach, and I have asked for a hotel without a view. And, get this, I am going to take the bus to the hotel--forget the shuttle or a taxi. Red will be my color and my password will be "bold."

I'm ready to take some chances. I am going to travel light, and I will throw caution aside when it comes to romance. I will have the moves of Don Juan and the confidence of Rush Limbaugh. I will be bold instead of old, daring instead of boring, and I won't be taking any condoms on this trip! So there Heath, I can be just as foolish as you can--even more so! After all, there is no fool like an old fool!

CHAPTER 9

Be careful of what you wish for, it might just come true.

I hadn't slept in 24 hours when I boarded my Delta Airlines flight to Austria. It was all part of my grand scheme to regulate my biorhythms. Making biorhythm adjustments seem harder each year and overcoming jet lag an increasingly difficult proposition. So, for this trip I stayed totally and completely awake for 24 hours prior to my departure. I further planned to stay awake the entire flight. With layovers, that would require about 18 more hours of awake-time. Coffee and walking the aisles as well as conversation with fellow travelers was the plan. Then, once off the plane, all I had to do was stay awake for another 12 hours and I would be on schedule. And, of course, keeping in mind my wager with Heath, I was secretly hoping to meet an available woman. Maybe, (I barely dared to think it) I might be so lucky as to join the Mile High Club. The incongruity of that last thought caused me to laugh out loud.

I had requested an aisle seat in the rear of the plane. I'm a superstitious flyer, and ever since someone told me that your chances of surviving an accident were far better if you sat in the rear of the plane, I have taken a seat in the back. As for the aisle seat, I like to get up and move around. Plus in the event of an accident, sitting on the aisle definitely makes egress easier.

The plane appeared nearly full. A few empty seats were sprinkled about the plane, including one next to me. The flow of passengers had slowed to a trickle and I was beginning to think that I would make this flight without a seatmate. The elbow-room would be appreciated. Then I saw her.

She was walking down the aisle like an Asian lioness. Her black mane fell around her naked shoulders like night on a sunset. Her eyes sparkled with confidence and mischief. Her halter-top strained against round breasts and her black Capri pants hugged long golden legs. She came to the last row of seats, looked through me to the vacant seat to my right, and slipped past me. Her legs bumped into mine, and as she slid by I caught the scent of her perfume. Of all the planes in God's blue sky, why did she have to choose this one. Of all the seats into which she could slip, why next to me?

I had climbed mountains with less temerity than I was feeling at that moment, I had faced death in a dozen different ways, but there is something more unsettling about perfection than danger; something that no amount of education, military training, or experience can prepare one for. I realized that the source of my uneasiness was the very thing that was driving me to Europe, my own inability to face getting older. It was clear that I found this woman incredibly attractive, but it was also clear to me that she was completely inaccessible. I can still climb mountains, ride motorcycles, and carve out paths in jungles, but to have a relationship with the lioness next to me was out of the question. She would find me no more attractive than I would. As Woody Allen is reported to have said, "I would never go out with a woman who would go out with someone like me." The presence of this woman had forced me to accept the reality that society had shaped for me, it had left me feeling old and impotent.

She stared straight ahead, leaned back and took a deep breath. She sighed as she kicked off her bulky platform shoes. Her arm brushed mine, and in resignation I lowered my eyes and looked at the floor. She must have sensed my discomfort for she turned to me and said, "They nevah do make these little ahmrests wide 'nuff, do they." Her voice was sultry, sheer music, lavender and honey in a Texas drawl. "But, I am cehtain we kin shyeh..."

"Oh, no problem here, plenty of room."

I turned in my seat and looked directly at her. She was more beautiful than I had originally thought. I wondered what she thought about the face she was looking at. The thought caused me to flash on good ol' Clint, and I started to smile. She smiled right back. "Ahm Lisa Marie Chin," she said extending her hand.

Her fingers were long and slender, and her nails were manicured and the color of her polish reflected the shade of her lips.

"You have a southern accent, I mumbled. I 'm sorry, I just wasn't expecting a southern accent."

"Not many people do. Ahm Chinese, but ah wuz raised in Austin, Texas. Ah even speak Mandarin with an accent."

"Nice to meet you, I'm Chesterfield Belton Olden--skip it, just call me CB," I stammered. I never did like my name, and right then I even liked it less.

I knew how this flight would go. We would chat for awhile. Lisa Marie would eventually tell me about her boyfriend, ask for advice from a more mature perspective, and then go to sleep. I would drink coffee, walk around the plane and generally try to stay awake without disturbing my seatmate's youthful slumber. Yep, that's how it would be. But, that's not how it was.

For the next 45 minutes Lisa slept and I wrote in my diary. For the following three-hours and 30 minutes I slept--so much for the stimulating effects of coffee. When I finally regained some degree of alertness, we were flying somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean. I calculated we had passed the "point of no return." Lisa Marie had curled up with a blanket and had covered her eyes with an eyeshade. There would be no conversation with her. I slipped out of my seat and went for a walk. I stretched as I walked to the galley in the midsection of the plane. I'd hang out there for awhile, chat up a flight attendant or fellow traveler, and generally make an effort to stay awake.

I wasn't the only one walking. It seemed there were several of us of like mind. Robert was Austrian and going home. He, like me, was trying to stay awake. Bernard, a retired electrical engineer also had a similar plan. John, on the other hand, was actually too anxious to sleep. He was going to meet a woman he had contacted over the Internet. John was easy to talk too. At 45 years of age he was feeling an urgency to meet the "right woman." He hadn't found her in Las Vegas, where he worked as a pit boss at a casino, and so now he was headed for Russia where he hoped to find true love. "How will you know if she's the one?" I asked.

"I have a 1975 Corvette convertible. When I first saw that car, I knew that it was the car for me. I love that car. I still have it and will have it until it falls apart. It will be that way with her. I will know within the first minute if she's the one."

He sounded like Heath. They are everywhere. I gave John my business card and asked him to send me an email when he got back and let me know how things had gone in Russia. As I turned to the aisle, I wondered if John were being set up. Would he find a beautiful woman or the Russian Mafia? It was an unsettling thought.

I wandered back to my seat and pulled out my sketchpad. I had learned from years of traveling not to pay too much attention to the time. Nevertheless, I found myself gawking at my watch and doing the time difference calculations. We had 5 hours yet to go. It's ironic that time goes more slowly on a jet airplane traveling in excess of 500 miles an hour than anywhere else in the world. I got up and headed toward the front of the plane. Just as I was about to enter the galley and cross to the opposite aisle, a petite flight attendant grabbed me by the arm, and asked if I could lend a hand with a passenger who needed help going to the restroom.

"Sure, glad to help," I responded.

I walked with her to a seat not too far from my own and introduced myself to Steve Kramer, a barrister from London. Steve had gone to San Francisco for elective surgery. He said, he was feeling dizzy, had a hard time walking, and assumed that it was somehow associated with the surgical procedure. I helped him to the restroom, waited for him to finish and then helped him back to his seat.

As he sunk into his chair, Steve looked at me and said, "Thanks man, I feel like a bloody two-year old having his daddy take him to the loo. Sorry, I had to put you through that, but thank you again. Cheers, mate."

"No problem, if you need anything else, give a shout, I'm about three-rows behind you." I returned to my seat.

The lioness peered up from under her blanket, "Was there somethun wrong with that guy, he seemed to have a hard time walkin'."

"Yeah, he said he was dizzy and had trouble with his balance."

"Gosh, that's too bad. Is it serious?"

"Beat's me."

Only about 15 minutes had passed before Steve quietly called for me again. Now he was having acute abdominal pains and needed to go to the restroom again. As he tried to stand, he crumbled in my arms, "I don't know what's wrong, my legs don't want to work."

I called for the flight attendant and quietly told her to find a physician. Certainly out of 400 people there would be at least one doctor, probably more. She came back a few minutes later, "I can't find a single medical professional on the whole plane. Do you think it's serious?"

I looked at Steve, he was fumbling to hold on to the book he had been reading. His eyes were wide with fright and his voice quivered. He spoke quietly, "My bloody hands are going numb, what's happening to me?"

"I don't know. Hang on while we get you some help."

I turned away from Steve and spoke quietly to the flight attendant, "Yes, it could be serious. I think you should inform the pilot that he may have a very sick passenger on board."

"Okay, I'll be right back." She turned and headed toward the flight deck.

I turned my attention back to the ailing passenger, "Tell me Steve have you eaten anything unusual, or have you taken any medication, or drunk any alcohol?" I was stretching here, desperately trying to make sense of what was happening.

"Well, I ate dinner at some friends in San Francisco before leaving for the plane."

"What did you have?"

"They made me what they called a British meal. Mutton, Jacket Potatoes, canned beans, salt bread...that sort of thing."

In my youth I had planned on being a physician, went through a pre-med program and even worked in a hospital. It turned out I didn't have the right temperament for medicine, but I got along great with plants, and so I went on to get a Ph.D. in botany. That's how I ended up teaching at a college. My research had focused on naturally occurring biological toxins. Whereas many of my colleagues were working under hefty grants from the U.S. Department of Defense, I worked under a modest grant from Green Peace. My colleagues were creating weapons, I worked on finding antidotes to naturally occurring poisons. One of the natural toxins with which I had some experience was botulism, a nasty little organism often found in improperly processed home canning.

"Were the beans home-canned?"

"Yes, Martha, my friend, was very proud of them."

I was kneeling in the aisle, my hand on his knee. "Is your vision okay?"

"I am having a hard time seeing--everything is doubled." His book fell to the floor. He tried to reach for it, but the paralysis had begun to affect his arms. Tears welled up in his eyes. "What's happening to me?"

I remember my first exposure to botulism. It came in the form of a lecture in an undergraduate microbiology class. It had such a profound impact on me that I stopped eating canned foods. Botulism affects vision, creates gastrointestinal pain, and causes paralysis. Death results when the paralysis extends to the diaphragm and the victim stops breathing. It is a hideous death, and it was happening right in front of me.

The flight attendant had returned and was standing behind me. I stood and turned to her. "I'm not a physician, but I think he is suffering from botulism. He needs immediate medical care--this is very serious." She rushed back to the fight deck. I picked up Steve's book.

"Let's see where you left off...." I sat there in the aisle and began reading aloud from a James Lee Burke novel. Steve's condition steadily worsened. The flight attendant had told me that it would be an hour before we could land at Heathrow. And, so I read and reassured and read again. It was going to be a long hour, a very long hour. The lioness came forward and gently asked if she could help.

"Hold his hand," I quietly replied.

It was strange tableau, a quiet little drama at 30,000 feet. The beautiful Asian Texan held the dying man's hand and stroked his brow, I read to him, while the passengers in the rear of the plane looked on with detached concern.

We were met in Heathrow by paramedics who whisked Steve from off the plane. He was still breathing on his own and although his speech was slurred, he could still communicate. As he was carried out, I stuffed my business card in his jacket, and said, "Let me know how you're doing." He mumbled a promise to contact me. He held on to Lisa's hand until the last possible second. The paramedics expertly moved him into the jetway and he was gone.

The plane was deathly quiet. I realized I was perspiring and my hands started to quiver. I returned to my seat. I took a deep breath, lifted my head back against the headrest and closed my eyes. Life is so fragile, all it takes is a single drop of _clostridium botulinum_ contaminated food and it all comes tumbling down. You can't take anything for granted, and life perhaps the least. Here I had been whining about getting old, a luxury my new friend Steve might not live to enjoy.

I felt a hand on my arm, "Ah you okay?"

I opened my eyes and looked at Lisa Marie Chin, "Ya, I'm okay."

"That was very kind of you to help him."

"It was kind of you to help, he needed the kind of reassurance your touch provided."

I looked at her closely. She really was a beautiful woman, and not just on the outside. She also had a depth to her, a spiritual quality that made her even more attractive than before. Steve's struggle to survive reminded me that life is too short to worry about the consequences of simple acts--such as asking someone out. We get all caught up in social mores, expectations, and contrived fears. All of which, in comparison to being poisoned by botulism, are relatively unimportant. To hell with the cultural and age differences, I wasn't asking to marry her, just spend a little time with her. I liked this woman-- there was something about her that called to me. Maybe we could be friends. In another hour we would land in Vienna and I might never see her again. It was now or never. Don Imus looked years older than me and as I recalled he had a wife roughly 100 years younger than him. What the hell....

"Lisa, I don't mean to sound presumptuous, but do you suppose when we get to Vienna, you might have time for dinner with a new old friend?"

Her response came without hesitation, "Ah was about to ask you the same thing."

I closed my eyes and leaned into my seat. Just before I dozed off, I wondered if I had brought Heath's phone number.

Chapter 10

Cosmetic Surgery Can't Hold a Candle to Fun

"So, tell me why ya wanna have a face-lift. Ya know, I neveh would have thought you were over 40."

We met for dinner, knowing full well that both of us would be jet-lagging. We vowed to stay awake until midnight. Dinner had been going well until I casually joked about a face-lift. Why did I have to open this door? Freudians would argue that I was seeking approval.

"Thanks, I don't feel my age either. I guess that's why I've taken an interest in cosmetic surgery. I want to look a young as I feel."

"I thought you were in your late thirties. Really!"

"You don't see me in the morning. Anyway, I have given a lot of thought to cosmetic surgery. I know how they are done, how long recovery is and how much they cost."

"How much?"

"A typical face-lift for a man will cost about $4,991. Pectoral implants run about $5,500, eyelid surgery will cost about $2,942, scalp reduction about $2,776. Calf implants costs about $4,750, tummy tucks go for about $4,095. "

She smiled and pushed her hair away from her cheeks. "This lil' trip must be settin' you back about a facelift.

"Point taken, but a lot of people think it's worth it. People who undertake cosmetic surgery generally report satisfaction with their decision; however there is always a downside. For example, it's conceivable that two very ugly people could beautify themselves through cosmetic surgery, meet and completely fool one-another into thinking the partner is naturally beautiful. Later they have ugly children."

She laughed, "Bummer."

Once I start on a topic, I can't stop. It's an occupational hazard...after all lecturing is my profession. This was becoming a lecture and she didn't seem to mind.

"There is another downside, bad surgeons. Not everyone who calls himself a cosmetic surgeon is fully qualified to do cosmetic work. Anyone with an MD can call himself a cosmetic surgeon. Even surgeons who are certified by the American Board of Plastic Surgery can make mistakes. And, when a mistake is made, there is never a guarantee that it can be repaired. For example, cases where the patient dies."

I could tell she was staring at the wrinkles around my eyes. God, with so many things to talk about I had to bring up the age-thing. Keep talking, shift to another topic. I babbled on....

"Another downside is that it hurts. Laser re-surfacing works by vaporizing the skin. Liposuction involves sticking a vacuum cleaner under the skin and rapidly sweeping it forward and back. Body sculpting involves inserting silicone forms under the skin or muscles. Facelifts involve cutting away excess skin and closing the gap with stitches. A nose job generally involves breaking the bridge of the nose. Recovery often takes months."

She smiled coyly, "Ah know a little 'bout this...you might say, ahm not all that ah appeah. No, it's moh like, all that appeahs isn't me."

"You telling me you had plastic surgery."

"Yep, in two places."

"Those aren't real?" I said nodding toward her grapefruit shaped breasts.

"Real me and real silicon. Graduation present from mah parents."

I leaned back in my chair and stared unabashedly at her breasts. "Now, that is an unusual college graduation present."

"High school."

"Oh...you started early. By the time you get my age you will look your age."

She started to smile, then chuckle and then we both started to laugh.

It was then that I gave her my little surprise. While working my through college, I had tried lots of things to make money without really working. My most successful venture had been doing caricatures at parties and malls. It was a gift from the great comic in the sky. Art had come so easy to me that I never really put much value in it. It was a gift with no strings attached, and one I used more to entertain myself and meet women than anything else. Yet, during my college years it had acquired a monetary value, and I used it whenever I needed tuition or bread. Now as an older man, I used this skill primarily for entertainment. With Lisa Marie it had a different function. An older man has to show off in ways different from the young and virile. And, so when I first got to my hotel, I had done a caricature of her. It was rather good, so I thought. I portrayed her in a cowboy hat and cowboy boots with salaciously long heels.

I handed her the cartoon concealed in the manila envelope that I had hijacked from the front desk of the hotel. "Here's a little something for you. Don't open it until you are alone. I want it to be a surprise." I figured that if she liked it, she'd feel obligated to call me, maybe see me again. It was a gift, but it also a kind of social insurance. With a curious smile, she accepted my gift and slipped it into her bag.

This was Vienna, and the waltz was still popular. We'd been listening to a small ensemble play waltzes throughout the evening and watching different couples perform their version of the waltz. She had jokingly remarked that the waltz was to the Viennese what the two-step was to Texans. It was then that I learned she loved to dance. And, it was also then that I promised to dance with her before the evening was over.

I love to dance, but the necessity of having a partner keeps my dancing to a minimum, but no need to mention that. So, in spite of the jet lag and flyers fatigue, we decided it was time to dance. As I took her hand and worked our way toward the dance floor, I leaned into her ear and said, "One of the advantages of being my age, I know how to do all of the old dances that are becoming popular again."

She smiled and pulled me onto the floor, "Ahm counting on it."

She moved smoothly, she had natural rhythm and a natural sensuousness that made her a natural on the dance floor. We danced until our tired bodies demanded rest. We reluctantly left the restaurant and walked out into the cool drizzle of a Vienna summer. I hailed a cab, and dropped her off at her hotel. She gave me a hug and just before walking away, slipped a little pin, a dancing Armadillo with a cowboy hat, in my lapel. "Here's a lil' somethun to remember our evening by. It's a good luck charm, wear it while yer in Vienna—for me." With that she dashed into her hotel. I was remarkably happy, but exhausted. My ears were slightly ringing from the music, and my knees and bad ankle were aching, but that was okay, since I was walking on air. I returned to my own hotel, collapsed and slept until my body thought it was morning. I had slept a total of 2 hours. Yes, it was morning—in Sacramento, but not in Vienna. My jet-lagging body hadn't caught on.

Chapter 11

A vacation is an experience that takes a person who is usually

Just merely tired and exhausts him.

Lisa was employed by a private foundation that served the needs of children in third world countries. Vienna is the European headquarters for the UN, and she was in Vienna for a meeting focusing on the needs of children left orphaned by the Balkan wars. At least, that is what she told me. She would be in Vienna for a week, and we promised to get together at least once again before she had to leave for New York.

My trip wasn't entirely a vacation. I had chosen Vienna because it was the site for an annual conference that I had an interest in attending. So, in addition to adventure, I would do a little work, network some, and have a social setting in which to meet other people. Plus, there was always a tax advantage in combining work and pleasure.

I had a preconceived image of Vienna when I arrived. I fully expected to stay in a hotel that looked like Hapsburg palace located somewhere near the heart of the city. I expected to be able to walk out of my hotel to streets filled with tall Austrian women in platform shoes and old women in furs. I expected to see high baroque churches in every neighborhood and a never ending parade of little shops and stalls. I expected to see white horses prancing along the main thoroughfare while people danced to the music of polka bands. My hotel was convenient to nothing like that. The conference hotel was a pretty decent, but it wasn't convenient to the city center or the sights most people seek when they visit Vienna. What it was convenient to was a topography of wheat fields, a huge health and fitness complex and a massive park. When I looked from out my hotel window, as far as the eye could see, all I saw were wheat fields--miles and miles of wheat fields. I wasn't in Vienna...I was in Kansas.

Trying to stay awake during the first few days of any European vacation is essential if you are going to get your circadian rhythms in sync with the local clock. This means drinking lots of coffee and taking long walks. You have to keep telling yourself to keep moving, to keep your eyes open. You have to keep reminding yourself that if you stop moving you will freeze and die. And, so with that in mind, my second day in Vienna was spent moving. First I took a walk and investigated the little village that was located just over a small hill immediately south of our hotel. There I immediately found a coffee shop and loaded up on caffeine. Moving somewhat like a zombie I returned to the hotel and had a light lunch and more coffee. Then I slipped into my jogging clothes and headed out for a run in the fields. The hotel was the only tall structure in the area, and so I didn't think there was any possible way to get lost. All I had to get back was to aim for the hotel. Nothing to it. I was wrong.

The temperature was pleasantly warm and so I took of my tee-shirt and proceeded to run down a one-lane road that headed out into the fields. The air was clean and the fields were green and well cared for. Along the roadway were numerous plants that I rarely got to see in California, and the sky was cerulean blue, something else I rarely got to see in California. In spite of being exhausted, I plodded along. I came to a Y-intersection and took the road to the right. After about a mile, I came to another intersection and took a left. Occasionally I would check for the hotel, and as I had predicted it stood tall on the horizon. I ran for about an hour and then decided to head back. Unfortunately, there was no direct path back to the hotel, and I had taken to many turns that I wasn't exactly sure how to retrace my steps. In fact after running for another hour it was clear to me that I was lost in a maze of small country roads. It was then I started to wake up. Panic can do that.

I continued to jog until I came to a large farmhouse. Several cars were parked in the driveway and along the roadway. Music was coming from the house. As I got closer I could see that a pool party was in progress. Men and women in swimming suits could be seen milling about, drinks in hand. I was desperate and dressed appropriately for a pool party so I joined the party. I was terribly thirsty and so I headed for the buffet table and helped myself to a Pepsi. No one seemed to mind. I scanned the group until I saw a large suntanned man whose demeanor told me he was the homeowner. I finished my Pepsi and then waited for an appropriate moment to introduce myself to the man I believed to be the host and then ask for directions. I was more than gratified to find that the large man was indeed the host. In perfect British English, shaded with an Austrian accent, he welcomed me to the party, invited me to have some food and drink, and then proceeded to give me directions on how to navigate the country roads that led back to the hotel. I sat down in one of the lawn chairs, had an additional Pepsi and then promptly went to sleep.

My host was exceedingly kind. He let me sleep until sunset. When I awakened, I was alone by the pool, the party having ended hours earlier. It was odd, when I first awakened I had no idea where I was. I struggled to make my surroundings fit my recollection of my apartment back in Sacramento. Fortunately my host came to my rescue. A booming voice came rolling across the farmland, "Ah, I see you have awakened. You needed your rest, my friend."

As I tried to sort through the mist that surrounded my brain, I also tried to respond to the gracious Austrian farmer, "I am so sorry to have dozed off, that was awfully rude of me."

"Not at all, you have been on a long run, and you no doubt needed some rest. We were glad to accommodate you."

I remembered the party and all of the handsome people milling about the pool. "Your guests must have found me an interesting exhibit, " I said with a chuckle.

"There was some speculation as to who you were and were you are from. I assured them you were not an alien."

I slipped my tee-shirt on, "Uh, by the way was I snoring?"

He laughed, "Well, at first we thought it was thunder...no, I'm just joking. You were fine."

"Well thanks for the hospitality, but I think I need to jog back to the hotel..."

The big Austrian cut in, "I'm going to give you a ride...it's too complicated and too late to have you running around lost in the fields." He laughed a booming laugh and then said, "You can tell me about California as we drive--Beverly Hills, movie stars, the Beach Boys."

The drive took about twenty-minutes. In spite of my efforts to tell my new friend, his name was Kurt, about California, I kept dozing. By the time I got to the hotel, all I could do was collect my key from the desk clerk and stumble to my room. I took a quick shower, dozed off there too, and then collapsed into bed. The conference was scheduled to begin the next morning at 8:30 a.m.

The conference, like all conferences, was filled with a number of workshops and speeches, presented by people whose work required they present. Some of the topics actually interested me, but after my evening of dining and dancing with Lisa Marie, I must say I was hard pressed to be enthusiastic about listening to professors and pontificators ramble on about chi square analysis. I'd close my eyes and the lioness would appear. I needed to do something to keep from letting my emotions run away. It's one thing to be a dashing older man, and quite another to be the old fool.

I don't know whether it was the exhilaration I found in meeting Lisa Marie, or the excitement of being in Vienna, or the good rest that followed my run through the fields that gave me an energy boost. Whatever it was, something had pushed me past my jet lag in record time. I was feeling great, and the last thing I wanted to do was sit around in meetings. I wasn't alone in that sentiment. One of my Israeli colleagues was just as interested in getting out of the hotel and into the city as I was. His name was Hillel Savan, and among his credentials was a stint in the Mossad. Now, at least so he claimed, he was wholly committed to his work as a professor of botany. He was no longer an intelligence officer.

Our hotel was about 10 kilometers from the center of the city. By subway that translated to about 20 minutes. As we were about to board the subway, Hillel said to me, "If you don't mind, I'd like to give a call on my _handiphone_ to some friends in the city. They might want to join us."

"No problem, the more the merrier," I quickly responded.

His friends, it turned out, were theater people from Tel Aviv. Sarah, Atara, Ben, and Cosell were attending a conference on theater and were just as bored with their conference as we were with ours. It didn't take me long to conclude that none of these people were what they claimed. Their only slip was in how they walked--fast and direct. They walked like they were on maneuvers. Hillel was at the head calling out directions, everyone else followed in line. Instead of military objectives, we were looking for restaurants, bars, or places to dance. It was at one of the nosier restaurants in the Karlsplatz that Hillel took me aside and said, "Don't look around, laugh when you hear what I have to say and then answer. Are you aware that we are being followed by someone?"

I resisted the impulse to turn and look around the room. I followed his directions and laughed in a superficial sort of way. "No, I didn't know..."

"I'm not certain who the target is, but I think it is you, my friend. Are you more than you appear?"

"I don't know what you are talking about...." I stuttered.

"I am going to ask you to leave the bar and walk around the block. If it is you that they are following...then we will know."

I felt a momentary sense of panic, why would anyone want to follow me? Surely it was the Israelis that were being followed. They have all kinds of enemies. I struggled to remain calm, "You, you want me to walk out of here by myself...."

"Don't worry. If they follow you, we will follow them...you will be okay. Were you in danger, they had plenty of opportunities to get you when we were walking."

I took a deep breath, acted as though I were saying goodbye to my Israeli friends and proceeded out of the bar. I could see the headlines, "American Mysteriously Slain in Vienna," or "He Died Without Having a Facelift." I suppose that would be better than "American Dies Getting Facelift." There was a gentle rain that night and the streets glistened. The streets were busy, not like American streets after dark. As I walked down the street, I was keenly aware of eyes watching me, people following me, although I hadn't seen any suspicious characters following me. I tried to dismiss the whole thing as a fabrication in the mind of an aging and overly imaginative Israeli ex-spy. Nevertheless, as I "nonchalantly" strolled around the block, it was easy to believe that the Israelis were right.

I love the way neon lights are mirrored by wet pavement. The glowing illumination from the neon reflects from off the shiny, wet black background as high contrast abstractions. It is the same the world over. Rain feels the same in Vienna and as it does in San Francisco, and fear is equally universal, although, I couldn't remember of ever being as afraid as I was that night. I rounded the corner and looked down a dark quiet street. I halted momentarily but motivated by the fear that someone was after me, immediately picked up my pace and briskly walked into the dark. I looked over my shoulder and caught a brief glimpse of two dark figures rounding the corner. I walked even faster. I could see the end of the block, and made getting there my immediate goal. As I rounded the corner I heard Hillel's voice, "CB, this way, quickly."

He grabbed me by the arm, and pushed me into a waiting taxi, "Get a new hotel, don't go back to your old hotel. Call me." He then joined his theater friends and began to sing an Israeli song as they rounded the corner into the surprised faces of the two men following me. The driver gunned the cab and we sped down a side street. I anxiously looked back toward where my friends had been just moments ago. The street was quiet.

I told the driver, that I was in need of lodging and to take me to a moderate priced hotel. As I sat in the back of the cab, a relatively new Mercedes, I tried to sort things out. I remembered my mother once saying, "Be careful of what you wish for, it just might come true." Yeah, I wanted some adventure, and it looked like I had found it. Israeli spies, an exotic Asian woman, a beautiful mysterious city, and strangers following me. The driver pulled in front of a Hotel near the West Banhoff Subway Station. I walked into the hotel, but had no intention of taking a room there. I walked directly to the elevator and rode to the 6th floor. I waited a few minutes, rode to the ground floor and walked, hopefully unnoticed, out into the night. I walked briskly past the station and crossed the street. Hotel Furstenhoff stood directly in front of me. Like most of the small hotels in this district it reeked of character. It was no doubt filled with history, and as I walked up the stairs to the lobby I half expected to see WWII German Officers in the foyer. I took a room.

Chapter 12

SURPRISE, SURPRISE

My night in the Furstenhoff Hotel was not pleasant. The room was spacious, but its walls were cold and its furniture scarred. Its high ceiling was from another time, and the furniture was probably decades old. The bed was hard, and normally I would have found the bed much to my liking, but the unusual events of the previous evening had left me anxious, and the room was decidedly uninviting. I had a hard time falling to sleep, and when I did what little sleep I did have was disrupted by dreams of SS Troopers. I later learned that the Furstenhoff Hotel had served as lodging for ranking SS officers during World War II. I'm certain their ghosts still walk the halls. When I awoke, I was disoriented, confused, didn't know where I was. It took a moment for my head to clear and my confusion soon was replaced with a sickening recollection of the previous evening. As I peered at my reflection coming from the bathroom mirror, I shook my head and loudly said, "I should have just settled for a facelift!"

I spent a long time in the shower that morning, but no amount of hot water washed away the ache in my gut. I've always prided myself on my ability to think logically, to be rational during times of stress. This however was reality, and reality was much different from my Walter Mitty fantasies. Kathy would have had some pithy witticism to describe my plight, but Kathy was 10,000 miles away. I was essentially alone in Vienna. Of course there were my Israeli friends, but I really didn't know them very well, and I wasn't even certain I could trust them. Maybe it was because of them that I had been followed. After all, Hillel had seemed all too calm about the whole thing. And, that taxi driver, what was with that? He didn't even have to think about what hotel he was going to take me to. Thank god I didn't stay at that hotel. At least I had the presence of mind to find my own hotel. Theoretically, no one knew where I was. From here, I could hide out and decide on my next move. I looked out the window. I was on the third floor and could see into the courtyard of the church next door. A tree partially obstructed my view to the west, but I could see the hotel that I had been delivered to the previous evening. It seemed much closer in morning's light than it had seemed last night when I was scurrying down the dark street.

I placed a towel out on the floor and lay down on my back. For twenty-five years I had faithfully done a morning exercise routine. In all of those years, I had only missed a few mornings. My morning exercise had become a ritual, and even under the current circumstances, my body demanded I follow my routine. In a way it was comforting to give my mind up to my body's rhythms. I had been doing these exercises for so long they seemed to occur automatically: 100 crunches, 50 pushups, 50 back extensions, 25 leg lifts and back, shoulder and leg stretches. The exercises seemed to help. My circulation had picked up and so had my attitude—for that matter, so had my appetite. Breakfast was being served, and a cup of Vienna coffee, granola and fruit sounded good.

Just before leaving the room, I appraised myself in the mirror. The wrinkle proof Van Heusen was living up to its name, but the pants were decidedly more relaxed. I looked into the mirror intently, and was surprised at my assessment of my appearance. No, I wasn't young, but I had a certain strength in my features that I hadn't seen before. For a moment, I felt optimistic. I could get through this, and why not, I had enough money to go where I wanted, I was intelligent enough to get through this, I was in excellent physical shape, and no one knew where I was. I picked up my sketchpad and headed for breakfast. I'd figure this out over coffee.

I bounded down the stairs, and turned into the lobby, to see a familiar face looking up at me.

"Howdy, sleepy head, thot I mite haf to come up there an jump on yer bed."

I was dumfounded. The lioness was there in the hotel lobby, seated on a small love-seat, her long legs comfortably crossed at the ankles and her arms folded under her ample bosom. I shook my head in disbelief and stuttered, "Uh, uh...."

"Suprise, suprise," she smiled and stood. She slipped her arm through mine and said, "Mind if we take a walk."

I didn't mind...and a feeling in my gut told me that I didn't have much of a choice.

We walked down the stairs and onto the sidewalk in front of the hotel. The street was already filled with people, typical of European cities. The weather was pleasantly cool and the sky was blue with occasional clouds floating by. She guided me across the busy street to the West Banhoff Station. We walked down the stairs into the subway, boarded a train, and rode for about 10 minutes. We came up at Saint Stephen's Cathedral and took a short walk to a nondescript coffee shop. We hadn't talked since we left the hotel.

Vienna coffee with milk can fix almost anything, but this morning even my appetite for coffee was flat. The lioness ordered coffee and milk for the two of us. I remember trying to give her a severe stare, instead I found myself being captivated by her incredible beauty. Harsh is not my nature, and nothing melts my resolve quicker than a beautiful woman. What had Heath got me into? Yes, it was definitely his fault: his youthful taunting, his incredible success with women, and his goading me into making that stupid bet. Otherwise, I would have been peacefully ensconced in my mundane niche worrying about whether to get a facelift instead of wondering if I were going to see another sunrise.

"So, would you mind telling me what the hell is going on?" I quietly said in tone that sounded more fearful than angry.

Something told me that story she would tell was the stuff of which novels are written. There was more about her than augmented breasts that were not entirely true.

Chapter 13

If you don't want people to look at 'em, don't put 'em up.

The lioness peered over her coffee, "I know you had a bad night."

I dropped a spoonful of sugar into my coffee, and looked directly into her dark eyes, "How did you know where to find me?"

"The dancing Armadillo told me." My hand automatically went to the stick pin that I was wearing on my jacket. She had given it to me the night we had gone to dinner. It was to be a keepsake from our evening out. She had made a point of telling me that it was a Texas good luck charm, and I had promised to wear it the whole time I was in Austria.

"And, so how did the Armadillo tell you where I was this morning."

"It's actually a transponder, sort of a little beacon that sends out a weak radio signal. As long as you are within a certain radius from our receiver, we can find you."

I took a sip of my coffee, it was sweet and comforting. Now, it was my turn to peer over my cup, "We? Are you going to tell me what's going on? I'd really like to know what's going...."

"I didn't mean to get you involved. I just enjoyed meeting you, and it seemed nice to meet a normal man, someone who didn't want to jump my bones and ask questions later. All I wanted to do was have dinner with a nice man, someone I could trust, and dance away my cares. I really didn't want to get you involved...."

"Involved in what?" I said insistently.

"Oh, it's nothing really, more of a misunderstanding than anything. What's important is that you are okay, and I have at least this one chance to make it up to you."

I wondered how she was going to make it up to me. It was becoming clear that she was into something very deep and that I would be swimming with the fishes long before I ever found out how deep it went. I wasn't about to get my ticket punched for just having dinner with a beautiful younger woman. That's a pretty harsh penalty for momentarily defying societal norms. No, there was something very sinister about all of this.

"Who was following me last night?"

"Actually, they are part of a team that had been following me. I knew they were there, but I really didn't think they would be interested in you. I gave you the Armadillo as insurance. You know, just in case...."

Suddenly it dawned on me. I had been so preoccupied with figuring out what had happened to me that I had failed to notice that the honey-thick Texas accent was gone. She was now talking like a graduate from the London School of Economics. It didn't really surprise me, and it didn't seem important anyway.

"So, who were they, and what happened to that sweet southern drawl?"

"I suppose you noticed my accent has changed."

"Yeah, but it doesn't seem very important at the moment."

"I'm trying to be honest with you. It's true that I live in Texas, but I have studied abroad...."

I raised my eyebrows, "London School of Economics...?"

She smiled, "How did you know?"

"I didn't, it was just a guess. I hear a lot of spies are trained there."

She looked at me disapprovingly, "...and it is true that I work for a private foundation that helps children in third world countries...."

"But, that's only part-time isn't!" I cut in.

"It's true, I have other responsibilities, but really they have nothing to do with you. And, it is better that we don't discuss them."

She was a curious mix of power and sensitivity. I suppose most women are. They never have been the weaker sex. They are smarter than we are, have better pain tolerance than us, and they endure longer. Visit a convalescence home and you won't find men in the majority. But, they also feel more deeply than men, hurt more easily, and are more sensitive. Maybe that's why they seem so complicated to a simple creature like a man.

I reached across the table and placed my hand on hers, "I really would like to know if either of us is in any real danger. Can you tell me that much?"

She looked directly in my eyes for a moment. My...could those eyes hold my gaze, I almost forget the circumstances of the moment. Then she turned her head and looked toward the hall at the back of the cafe.

"CB, I don't mean to seem rude, but in my haste to get over here this morning, I completely forgot to go to the loo. Would you mind excusing me for just a moment or two. When I come back, I will try to clear this whole thing up."

She stood and as she did, I stood as well. I placed my hand on her shoulder, "You aren't going to run out on me are you?" She leaned in close to me, gave he a hug and said, "Not at all, but a girl has to do what a girl has to do." She patted me on my chest, kissed my cheek and spun toward the hallway.

"Here, watch my bag while I am gone. Be right back."

I watched her walk into the restroom and then glanced down at the bag. The presence of her bag allayed my concern that she might pull a disappearing act. No, she'd left her bag, she still had delicious Vienna coffee to drink, and there was a story she was going to tell me. She might slip away, but it wouldn't be until she had done what she had come to do. I leaned back into my chair and looked out at the busy sidewalk. I sipped slowly on my coffee and anxiously awaited the return of the lioness. It was clear to me that her work with third world children was a cover. It obviously allowed her to move about freely, gave her credibility with government officials, and directed attention away from whatever her primary "responsibilities" were. The one thing that I was certain of was that the lioness was much more than she appeared.

After about 10 minutes I gradually came to realize what I had intuitively known all along. The lioness was not coming back. I walked to the unisex restroom and gently knocked on the door. There was no answer. I tried to open the door, but it was locked from the inside. I called for the waitress.

"I think my friend may have passed out in the restroom," I told the waitress in a concerned manner. Quickly, a key was produced and the door was unlocked. The room was empty and the window was slightly ajar. Indeed, my friend had passed out, but not in the conventional sense.

I knew there was no point in looking for her, so I returned to the table, the bag clutched in my hand. I placed the bag on the table and automatically reached for the coffee. She didn't want to get me involved, but in what? Why all the mystery? If she didn't want to get me involved, why get involved with me at all. Maybe, she meant what she said, maybe she viewed me as just a nice guy and that meant something to her. Maybe she just liked older men.

It had been just a few months earlier, December 23 to be precise, when Kathy and I had been driving around Sacramento looking at Christmas lights. We pulled up to the curb next to an elegant mansion for a better view of the lights on display. We got out of the car and sat on the curb, basking in the glow of this Christmas wonderland. Apparently, the people inside were disturbed by our presence. The owner of the home stepped out on the porch and loudly directed us to return to our car. As we stood to leave, Kathy shouted, "If you don't want people to look at em, don't put em up!"

I looked at the purse and said in annoyed tone, "If you didn't want me to get involved, you shouldn't have been so damn good looking and so damn available."

I opened the bag, and it was empty except for an envelope. The envelope contained an airline ticket to San Francisco, five $1000 dollar bills, and a note. I looked at the note. It was written on scented stationery, the Chinese character for good luck was a faded shadow that filled most of the page. She had written in ink. For a lioness, her handwriting was surprisingly girlish. The note read:

Another time, another place....

You are a very nice man, CB. Please take yourself out of harm's way.

_Use the ticket_ _today_ _. The money is for another trip, or that facelift_

you really don't need. I am so sorry to have involved you in this...LM

I stared at the note, looking for clues, hidden meaning, trying to fathom what was going on. But, the note was what it was, and there was nothing more to be made of it. The message was clear, she had answered my question. I was in danger, and it was time to go. My hand instinctively searched my lapel for the dancing Armadillo. Apparently my dance program had been filled, the Armadillo had taken a new partner. It was no longer there.

Chapter 14

The road of life is dotted with many tempting parking places.

I peered out into the street. As I looked down the bustling street, I reflected on Kinky Friedman. In his books he often uses the terms MIT and MIB. MIT stands for "man in trouble." MIB stands for "men in black." I was the MIT looking for the MIBs. Trouble was, I didn't have the foggiest idea who the MIBs were. They could have been watching me at that very moment. There was no way I would know. However, my guess was that the lioness had lost any tail before she had come to my hotel. Why would she go to the effort of getting me an airline ticket if she knew that the MIBs would nab me. With this in mind, I ventured less than boldly into the street.

European streets always seem festive to me. Their city centers have the charm of an American farmer's market and street fair all in one. As I walked down the street I peered into shops at the glass covered people doing their business transactions. I slipped by the street vendors selling flowers and baskets, and I tried to avoid gazing at people who were having too good of time. It was a beautiful morning in Vienna. It was good to be alive. As I moved further from the little cafe, I felt increasingly confident that I was going to be okay.

As I walked, I pondered my resources. I was carrying $5000 in cash, had an open ticket on Delta Airlines, and I had my passport. I also had my billfold containing a few dollars, credit cards, business cards and my driver's license. And, I had other resources, I had my Israeli friends and I had Wendell Finch. Wendell had been a career intelligence officer. Even though, he had gone on for a Ph.D., and was now teaching in my department, common thought was that he remained connected to the intelligence community. He was a friend, and I knew how to reach him. Before, I made any decision I would call Wendell and get his advice. Unfortunately, I didn't have his home phone, and he wouldn't be at the office until much later. When I told him goodbye, just before heading for Vienna, his exact words had been: "You are going to have a lot more fun than me; I'm going to be at the office everyday until I finish writing this damn book!" I was pretty certain I would find him in the office, but morning in California was still hours away. I would check in with the Israelis. I couldn't see any value in going to the hotel. If the MIBs were looking for me they would probably have the hotel under surveillance. I rang up the hotel and asked for Hillel

"It's, CB, I need to talk with you," I said with amazing calm.

"Yes, my friend, it is good to hear from you. We were worried."

I briefly related to him what had occurred, and then got to the basic purpose of my call. "What do you think I should do?"

He spoke quickly with authority, "You did well in not coming to the hotel. If someone is looking for you, it is certain this place is being watched. Take your girlfriend's advice and leave. Be advised, though, depending upon your value to the watchers and their connections, you won't likely make it through the airport. Take the train to Rotterdam, the ferry to England, and fly out of Heathrow. Still, no guarantees on getting out, depending upon who is chasing you. You could benefit from a fake passport...."

I interrupted, "Hold it. This is all sounding too much like a James Bond movie."

"It's no movie my friend. Take my word for it, don't leave from the Vienna airport. Given a little time, I can get you a new passport, but it will cost you about $200 in U.S. dollars...."

I was getting tired, too much intrigue isn't good for body or the soul. I'm usually an optimist, but I was quickly becoming a pessimist. Kathy would like that. I remember her once saying, "If you weren't so gawd damn optimistic, I would never know how unhappy I am."

"Thanks, but I'll take my chances...I haven't broken any laws, I shouldn't have anything to fear," I said with some degree of false bravado.

"Good luck, my friend...."

I passed the next four hours wandering the streets of Vienna. Hell, I was on vacation and I wasn't going to let a little thing like a life threatening misadventure disrupt it entirely. But, needless to say, no matter how amazing the architecture or beautiful the art, I was a man walking under a dark cloud. As I picked up the pay phone to dial "Commander Finch," I heard myself humming a song I had written almost 20 years earlier when I thought I was going to be Glen Campbell:

Driving down life's highway

There are lots of parking spaces,

And there are lots of people parkin' there

Whose dreams have lost all traces.

Some say it's better to park and wait

It's safer I'm sure that's true

But you never get to see a change

You just sit...that's all you do.

I never finished that song, just like the book I never finished. If it can be said that I have accomplished anything in life, then it must be said that I have become an accomplished procrastinator. However, I'm not ready to make such a statement.

He picked up on the fourth ring, "Wendell Finch, how may I serve you?"

"Wendell, it's CB..."

"Hey, you back already...."

"No, no, just listen. I'm in Vienna, and I think you can help me."

"I live to render service...what's up?"

I briefed him on my situation.

"Well, this is something I don't know much about, spies and espionage are not my forte. Ask me something about the history of biological advancements in 16th Century Europe and I can wax brilliant. But, it sounds to me like your lady friend is in cahoots with the Chinese Triads, the CIA or both. The little Armadillo pin has CIA written all over it, but my instincts suggest she's more likely involved with some aspect of organized crime. There are about 12 major Triads right now, and they are all very active. Up until the past few months, the Triads have limited their activities to money laundering, smuggling, prostitution, gambling and drugs. But, a guy named Xiao Dai has recently ascended to power in the biggest of the Triads, and it seems he's not content with the old order of business. Word is that he wants to control the entire Chinese government, and he intends to do it through information brokering."

I interrupted, "Give me the short form, I don't have time for a lecture...."

"We are living in the information era. Knowledge is power. Xiao Dai is building his empire on cutting-edge technology. China's economy is growing and will continue to grow in proportion to its ability to keep pace with the technology of the West. The only problem is that the West is kinda selfish with its developments. So, that's where Xiao Dai comes in. He gets that information, and every time he gives the Party a new technology, they give something up to him...a province for example."

"So this guy Dai is something of a super-spy, is that what you are saying."

"That's what I am saying."

The idea that Lisa Marie Chin was a spy didn't surprise me, but she seemed far too kind to be part of Chinese organized crime. But, unlike most criminals, Triad soldiers followed a code that included some degree of honor and integrity. As much as I found the idea of Lisa Marie being a criminal offensive, I realized that it was just as likely as any other scenario--probably more than most.

"What do you recommend?" I leaned into the phone, more out of frustration than fatigue.

"Mount up old friend, it's always harder to hit a moving target. Come home."

It seemed like the thing to do. _Home_ suddenly became my favorite word, but there were two major obstacles standing between home and me. One was about 6 feet tall and built like a fullback, the other was about my size, but about 20 years younger and probably 100 times meaner. They both wore black suits. The big one gently took the phone from my hand and carefully placed it in its cradle.

Chapter 15

_You can't buy Vienna Sausages in Vienna, but you can buy Spam_.

I was "escorted" into a limousine and sandwiched between the two MIBs. It was all too cliché: men in black wearing black sunglasses running around kidnapping people and carrying them off in a black limousine. Too bad I was the one being kidnapped. To my surprise, the big guy had a gentle voice, he reminded me of Arnold Schwarzenegger on Xanax. He even asked me if I were enjoying my trip to Vienna. "Yeah, just like going to Disneyland." I responded in a cynical tone. The big guy liked that, the little guy stared razor blades at me....

We drove for what seemed like hours, but in reality it had probably been only a few minutes when the big guy said, "Ve are goink to haf to blindfolt you now."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a silk hood (black naturally), and placed it over my head. Now everything was black. I chuckled to myself, it was all just too cliché. The little guy finally spoke in a menacing tone, "Vat is so funny?"

"Nothing really. I just realized that you can't buy Vienna Sausages in Vienna, but you can buy Spam."

I thought I was cracking up, joking at a time like this. But, then again, there isn't much difference between laughing and crying. Better laugh than cry. The big guy started to laugh. If I hadn't known better I would have sworn I was listening to Arnold Schwarzenegger. I started to laugh. From the sound of things you would have thought I was among friends. In the back of my mind, I could hear Kathy's cheerful voice, "With enemies like this, who needs friends." She can always find something pithy to say, no matter the situation. As we drove along the teeming streets, I remember a time when Kathy and I had been driving around Sacramento and passed a wedding party having their photos taken. Kathy leaned out the window and yelled, "Don't do it, he lied." Kathy would have had these guys paralyzed by laughter. Had she been here, we could have walked right out of there. Laughter is not only good medicine it's mightier than the sword. Forget the pen--give me a good joke any day.

Eventually, the limo stopped and I was guided into a room. The hood was removed and I was surprised to see a striking blond woman leaning over the desk that separated me from her. The big guy and the mean guy were no where to be seen, but I knew they weren't far away. My hostess was a blonde version of Lisa Marie. I rolled my eyes and looked at the ceiling, "Another lioness, just what I need." The blonde narrowed her eyes, and said with a slight Russian accent, "I beg your pardon."

"I'm sorry, just babbling. I've had a bad day."

"Yes, I suppose you have. I am sorry for the secrecy, but we have brought you to a secret Interpol installation. It is as much for your protection as ours. You are being detained by the Austrian National Central Intelligence Bureau, the principal enforcement arm of Interpol in Austria." She picked up a manila file folder, and thumbed through a sheaf of papers. "I see you are a professor. What do you teach?"

"I'll bet you're like a good lawyer, you never ask a question that you don't already know the answer to."

She smiled, "You are a biological scientist with interests in naturally occurring toxins. You did your Ph.D. at the University of Illinois, Champaign-Urbana. You are a full professor at Capital State University, Sacramento. You are in Vienna to attend a conference on the social, military and industrial applications of environmental estrogens. You have considerable interest in Chinese culture. You have studied Mandarin and taught in China. Many of your friends are Chinese, and as of late you have demonstrated a rather intimate relationship with a known member of the Song Ye Triad."

"Wow, all that and a bag of chips."

"Beg your pardon?"

"Just an expression. I don't mean to seem impertinent, but I have no idea as to what is going on. I'm just a simple man who decided to travel to Europe instead of having a facelift. May I go home now?"

"That all depends upon you. Cooperate and you can leave whenever you want." She leaned toward me, showing just a hint of cleavage leaving me to wonder if she had had the same surgeon as the lioness. "Tell me all you know about a Mei Ling Kong."

"That's easy, nothing. I don't know a Mei Ling Kong."

"Perhaps you know her as Lisa Marie Chin."

"Oh, that Mei Ling Kong. Well, I don't really know much about her at all. We met on the flight over, and went to dinner. And, then I started having bad days."

"Miss Kong is a courier for a Triad chief known as Xiao Dai. Surely, you must have known that, though, Dr. Oldenberger."

"Call me CB and the answer is no. I didn't know that."

This wasn't going well. I decided to take the direct approach, the Kathy approach, "Let's cut to the chase, what will get me home?"

The blonde lioness smiled, no, make that smirked at my response. "So, you will cooperate."

"Absolutely, just point me in the right direction and tell me where the dish soap is."

"Another expression?"

"Not really, I just felt like saying that. I really have had a bad day."

"It is very simple Dr. Oldenberger, we have photos of you with Mei Ling Kong, we have a photo of you giving her an envelope; we know that you have numerous contacts with the PRC, we know that you work in a laboratory that has government contracts. How long have you been passing information to the woman you call Lisa Marie Chin? Tell us what you know and we will let you go, otherwise, we turn you over to American authorities."

"You think I'm a spy, that's what you think. You people watch too much television!" I was starting to sound like Kathy.

The blonde smiled graciously and opened a door, "Perhaps, if you freshen up you will feel friendlier toward us."

I was escorted to what appeared to be a sparsely furnished guestroom. There was no television, no radio, no phone, and no window. I was in a Motel 6 but Tom Bodette hadn't left the light on. At least I could shower, shave and maybe rest. I looked in the wardrobe, surprise, surprise, there were my clothes from the conference hotel. Things were getting curiouser, and curiouser.

I slipped out of my clothes and slipped into the shower. The hot water felt good, but it didn't wash away the anxiety that filled my gut. I wrapped a towel around my waist and sat down on the edge of the bed. There had to be a way out of this.

Chapter 17

You can get awfully tired trying to compensate for never having been loved by a

_dog or taught by a_ _horse._

I had a horse when I was a kid. I named her "Queenie." Naturally my dog was "King." The Royal Court was a corral just down the hill behind our house. King, had the run of the range, but the queen was kept captive. While the king would be out on some adventure, the queen would be stuck in her little castle. I don't think Queenie liked the arrangement because she was always figuring ways out of the corral. She was the Einstein of horses. For that matter, she didn't like being ridden either. She'd duck under any low hanging obstacle in an effort to scrape any human burden from off her back. Clotheslines were her favorite allies. I was clothes-lined more than any NFL back, and this was long before I ever played football. As I sat in the little room that held me captive I found myself missing those simple, pleasant times. I closed my eyes and imagined my childhood home. I could almost smell the musty coat of Queenie, the earthy fragrance of the corral, and hear the yapping of the king. For the life of me, at that moment , I couldn't think of anything more important than retrieving an errant horse or flinging a stick for a goofy king of a dog.

"What's wrong with these people?" I heard myself utter. I answered the question in my mind, "They probably are trying to compensate for never having been loved by dog or taught by a horse."

If that cocky little horse could escape from an escape proof pen, then I should be able to get out of a crappy little hotel room or whatever it was. I'd watched enough _MacGyver_ to know that no room was escape proof. All I had to do was take the contents of the wastebasket, build a bomb and blow the door down. Nothing to it. I looked around the room. No wastebasket. Apparently my captors _had_ watched too much television! I rolled over onto my back, adjusted the pillow, and began to ponder my escape. As I reclined on the bed, I realized I was exhausted. That was my last thought before I escaped into a fitful sleep.

Chapter 18

Jackie Chan would be out of this room faster

than McGyver could build a bomb.

I hate to wake up to a lighted room, but when I dozed off the light was blazing brightly and no one had been thoughtful enough to turn it off. I looked at the light glaring down at me and remembered something a friend of mine once said, "We are like suns, too close to see the source of our light, we must rely on the presence of others to glimpse its reflection." Bright, vivacious, and athletic Vicki would have given Lisa Marie a run for the money. Then I remembered where I was, and suddenly I wasn't very happy. My back was aching, a frequent companion stemming from the big motorcycle accident of '76. My neck ached, another visitor that found its genesis in an automobile accident that occurred in 1989. In that accident, I had been rear-ended by a student who had just signed up for my class. After we exchanged information she said, "You're Dr. Oldenberger! Oh my, maybe I should drop your class." I didn't let her. I wanted revenge, but she turned out to be a much better student than she was driver...she earned an A for her permanent record. I had earned a permanent neck ache to remind me of her.

The room was too bright, and I was still lying on the bed, my towel and come undone and was crumpled on the floor. Then I saw what had awakened me, it was the big guy standing by the door. "Vell aren't you duh pretty vun..." he said with a hint of a chuckle.

"Yeah, but you're not my type; send in the blond." He liked that. He had a deep rolling laugh. To an outside observer, it would appear that the big guy was my number one fan. But, I wasn't deceived. I knew that he could cancel my show at a moment's notice, and would probably find putting a bullet in my head the best joke of the day.

"Ya, dat's funny! But, you might vant to put some clothes on, you gonna haf a visitor."

"Monica Lewinsky?" That should have brought the house down, but he didn't smile. He simply said, "Mei Ling Kong."

Before I had a chance to grab the towel, Razor Eyes pushed a bound and blindfolded version of Lisa Marie Chin into the room. She stumbled toward the bed, and before I could react she tumbled on top of me. In my most daring fantasies I'd been in this same position with Ms. Chin, but the circumstances were considerably different. I scooted out from under the lioness, grabbed my towel and proceeded to remove the black silk hood from her enchanting face. Obviously, not everyone appreciated her beauty as much as I. Somebody had tried to rearrange her facial architecture.

"Hi," I quietly said. I couldn't think of anything profound or witty. _Hi_ seemed to say it all.

"Hi, back at you. I see you didn't take my advice."

"I was going to but, I got an invitation to stay that I couldn't refuse."

"I got the same invitation, but I tried to turn it down."

I gently began to remove the duct tape that they had used to bind her arms and hands. "I can't believe that Interpol would use duct tape, don't cops use cuffs and shackles?"

"They're not cops, CB," she said.

I got her out of her bonds, soaked a towel in cold water and did the best I could with her wounds. The bruises were largely superficial and what I had originally thought to be lacerations were abrasions, probably from a gloved fist.

She was lying on the bed looking more like a beaten puppy than a soldier for the most feared Triad in the world. "How do you feel? Did they hit you anywhere else?"

"No, just my face and head."

"Headache?"

"You might say that..."

I had been studying Chinese acupressure for the past several years. One of my trips to China had been to study Tui Na, a form of manipulation that increases the movement of healing energy throughout the body. I had even taken a course in the use of acupuncture and acupressure in effecting changes in facial contours. That's right--I had studied Chinese facelift methodology. I would have tried it, but my teacher was more wrinkled than a prune. But, right now cosmetic surgery wasn't part of my lexicon. My immediate concern was helping Lisa Marie, and all I had was a cool towel and five years of training in traditional Chinese acupressure.

A lot of people are skeptical when it comes to the value of Chinese medicine. I am not one of them. The only true relief I have found for my neck and back pain has come from acupressure and acupuncture. That's why I started studying Asian medicine. There are lots of theories regarding Chinese medicine, but none of them adequately explains the neurophysiology or chemical basis of acupuncture. As a scientist I wanted to know how it worked, wanted to figure it out. After five years of study, I still didn't know what makes Chinese medicine tick. What I did know was that it worked.

I gently removed Lisa's shoes and began to apply pressure on point number 41 on the Gall Bladder Meridian. As I held the points I noticed her feet. They were nicely pedicured, but heavily callused. I had seen the same calluses on the feet of martial artists that I had treated while studying in China. It didn't surprise me. Similarly, when I applied pressure to point ST36 on the _tibialis anterior_ , I noticed that her leg muscles were unusually developed. She was a well-conditioned athlete. In holding her hand and applying pressure to LI4, I looked closely at the outer edge of each hand. There was a discernible callus, something I had not noticed when dancing with her. Ms. Chin was indeed more than she appeared.

She responded well to the treatment. Color returned to her face and she brightened as her headache diminished. "You're a handy man to have around. I know something about Chinese medicine, and you impress me CB. Thank you, I feel much better." She pulled herself up onto her elbows and looked at my naked chest. "Ya all didn't have to dress for me." She was feeling better, the Texas accent sounded good.

"If you would feel more comfortable, I'll help you undress," I said.

"Not the time..."

I cut in, "Not the place...yep, I know. I heard it before." I slid into the bathroom and put on a pair of clean pants and a fresh shirt from the wardrobe. As I was dressing, Lisa was talking.

"I wish you had listened to me. We'd be in half as much trouble right now. But, things are manageable. We are dealing with snakeheads from the AK14 Triad. They aren't the sharpest knives in the drawer. We can get out of this...."

I felt my brow furrow, "Triads? The Triads are all Chinese, these people are Caucasian."

I returned to the bed and sat down next to her. She reached out and put her hand on my leg. I placed my hand on hers and gently caressed it. She answered my question. "Traditionally Triads have been exclusively Chinese, that is true. But, in this multicultural and multinational world, some Triads have seen value in bringing different nationalities into their organizations. AK14 is a pioneer in that sort of thing. They have operatives from almost every major racial and cultural group. The group that is holding us for example, they are all former members of Russian intelligence organizations. They speak several languages and are reasonably well trained."

"They are mercenaries, in other words." I inferred.

"No, they are more than that; they are full-fledged members of the Triad. They have, in a sense, signed a compact with the Devil. Once you become a soldier in a triad, you are there until you die."

"Why is this happening?" I quietly intoned.

"The AK14 wants to takeover the Chinese-US espionage business. Right now, the Son Ye Triad has the market cornered. It's an important enterprise. Some people think that the Triad that controls the flow of technological and defense information flowing into China will eventually gain control of the government. China stands to become the most powerful economy in the world, and the people who control that economy will make Bill Gates look like a street vendor."

It appeared that Wendell was right on mark. I always knew he was more than just a biology historian. I looked at Lisa and asked, "I suppose you know all of this from your work with third world children." She didn't respond so I continued, "Where do we fit in?"

"They think we are spies, and that you delivered a document to me and they want it."

"They took a photo of me giving you an envelope, and from that they are convinced I am a spy," I said in an indignant tone.

"I told you they were stupid, and even though they are morons, they are smart enough to be dangerous."

"Yeah, look what they did to you."

"This was nothing. Jackie Chan takes more abuse in one day of shooting than those guys could dish out in a life time."

"Jackie Chan gets shot with film, these guys shoot with cannons."

She smiled, just a bit, and said, "Very funny, you should go on stage."

I was going to make a comment about the big guy laughing at my jokes, but thought better of it. Lisa stood up, adjusted her clothing, and began to do some light stretches. She had a quiet countenance, she was the kind of person who couldn't panic if she had to; the kind of person who can turn terror into an asset. That was good because I had enough terror inside for the both of us. I could be a great asset, provided she had some kind of plan.

"Do we have plan?" I asked.

"Well, I've given this some thought and I am..., but first, do you have a plan?

"Hey you seem better at this sort of thing than me. I'm good with plants not plans!"

She sat back down on the bed and slowly reclined. She game a somewhat mischievous smile and said, "Rub my feet again, and I'll work on it."
Chapter 19

If you think you're gonna get better, get over it, you won't.

"I'm taking a shower," she said while at the same time motioning me to keep quiet and follow her. I followed her into the bathroom. She flushed the toilet and turned the shower on full blast. With her voice covered by the sounds of rushing water, she told me in whispered tones that she was sure the room was bugged, and the only reason we were together was due to our captor's hopes that we would say something useful to them. That's when we hatched our plan.

It wasn't a brilliant plan, but brilliance is largely a function of who is paying attention. If the morons were eavesdropping and bought our banter, then the plan was ingenious. Fingernail clippers are ingenious when it comes to personal grooming in comparison to, say, a chisel and hammer. Everything is relative. The plan, if you can call it that, was really very simple. We were going to role-play two spies talking about the secret cartoon, make that the " secret documents," that I had passed to the lioness at the restaurant. Naturally, when the goons had searched her room, they hadn't found any secret plans. That's why they had brought us together. As far as they were concerned, I knew something about the big secret and she presumably knew where the secret documents, no doubt on computer disks, were hidden. When I asked Lisa what we would do to ensure our escape, she replied in her mock Texas accent, "Well, Pilgrim, let's kick some Russkie butt." When I tried to pursue the matter, she shushed me quiet, and said, "We'll play it by ear, just follow my lead."

A few minutes later, we launched our operation with me asking a question, "Do you think these morons..." I couldn't resist, "...know anything about the KY Jelly Neurotoxin?"

She frowned disapprovingly at me, "Of course they do. Why else do you think they have kept us alive. They want the data you brought on your neurotoxin studies, and we are the keepers of that secret." She paused for a moment and hint of smile lifted her lips, "I'll bet they don't know that you are the brains behind that discovery. Wouldn't they be surprised to know that you are one of the greatest scientific minds in the world! I'll bet they just think you are some nerdy, little, disgruntled lab worker. Jokes on them." She seemed to be enjoying herself. In spite of the bruises and abrasions, she exuded the same vibrancy and confidence that I noted the first time I saw her. She rattled on, "Your discovery will revolutionize how wars are fought, and how populations can be controlled. Just think what a government can do with your invention."

I picked up the cue, "I don't like to think of it as an invention. An invention is something that makes life easier, my discovery simply alters life. It changes a person's cerebral neurophysiology, makes him malleable and docile."

"You are such a genius, CB. Yes, it is amazing that a naturally occurring toxin can be modified with something as simple as rubbing alcohol and transfatty acids into a mind altering chemical."

I'd been in an eighth grade school play and knew a thing or two about acting. The lioness was good at improvisation. I didn't think I was doing too badly either. We had to be good, we were playing to a tough audience. If things were going according to plan, the audience should have been listening with rapt attention by now. It should have been clear to the slowest of the opponent's team that they were dealing with more than just a couple of amateurs. It should be clear that the lioness had brought in a ringer of the highest order. With me, the developer of a super-weapon, they had hit the jackpot. They wouldn't be canceling my show soon.

The lioness continued, "I think we ought to deal with them. For me, this is only a business. I have no allegiance to anyone but the highest bidder. I say we give them what they want. They will send you back to your laboratory with a nice "grant."

"What about you?" I asked.

"I'm the best in the business. They won't hurt me if they think they can buy my services." She winked at me. "And, you will probably get a Nobel Prize for your research." That whole scenario was about as likely as getting Razor Eyes to laugh at one of my jokes, but I played along. "Well, yeah, that would be nice."

The lioness crawled onto the bed, rolled onto her back and purred, "CB, would you do that thing you do to my feet again. I've still got a bit of a headache."

I rubbed her feet, carefully attending to all of the healing points. Unfortunately, nobody was pushing any of my points. I still had the ache in my gut that I had been carrying since Hillel had spotted the two thugs following me. If my intuition had any credibility, the guys that had been tailing me were Big Guy and Razor Eyes.

This was a bad situation, and bad situations often reminded me of Heath, a guy who could always, even in the best of times, find a bad situation. Heath, in spite of his uncanny success with women, wasn't always successful. Regardless of how involved he was with a woman, he was always convinced that the most recent sexual experience was his last. He had more "last" sexual experiences than most of us have total sexual experiences. But, quality and quantity are two different things. He disliked being alone and powered by a healthy testosterone level constantly agonized if he weren't sexually involved with someone. However, as soon as he got involved with a love interest, he would start worrying about when he was going to get dumped. So, not wanting to be without a lover, he would start working on a secondary love interest. This usually led to a conflict with his main squeeze, and sure enough he would get dumped. He was a master of the self-fulfilling prophecy. No matter how good the situation, he could find a critical flaw. His cups were never half-full, even D-cups; they usually leaked like a sieve.

The cold I had been fighting lingered annoyingly close to my scheduled departure to Vienna. My entire body still ached, I couldn't quite yet breathe normally. Heath, called to cheer me up. His idea of cheering someone up is to describe just how miserable someone else is, usually himself. Thank god he was a computer wizard instead of an M.D. He had no bedside manner. His idea of cheering me up was to say, "If you think you're gonna get better, get over it, you won't. Feeling well is just a trick life plays on you to make you less prepared to die."

As I rubbed Lisa's feet and listened to her purr, I almost felt peaceful. The ache in my gut wasn't as sharp as it had been. It was ironic, in spite of the dire circumstances in which we found ourselves, I felt pretty good. At least I no longer had any cold symptoms. But, then again, maybe it wasn't ironic. If Heath's theory was right, that was life's little trick to make me less prepared to die. The ache in my gut returned.

Chapter 20

The word "anger" is just one letter less than "danger."

It didn't take long for Big Guy to interrupt my little reverie. He opened the door, his menacing hulk filling the doorway. In his right hand he carried a nasty looking Glock 40 caliber semiautomatic. "Luk at duh lufbirds, or is it daddy und dotter!" Now, he was the one making jokes. I could tell it was joke by the laughter burping out of his oversized head. If I had only got that damn facelift he wouldn't have had a joke. Oh well.

I shouted back at him, "Go away, we bought a vacuum cleaner last week and we've got plenty of Avon products." He didn't get that one. Instead, he lowered his brow and motioned with the gun for us to leave the room. Lisa quietly stood and adjusted her clothing. I stood, but figured my clothing was just fine. I didn't need to impress anyone; I'd leave that to the mortician.

We walked into the adjacent room where Razor Eyes and the blonde lioness were standing. Razor Eyes was carrying a .38 special snub-nose revolver, the blonde was armed with a little more cleavage than I remembered. In her hand she carried a tape recorder. She was the first to speak, "We want you two to listen to something...you will find it, shall we say, compelling." She pushed the button and we listened to the role-play conversation.

"Dr. Oldenberger, we are very interested in talking to you about your work. And, as for you Mei Ling, I am not surprised that your only loyalty is to money, but I'm not certain we have a job for you. You see, as far as we are concerned, you failed your job interview. We don't hire people who can be taken so easily. No, you are of no use to us. Dr. Oldenberger, conversely, is an immense value."

"You harm her in any way and you won't have my cooperation!" Harrison Ford couldn't have said better.

Big Guy must have intuitively sensed my distress over being so much older than the lioness. He curled his upper lip in an evil smile and said, "Oh duh fodder vorries about his little girrl." His laughter was beginning to annoy me. My gut wasn't aching anymore, I was getting pissed. Plus the plan was working perfectly. I was ready to move on to the next phase and kick some Russkie butt. Just one problem-- I'd only been in two fights in my life, and I had a perfect 0-2 record.

The blonde lioness was an arrogant bitch. She lowered her head slightly, and smiled at Lisa. "Mei Ling, it has been nice finally meeting you. Now go die." She nodded at Razor Eyes whose weasel like brain seemed to register pleasure in the task. He pointed the gun to Lisa's head, grasped a handful of hair, and began to push her from of the room. What happened next happened so fast that no matter how many times I go over it in my mind, I still don't believe it actually happened.

At first I thought Razor Eyes had really hurt Lisa Marie, she slumped toward the floor and let out an audible moan. The evil little weasel let go of her hair and grabbed for her arm, as if he was going to pull her upright. But, before he got a grasp, Lisa had extended her body like a spring, driving the palm of her right hand upward with such a force that Razor Eye's nose was relocated into a space somewhere between his ears. Simultaneously her left hand dislodged the snub nose from his hand sending it spiraling directly toward me. I caught it with both hands and just as Big Guy raised the Glock, I aimed the little gun at his broad chest and pulled the trigger. I instinctively closed my eyes at the sound of the gun firing. It wasn't particularly loud, and I hadn't shot a gun since Boy Scout Camp when I was 14. I braced for the bullet that was going to bring the big laugh to the big guy. But, Big Guy didn't return fire so I opened my eyes, the gun still clinched between my two quivering hands. Big Guy was slumped against the wall. I hadn't hit his chest, but there was a neat little red spot in the middle of his forehead. The bullet hadn't penetrated his skull, but he was clearly going to have terrible headache when he finally came to. Razor Eyes wasn't so lucky, he wouldn't be waking up.

The blonde was no slacker, she yelled something in Russian and angrily lunged for Lisa. Lisa must have played a lot of dodge-the-ball. Nobody moves as quickly as she did without years of playground training. As the blonde spun by her, Lisa shifted into a catlike crouch. The blonde recovered quickly, but Lisa was ready. She brought her front leg up in a powerful kick that drove the blonde into the wall. The Russian took an off balance punch at Lisa who responded with a roundhouse kick to the head. For a minute I thought I was watching a Jackie Chan film, nobody can be that good in real life. This wasn't a movie, and Lisa was unbelievably good. The blonde must have thought the same thing. She reached for the equalizer she had strapped to her leg, but Lisa was too fast for her. She drove an elbow under the blonde's jaw. Good guys 3, Russkies 0.

Lisa, adjusting her clothes, looked down at the crumpled blonde. "Nice to meet you too...."

I was too stunned to do anything, but Lisa was a whirlwind of activity. She grabbed the file folder on the table. The envelope with the ticket and the money were there as well. She found my billfold and passport in the desk drawer. She pushed these items across the table toward me. "Take these," she directed. As I fumbled with the papers and billfold, she cleaned the .38 of my fingerprints. She took one last look around and then whisked me out the door before I had time to fully process what had happened. It turned out we were in an office suite in an old building in Central Vienna. As with many of the older buildings in this part of town, the interior was artfully designed and decorated. Unfortunately, we didn't have time for sightseeing. I wasn't too concerned, and anyway, it was like Kathy said after visiting the Grand Tetons, "You see one grand mountain and you've seem them all." I'd seen old buildings like this before. We found the stairs and raced down them into the cool of another Vienna evening.

It took all of about 15 seconds for us to hail a cab. Lisa spoke to the driver in German, and then slipped into the backseat next to me. I was in shock; she, on the contrary, was functioning amazingly well. The driver pulled into traffic, Lisa pulled along next to me. Taking my hand, she said in almost motherly tones, "You okay?"

I had to think for a minute. "I'm just hunky dory dandy," was my reply.

I certainly knew I wasn't okay, but I was alive, and I couldn't complain about that. I figured I had aged about 10 years in the last two days. If I didn't need a facelift before this trip, there was no doubt now, I would need one when I got back. Of course, getting back was something that was not necessarily a certainty.

We drove for about 10 minutes. Nothing was said. We both seemed lost in our thoughts. However, I was quite certain our thoughts were decidedly different. She was calculating, problem solving, organizing; I was suppressing panic. The cab pulled over at the West Bahnhoff Station, I was right back where most of this had started. The driver pulled into a large parking area lined with buses. Lisa directed him toward the front of the line, and then turned to me and said, "This time, you are going to catch a plane to the U.S. and you are leaving immediately. This bus will take you to the airport. Use the Delta ticket I bought you. Leave the file with me, take everything else. Now, promise me you will do what I tell you."

"Okay, I'll catch the plane."

"Good!" With that she kissed me on the cheek and pushed me from the cab. As the cab pulled away, she leaned out the window and shouted in her mock Texas accent, "See ya later Pilgrim."

I had enough Deutsche marks in my billfold to pay the fare to the airport. I went to the back of the bus, slumped into an empty seat. I watched the city pass by as the bus wound its way to the airport. I was still in shock, bewildered by everything that had happened. There are times in your life when the events that you experience are so strange, so unpredicted that once the experience has passed you seriously question as whether it happened it all. That was how I was feeling as the bus carried me to the international airport. My body was aching, I was tired, and I desperately needed a coffee. I was hungry too.

The bus dropped me off at International Departures, and I followed the arrows to the Delta counter. The big electronic schedule-board on the wall at the entrance to ticketing area had Delta Flight 187A leaving in two-hours. I'd get a ticket, and then get something to eat. I was nervous as I approached passport control. I had no idea how well connected the bad guys were. I held my breath and crossed my fingers as I handed my passport and ticket to the passport inspector.

"Have you enjoyed your stay in Austria?" the agent inquired.

"It was very eventful--to say the least," I responded.

"What did you like most?"

Since I hadn't really seen many of the sights, eaten much of the food, or met many of the people, I was stumped. Plus, I wasn't in the mood for "Twenty-Questions." More than that, I was curious as to why the conversation.

"Are you looking forward to going home?" the agent inquired.

"Oh, most definitely...." It was then I saw the two well built young men rushing through the crowd. They looked like Mormon missionaries, without bicycles. I turned away hoping they weren't going to proselyte me. But, they came right toward me. One wore glasses and had a Clarke Kent hairstyle. He put his hand on my arm and in an urgent tone said, "Dr. Oldenberger, may we talk to you?"

"Sorry fellas, I already have a Book of Mormon and I have plane to catch."

"Don't worry sir, you will catch your plane. We are here to assist you, for that matter." Mormon missionaries will promise you the next world if it means you'll listen to their message in this one. The one who didn't look like Clarke Kent said a few words to the passport agent who responded by nodding toward a door just on the other side of the control gate. With his hand still on my arm, Superman led me toward the door. I thought of running, making a commotion, or falling on the floor and begging for mercy, but instead I quietly allowed myself to be led into the little room adjacent to passport control. It was an office of sorts replete with a desk, water cooler, and several chairs.

The one who didn't look like Clarke Kent broke the silence. "Dr. Oldenberger, we work for the U.S. Government. He pulled his identification from his sports coat. The words _Central Bureau of Investigation_ jumped out at me.

Superman spoke, "You have been through quite an ordeal. And, I might add you are a very lucky man." His partner interjected, "I'll bet Dr. Oldenberger is tired and hungry." He turned to me, "Sir, would you like something to eat?"

"That would be nice," was my hollow reply.

The boys turned out to be okay. They got me some food, a liter of orange juice and some _Sissi Taler_ Vienna Chocolate. They weren't full of lot of information, but it was clear that they were there to make certain I got on the plane to the U.S. They also tactfully encouraged me to forget everything that had happened. I asked about Lisa Marie Chin, but they claimed not to know her. Both, however, were certain that my Chinese benefactor would be just fine. How could they know?

Finally it was time for me to check-in and board my flight back to the states. Just as I was about to pass down the corridor to the plane, Superman handed me an envelope. "Open this when you are airborne," he said. I took the envelope, waved goodbye to the missionaries and hoofed it down the jetway.

Thirty-minutes later and 30,000 feet higher, I decided it was time to open the envelope. It contained a folded piece of paper. The notepaper was the color of a peach with a scent that matched the color. I unfolded the note. The Chinese character for good luck spilled like a shadow across the stationery. The ornate part of a stickpin was securely attached to the paper. Written in a girlish hand, just below a little dancing Armadillo were these words, "Another time...another place."

### Chapter 21

It is a great kindness to entrust someone with a secret

he feels so important while sharing it with his friends.

It's almost been a month since I had my Vienna adventure. Not a day goes by that I don't replay bits of the Vienna tape in my mind. On several occasions I've even started to write about it. But, just like my motorcycle-adventure those twenty-years ago, I just get started and then the word processing unit in my brain shuts down. Some people, I suppose, just aren't cut out to be writers. On the other hand, there are people like James Lee Burke, Kinky Freedom, and the incredible Erika Lopez who have the gift. In fact, Erika has another book out-- _Hoochie Mommas_. I hear Clint Eastwood is making another movie, and rumor has it that a new semester is about to begin. Within another week, I will be back in the classroom and probably starting to notice the age lines again. As Kathy would say, "The more things change, the more they stay the same."

During the first week home, I followed the admonition of the CIA and kept the details of my trip pretty close to my vest. I told Wendell most of it since I assumed he was all ready well briefed and probably knew more than I did. Naturally, he acted like he didn't have the foggiest idea as to what I was talking about. During the third week home, I told Kathy and Heath. Isn't that how secrets work? When you promise someone "not to tell," what you really mean is that you won't tell people whom you don't trust. Of course, the people you tell have their own circle of people they trust, and so on to infinity. Sooner or later, every secret finds its way into society, and like a lost dog it runs up and down every street until it finds its way home. It's bound to happen. By the time the secret works its way back home it will have gone through the gossip and rumor mills and taken on a life of its own. The end product will probably be more interesting than its genesis. One of these days one of my students will raise her hand and ask about the beautiful Chinese spy I was married to when I worked for the CIA in Vienna.

As for my obsession with a facelift, it no longer seems important to take a nip or a tuck in order to give the impression of false youth. Yet, my friends still take pleasure in teasing me about both my age and my expressed interest in cosmetic augmentation. After I told Heath about my adventure, he responded that I should not only have cosmetic surgery, but I should have my entire facial structure altered to look like James Bond. Of course, I assume he meant the most recent James Bond. I know if I had asked he would have said, Sean Connery.

Kathy, has a different take on it. She told me, "You can make a great stew in a crappy looking pot." I tend to agree with Kathy. In fact, I don't even think about how old I look anymore. It all seems so trivial now. One of the things I learned from Vienna is that it's not how you look, it's how you live that matters. If you are fully engaged in living, you don't have time to worry about a few wrinkles or a blemish. Life is a short-term proposition, and I don't intend to spend it looking in the mirror. Somebody, a lot wiser than me said, "Life is a dance over fire and water," not "life is sitting safely at home dabbing your face with lubricating creams and antioxidants." If you are fully involved in some exciting project or worthy cause, you will find life too interesting to worry about whether or not you look your age. I understand Clint a little better, nowadays, "I don't give lick what people think."

THE END (And the beginning of the CB Oldenberger Series)

### Cast of Characters:

**Chester Belton Oldenberger** : People often ask if I am Professor Oldenberger. Let me make this perfectly clear, CB is definitely not me. He's a fiction. I have a life, I don't have a green thumb, and I don't ride a motorcycle or bicycle. And as for a facelift, not a chance, I like the way Clint Eastwood looks. And, by the way have you seen Robert Redford lately!

**Lisa Marie Chin:** The lioness is based on a real-life Lisa who really lives in Texas, is Chinese, is gorgeous, and is an amazing person, but to my knowledge doesn't have a Texas accent and is probably not a spy.

**Wendell:** There really is a Wendell, but his real life is much more exciting than that of the character depicted in this book. He's a retired "government employee," and a retired professor and his name isn't Wendell.

**Kathy** : Kathy was played by Kathy and is a real marriage and family counselor. She is also hilarious and has a laugh that can crack coconuts, strip paint, and shatter glass. She's my good friend and source of wisdom and comfort. She is no longer with us, but her spirit certainly is and for that reason I speak of her in the present tense. This book is dedicated to her.

**Big Guy:** The guy at Albertson's who cut in front of me with a full cart when I only had one item. When he turned and smirked I knew I had to write a novel—he was too good of a bad guy to waste in real life.

**Razor Eyes** : The little weasel who stole my bicycle when I was in graduate school.

**Blonde Russian Spy:** The blond I met in S.F. who flirted with me, asked that I call her, gave me a number that actually turned out to be the number for the Mitchell Bros. Porno Theatre.

**The CIA Guys:** I'm of the mind that two out every four Mormon missionaries are really CIA agents.

**Vienna:** Vienna was played by Vienna, one of the most beautiful cities in the world.

NO PLANTS WERE ACTUALLY HARMED IN THE WRITING OF THIS BOOK.

(Except for the one that I forgot to water because I was so busy reading maps of Vienna, and because I'm not a botanist.)

_Thanks for reading_ _Facelift_ _. It was fun to write. I hope you enjoyed reading it. There will be more, watch for the next CB novel. --J.C. Canon_

