"My Ubiquitous Acquaintance"

I have been an acquaintance of Ray Canfield since January of 1968. Ray had married a Hammonton, New Jersey girl Phyllis Amedio, who at St Joseph High School happened to be one of my wife Joanne''s best friends, and in retrospect, I recollect that the four of us had attended a memorable New Year''s Eve party at a popular local restaurant down near Vineland. Upon first impression, I found Ray Canfield to be a rather easy-going amiable fellow.

“You''re not from Hammonton,” I remember politely asking my new friend. “Where did you go to high school?”

“Actually, West Catholic over in Philly'',” Ray promptly answered. “It was an all-boys school back then, but even without girls, we still drove the Christian Brothers crazy.”

“No kidding,” I pleasantly remarked. “When I had lived in Levittown, Pennsylvania back in 1958 and ''59, I had a good buddy named Bob Jalonek who also had been a student at West Catholic. And if my fuzzy memory serves me correctly, Bob had attended that high school before moving to Levittown and my pal wanted to continue his education back in Philly'' because the newly constructed Bishop Egan High only had academic accommodations for freshmen and sophomores in its first several years of existence.”

“Did this guy you''re describing have blond hair slicked back in a really cool D.A.? Was he good-looking and a real ladies man?” Canfield innocently inquired, showing more than a mild interest.

“You got that depiction right!” I quickly verified. “Bob''s dad had a fantastic cream and green ''57 Chevy, which as you know was perhaps the neatest cruisin'' automobile around in the late ''50s. But that''s quite remarkable Ray!” I exclaimed. “You once knew my best Levittown teenage friend Bob Jalonek. Fact is, I haven''t seen or heard from the incredible stud for a half century now!”

“And believe it or not,” Canfield coyly added and then paused for dramatic effect. “I too had ridden in that same boss ''57 Chevy when good old Bob would occasionally visit West Philly'' and deliberately show-off his hypnotic mean machine! We had no trouble picking-up hot-looking chicks!” Ray inadvertently emphasized as Phyllis and Joanne simultaneously frowned in his direction at our crowded New Year''s Eve table.

At that same raucous New Year''s Eve affair, precisely ten minutes before the traditional exuberant celebration time, Ray Canfield had slightly moved his rickety chair several inches backward from the table and had accidentally nudged his shoulder against a not-too-sociable highly-tattooed motorcycle gang member, whose volatile burly, surly amigos immediately wanted to initiate a barroom brawl with Canfield and me, so we quickly grabbed our wives by the arm, spontaneously meandered through the throng of jubilant revelers and next hastily escorted the ladies out of the rollicking restaurant mere moments before any of us could be brutally mauled, maimed, mangled or mutilated.

In March of 1976 I had been invited to join the Hammonton Lions Club by Arthur Orsi, who was then the charitable organization''s president. Much to my curiosity and momentary surprise, that evening Art had also invited Ray Canfield as a guest for him to consider becoming a prospective member. As destiny turned-out, Ray Canfield (whom I had often jokingly called “Ray Cranfield” just to aggravate his ego) had later become club president in 1979-80 and I had eventually assumed that extensive responsibility in 1982-83.

Ray had a friend named Jim Thomas who had recently moved from Wallkill, New York to our somnolent New Jersey town, and after joining the Hammonton Lions Club, our newest member convinced seven prank-loving individuals from his former Wallkill Lions Club to pay a South Jersey visitation to Frog Rock Country Club, where we predictably met every first and third Thursday of each month. Lion Jim Thomas had introduced to the Hammonton Club a new creative fundraiser that he had chaired up in Wallkill, selling giant coloring books to the grateful parents of enthusiastic young kids throughout the community.

The un-magnificent seven New York Lions traveled around 150 miles down to Hammonton and just when a group of the on-a-mission instigators were cleverly distracting our club officers, two other mischievous Wallkill Lions nefariously pilfered our club bell and accompanying gavel. According to standard Lions'' custom, the Hammonton Club then had to journey all the way up to Wallkill to humbly retrieve our very necessary lost inventory, the very common practice essentially designed to promote genuine fellowship along with subsequent visitations to other Lions Clubs.

On the way up to Wallkill I was diligently driving a huge rented RV on the Jersey Turnpike with all-too-garrulous Ray Canfield riding shotgun and with twenty other opinionated Hammonton Lions ambitiously drinking and eating at various tables and seats situated directly behind us. The New York metropolitan-area traffic was bumper-to-bumper in the vicinity of the Newark Airport. Upon Canfield''s ridiculous unsolicited advice, I elected to change lanes during all of the intense congestion and turn the gigantic steering wheel to the right amidst all of the distraction and boisterous male confusion being enacted behind. While executing the rather difficult maneuver, to my chagrin, I had partially ripped-off the expensive RV''s rear bumper when a stubborn tractor trailer driver took offense to me aggressively switching lanes in front of him.

The alluded-to minor accident had occurred in the late ''70s during the Jimmy Carter Administration, and there happened to be long gas lines along with frustrating fuel rationing everywhere. Later at the scheduled meeting our club had successfully reclaimed our treasured bell and gavel up in Wallkill, and on the return trip south we (out of absolute necessity) stopped at the north end of the Garden State Parkway for the explicit purpose of replenishing our gasoline supply. At that terrible time in American history, if your vehicle''s license plate ended in an odd number and your intended refill was attempted on an even-numbered day of the month, then the service station attendants would refuse filling-up your tank. But the Hammonton Lions were not to be denied.

On board the RV were four half-inebriated feeling-no-pain New Jersey State Troopers, who fortunately were also Hammonton Lions Club members. Several of the more daring cops flashed their badges and then nonchalantly opened their jackets, thus exposing guns in their shoulder holsters.

“Look Pal!” one of our more distinguished and loquacious state policemen imperatively addressed the now-alarmed and incidentally petrified gas center attendant. “We''re on a really serious drug-bust mission and if you don''t cooperate with us as expected, you''ll be accused of obstructing justice in a court of law! Do you now fully understand the potential consequences of your intransigence?”

“Yes Sir! Right away Sir!” the intimidated and exasperated pump-worker hollered up to the open window. “I''m law-abiding! I didn''t mean to cause you important fellas'' any trouble!”

Now the affected Lions aboard the RV would have never had to go through all of that hard-core melodramatic delay if irascible Ray Canfield hadn''t invited Jim Thomas to voluntarily join our close-knit fraternity. One of our more dynamic club members, Nick Perone, owned a large automobile repair shop up on Route 30, Hammonton''s White Horse Pike. Upon arriving back into town at midnight, Nick audaciously hopped into the RV''s driver seat and then sternly demanded that we all exit the mammoth-but-convenient mode of transportation. Perone then put the transmission''s gearshift into reverse and the ingenious mechanic proceeded to violently slam the oversized RV smack-dab into the side cinder-block wall of his commercial garage, and miraculously, upon impact, the formerly dangling back bumper had become pressed back into its proper position without any particular notice of ever being mangled on even somewhat tampered with.

Throughout the last five decades, Ray Canfield had tried his hand at many different challenging occupations and businesses, among the most prominent endeavors being: boldly buying the Town House Restaurant on North Third Street and soon changing the establishment into The Bull''s Horn Bistro; being a highly skilled bartender at three often-frequented South Jersey taverns; driving a utilitarian “prescription drug van” and competently delivering vital medical supplies to ailing patients'' homes; playing bass guitar in a ''50s rock and roll band; being a reliable bus driver, and finally, once owning and operating a viable driving school with his wife Phyllis.

Naturally, Joanne and I would run-into Ray Canfield at various regional places when we least expected it. Once we had met “the itinerant one” thirty miles away from town at the March Philadelphia Flower Show at the downtown Convention Center, and another time Ray and Phyllis suddenly appeared by surprise, their familiar faces landing in line just behind my wife and me outside 5^th Avenue''s Radio City Music Hall with them showing-up only minutes prior to our admission into the annual Rockettes Christmas Show extravaganza. And on still another occasion, Joanne and I were standing in a boring buffet line at the elegant Las Vegas Bilaggio and who magically materializes right next to us but an animated Ray Canfield, who incidentally had been attending a New Products and Franchising Convention being given in Sin City, the eager entrepreneur/attendee apparently seeking a new profitable method of earning a comfortable living.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Around Thanksgiving of 1979 Joanne and I were at a dinner engagement at the historic Smithville Inn over on Route 9 near Atlantic City, and who do you imagine was the extremely cordial bartender? None other than the ubiquitous Ray Canfield.

“Hey Ray, I thought you were tending bar at either Frog Rock Country Club or over at Joe''s Maplewood?” I casually interrogated, obviously anticipating basic clarification.

“The tips are much better here at Smithville!” Ray loudly commented above the obnoxious human voices saturating the surrounding atmosphere. “There''s definitely more customer volume! And you know me! Always searching for something better and never satisfied with where I am! And besides this gig,” the talkative omnipresent fellow continued his splendid narrative, “starting next week I''ll be playing bass guitar every Friday and Saturday nights over on Pacific Avenue in Atlantic City. Maybe you and Joanne could stop in and hear my group perform some fine night.”

Much to my heartfelt regret, I had never visited the recommended Pacific Avenue bar establishment but in later years, Joanne and I were stunned wedding guests down at the Avalon Yacht Club when we suddenly witnessed Ray Canfield standing upon the elevated stage, fretting away on his cherished electric bass guitar, his newly organized band being the posh affair''s principal source of entertainment. And as a related addendum, I was not astonished upon discovering that “Cranfield” later that year turned-out to be my son Joe''s Little League baseball coach and also that autumn, my youngest son Steve''s youth soccer coach.

In July 1981, Ray Canfield had secretly driven a contingent of Hammonton Lions down to Ocean City, Maryland, where I had owned the Dealers Choice Amusement Arcade at 410 South Boardwalk. Naturally I felt obligated to leave my thriving summer business in the charge of my two experienced store managers while I reluctantly entertained the six rather-jovial New Jersey gentlemen to a fairly expensive beer, spicy steamed shrimp and Maryland crab supper up in my small Apartment #10, which was located directly above the country''s oldest operating merry-go-round, the unique colorful carousel constantly playing loud calliope music emanating from inside Trimper''s Amusement Center situated near the south end of the famous Ocean City, Maryland boardwalk.

Then in late August of 1981, I was busy working behind the cash register inside my boardwalk tee-shirt store (which I only visited one night a week), the retail business located under the Star of the Sea Condominiums at the south end of the Rehoboth Beach, Delaware boardwalk. Much to my prodigious shock, who strolls inside the front portals to buy a decal-emblazoned piece of summer heather-material apparel but the inimitable Ray Canfield.

“Hey, I didn''t know you had a tee-shirt store!” Canfield typically bellowed and laughed. “I knew all about your Ocean City, Maryland gaming arcade but nothing at all about this pretty nifty place! In all our previous conversations, you never told me about this certain enterprise of yours! Say now, how would you like investing in a terrific new project I have in mind? I plan on buying the Town House over on North Third Street right across the road from Marinella''s Funeral Home! In the early ''60s Joanne and Phyllis would often walk over there to the old Town House for a late lunch after attending their afternoon St. Joe classes.”

“No thanks Ray!” I skeptically and suspiciously replied to his partnership proposal. “I''m trying to save enough money for my three sons'' college educations. And besides that big problem, I still have a sizable mortgage on my house and also quite frankly, I need to purchase a new station wagon to transport tee-shirts and stuffed animals from my garage up in Hammonton onto the Cape May-Lewes Ferry to travel across Delaware Bay and then motor down to my two separate boardwalk stores, which of course, as you now know, are a full thirty miles apart.”

In 1986 I had been teaching English at the Hammonton Middle School, and over the week-long Christmas holiday vacation, Gordon Strycula, a faculty colleague (and an avid amateur taxidermist) asked me to accompany him on a “shooting expedition” at a Gettysburg, Pennsylvania hunting preserve.

“Who else is going?” I characteristically asked.

“Oh, you, me, John Maglieri and another fella'' from town named Ray Canfield,” Strycula informed. “Ray says he knows you.”

“Yeah Gordy. Ray and I go way back. We''re both past presidents of the town Lions Club.”

At the aforementioned hunting preserve I had proudly bagged a beautiful white ram with enormous curved horns that I intended to display above my den''s fireplace mantel. While the majestic-looking animal was being gutted back at the camp, Spanish instructor John Maglieri and I were walking up a ridge to see if we could spot Gordon Strycula and Ray Canfield scouting-out targeted animals they desired bagging for both meat and prospective trophy mounting. Suddenly our sensitive ears perceived two loud rifle blasts and then discerned excited shouting originating from the opposite side of the grassy incline.

“Run for your lives!” I recognized Ray Canfield''s apprehensive voice vigorously commanding. “Run for your lives!” the neurotic hunter wildly reiterated.

Near the top of the ridge, my then-frightened eyes witnessed an enormous wounded wild boar speedily descending the incline and rapidly hustling towards John and me. The angry beast, possessing razor-sharp tusks, was vociferously snorting with an ample amount of rancid-looking blood and saliva ominously dangling from its very ferocious jaws. The distressed monster had selected Maglieri and me for its new-found ''revenge victims'', whom the vicious brute would savagely take its elevated agony and animosity out upon.

John and I swiftly dropped our rifles and desperately scampered to a nearby thin oak tree. We managed to shinny up to the first pair of limbs, around ten feet off the ground, when the incensed fierce boar smashed its thick skull hard into the tree base, its action being a hostile exhibition of primal rage. The dangerous creature repeated its mania twice again with the skinny oak tree wildly shaking, and then the agitated black boar amazingly darted around the tree three consecutive times before Ray Canfield and Gordon Strycula finally approached and fired two shots each into the ugly bleeding lice-infested pig, effectively sending the crazed beast''s out-of-control soul directly to hog heaven.

That evening back in Hammonton the four of us reminisced the day''s sensational events and then shared other extraordinary stories from our separate pasts. I suavely related to the other three amateur hunters how in my youth I had often taken a public service bus with a few friends from downtown Hammonton to the world-renowned Steel Pier on the Atlantic City boardwalk. The bus would invariably stop at a small cafeteria on Route 30 called Burdicks, and ironically, three of my distant cousins, Johnny, Phil and Tommy Fallucca, whom I had never known, (but had known of from random family drivel), worked summer days at Burdicks, and each cousin had probably waited on me at one time or another from behind the counter without me ever being aware of their true identities.

“You gotta'' be kidding me!” a dumbfounded Ray Canfield piped-up with an element of wonder quite evident in his tone of voice. “You mean Burdicks, which was located in Devonshire on the White Horse Pike right across from the old Circus Drive-in Movie!”

“Yeah, exactly!” I communicated to Canfield inside the Route 30 Silver Coin Diner, not entirely realizing the general significance of my initial statement. “What''s the big deal about that rather ordinary activity from my teen past?”

“When I was a struggling student at Trenton State College,” Canfield seriously revealed, almost choking on the hamburger meat still lodged inside his mouth, “to earn some money for school tuition I drove a public service bus on my all-too-familiar route from Camden through Hammonton, a total of sixty mundane miles east all the way to Atlantic City. I probably had....”

“Picked me up as a passenger and now, a half century later, the jigsaw puzzle pieces are astoundingly and coincidentally connected!” I marveled and uttered. “This is almost too hard to believe Ray. You drove a bus and then later owned a driving school with Phyllis, who had done your basic accounting and had kept all your books. I recall hearing a fascinating story with you teaching that Indian woman that works at the Atlantic County Library over on Egg Harbor Road, I think her name is....”

“Pridy Mody,” Ray chuckled and disclosed for the benefit of our two captivated listeners, John Maglieri and Gordon Strycula seated beside us at the diner''s serving counter. “I had dropped off Mrs. Mody, who incidentally was attractively dressed in her fancy silk New Delhi apparel, at the Hammonton Post Office, where she had to mail some personal letters. Upon her return to the car, the very formal well-mannered Indian lady entered the passenger side and immediately observed a black cat staring at her on the sidewalk. This woman Pridy Mody anxiously told me to step on the gas because the wicked cat had an especially evil nature and would soon attempt attacking my dual-control driver training car. I scoffed at the lady''s seemingly absurd idea when....”

“When the black cat jumped onto the car''s hood with raised fur on its back and fanatically hissed and screeched, scaring the living daylights out of both you and Pridy Mody,” I finished Ray Canfield''s fascinating story. “Your abundant adventures often seem more like misadventures,” I accurately concluded, much to the total amusement of both Gordon and John.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

On December 28, 2012, I had called my plumber Joe Hiltwine to come over to my residence to replace an old bathtub valve and also to install a brand new environmentally-friendly low-water-usage toilet in my downstairs powder room. Joe passively explained to me that he had just paid a visit to Ray Canfield''s house on Fourth Street to snake-out a clogged septic pipe all the way from the basement out to the street sewage connection.

“Do you know Ray Canfield?” Joe Hiltwine wondered and asked. “In such a small town like Hammonton, everyone knows or probably has heard of everyone else.”

“A remote acquaintance,” I fibbed, trying to satisfactorily reconcile in my mind the monotonous redundant recurring Canfield appearance pattern. “Ray was once in the local Lions Club with me and I had been his public relations chairman, constantly feeding club activity news and a stream of publicity pictures to the area press.”

Thirty minutes later, I suddenly became involved in a classic slapstick Three Stooges'' episode with Joe Hiltwine playing Larry and me starring in the victim''s role of Curly. Thinking about the latest Ray Canfield coincidence, I had opened the white wooden door and stepped from my laundry room down onto my garage''s cement floor, and immediately after undertaking my first step with my left foot, my right foot then made painful contact with my recently removed downstairs toilet, which Joe had unintentionally placed behind the door while going to his van to obtain the new toilet for appropriate installation.

I lurched forward, my right leg making initial excruciating contact with the object''s dense hard rim, and next, my in-flight vulnerable torso then forcefully crashing (with noteworthy authority) directly into the empty toilet tank, immediately knocking the heavy white object over onto its side. My abused body roughly bounced off of the overturned ceramic obstacle with me fortunately landing upon my outstretched hands, being somewhat grateful that the toilet had somehow cushioned my clumsy fall.

Instantly I rose to my feet, vaguely comprehending that a pretty decent chunk of flesh had been torn from my right shin as a result of me not noticing the misplaced toilet hidden behind the closed mudroom door.

“Did you just yell something?” Hiltwine hollered from inside his parked van. “What did you yell?”

Feeling fully embarrassed and under extreme duress, I boomed back in agony while examining my ugly leg damage, “No Joe! I just wanted to see how you were progressing with the toilet exchange. I''ll talk to you later about it.”

The next morning Joanne didn''t like the way that my leg wound was healing so being concerned, she drove me a mile down the White Horse Pike to the AlantiCare Emergency Hospital Clinic. I endured the terrible throbbing discomfort pulsating from my right shin simply because two good-looking medical babes washed and cleansed the deep cut, gave me a preventative tetanus shot, wheeled me down to the X-ray department for an obligatory injury photo'' shoot (to ascertain that there was no fracture or bone chip), and then the pair of pretty nurses dressed the bloody area, and since the shin could not be easily stitched, the two merciful dolls finally released me from their most benevolent custody.

On December 30^th friends from Burlington, Jerry and Irene Gares gave me a call and announced that they would be coming to Hammonton for a surprise 70^th birthday party for a high school friend. The party was to be held at Frog Rock Country Club, since their honored female high school classmate was now living in Egg Harbor City, only twelve miles east of my ordinarily quiet hometown. Jerry alerted me that he and Irene would be stopping by the house after five p m to share some recent gossip and to drink (with Joanne and me) a fresh bottle of vintage Cabernet Sauvignon.

Before I could ever tell Jerry and Irene about my severe toilet-caused shin injury, the Gares related to me something that sounded virtually phenomenal in scope and sequence.

“At Frog Rock we were sitting with an area friend of our ex-Burlington classmate,” Jerry confidentially related. “The really nice guy lives in Hammonton and his name is Ray Canfield.”

“Did this fella'' Ray Canfield tell you that he remotely knows me,” I asked. “Ray and I had joined the local Lions Club together way back in March of 1976, the nation''s Bicentennial Year!”

“No, your name never came-up in our lengthy conversation,” Jerry sadly divulged. “I gotta'' apologize. I''d neglected to mention to Ray that you were a Hammonton friend of mine. If you remember, you and I had been introduced to each other back in 1996 by Professor Bill Burns when all of us were partying at his beach home down in Stone Harbor.”

“Yes!” I automatically confirmed, my puzzled cerebrum still focused on the most current Ray Canfield coincidence over at Frog Rock. “Bill Burns is friendly with Earnie, a guy who owns seven pharmacies in various South Jersey towns. In fact, here''s another outstanding coincidence for you to consider Jerry. In addition to a home in Stone Harbor, Earnie also has a home in Florida and a third one over in Medford too. My good friend Jim Amari, who had taught with me at Hammonton High School for nine years before becoming a guidance counselor in Glassboro and an elementary school principal in Marlton, well anyway Jerry,” I awkwardly proceeded, “Jim has a home in Medford that''s only a block away from Earnie''s.”

“That''s mighty odd and it''s relatively unbelievable!” Jerry Gares acknowledged and stated. “My older brother Will had once worked in Earnie''s pharmacy in Beverley, just outside Burlington City. And as you very well know,” Dr. Gares pontificated before imbibing more delicious red wine, “I''m also acquainted with your good buddy Jim Amari. When I was the Assistant Superintendent of schools over in Burlington Township, I had met your pal Jim at several regional administrative conferences!”

The very next afternoon I received a common phone call from my younger brother Skip, who was returning from visiting friends out in Michigan. My brother had stopped his long excursion to spend the night at a motel in Ohio.

“Just to let you know I''m safe and sound and still breathing oxygen,” Skip pessimistically began the sibling dialogue. “To tell you the honest truth, I had a great time touring the Ford Museum and Greenfield Village in Dearborn, just outside Detroit. The museum was fabulous and my old New Jersey friends Frank and Mike enjoyed it all too! The Ford Museum even had the original Oscar Mayer Weinermobile on display!”

“Excellent!” I diplomatically commended. “Now I suppose you''re about seven hours away from Jersey, still having to drive through all of the Keystone State from Pittsburgh to Philly'' on the very long Pennsy'' Turnpike. What city are you near? Cleveland? Columbus?”

“Actually Big Brother, I turned off of Interstate 76 ten miles south of Youngstown and I''m now camping-out for the night at the Colonial Inn Motel in a remote town called Canfield, which is, I estimate, around the same size as Hammonton.”

There was a momentary pause in the bland discussion as my confused brain gathered and then crudely synthesized its totally disheveled wits. I then alertly and ingeniously perceived that Canfield, Ohio symbolically represented yet another weird arcane omen or cryptic cosmic sign.

“Okay Skip, call me when ya'' get back to Hammonton,” I insisted. “I''ve been taking care of your cats, feeding them in your cellar every day and also disposing of their litter. Sometimes I''m pretty big on logically practicing home hygiene.”

“Thanks a lot Bro. See ya'' when I get back to town,” Skip closed. Click.

On New Year''s Eve Joanne and I had just returned from a merry party at her cousin Chick Sceia''s Fernwood Drive place when the kitchen land-line phone rang with the caller being euphoric Professor Bill Burns on the horn. Bill and wife Fran were celebrating January 1^st at Earnie''s plush Stone Harbor residence.

“Guess what!” Burns prefaced his genial comments, attempting to arouse a degree of suspense in me. “Fran and I are at Earnie''s place and your Medford friends you talk about all the time, Jim and Loretta Amari, well, they''re here too. We just met them. Earnie introduced us! And I gotta'' admit, they''re both funny people, just like you had always described them!”

“That''s truly supreme!” I reflexively praised the former Political Science prof''. “Happy New Year to you and Fran and kindly give Jim and Loretta my best regards!”

“And there''s someone else here at Earnie''s who claims to know you, a talkative Hammonton guy by the name of Ray Canfield.”

“Tell Ray ''Happy New Year'' for me,” I requested, my addled brain then swimming in a deep quandary, my fragile mind being curious as to how Canfield had been acquainted with the notoriously prosperous pharmacist mogul Earnie. “Joanne and I will see you, Fran along with Jerry and Irene at Maggiano''s Restaurant at noon right after your next January eye appointment in Cherry Hill,” I reminded my retired professor pal. “Don''t forget to check your calendar! See ya'' on January 15th Bill! Happy New Year!” Click.

Last night I received a phone call from Pete Santilli, a former middle school teacher colleague who is now retired and presently organizing an upcoming two-week Italy/Sicily trip this coming April.

“Hi Pete, say hello to Barbara for me,” I cheerfully greeted. “Let me see if I correctly remember our itinerary. We fly from Philly'' to Rome, with three days touring the Eternal City. Then we motor-bus to Florence. Two days in Florence and next we bus north over to Venice. Two days in Venice and then we jet to Messina, Sicily, where we''ll tour for two days. Finally, it''s on to Taormina for three days at a luxurious resort before flying back to Rome for one night. Then it''s a nine hour flight to Philly'' to complete our grueling European vacation!”

“Do you know who''s all going?”Pete slowly quizzed me.

“Yes, there''s Joanne and me of course, and you and Barbara, and your sister Mimi and her husband Benny, and there''s Carl and Dottie Mortillite, and Franco and Nancy Scianni, and their son John and his cute wife, and let''s not forget the guy from the Atlantic City casino and his wife.”

“There''s been one more couple added,” Pete methodically mentioned. “The guy says he knows you. It''s...”

“Let me guess!” I quickly interrupted. “I theorize that the latest trip couple happens to be Ray Canfield and his wife Phyllis!”

“How did you ever know that information?” Pete questioned, with an iota of awe evident in his voice tone. “Canfield and I just closed the deal ten minutes ago!”

“Let''s just say Pete that I''m developing a super-bad case of advanced ESP!” I emphatically complained, futilely feigning emotional irritation. “Being psychic does have its radical downside though! In fact Pete,” I clearly maintained, “being clairvoyant can at times be a real bummer, that is, once you''ve fully mastered the rather humdrum talent!”

Jay Dubya

Copyright: 2013, Jay Dubya (John Wiessner)

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