Opening
I can count the number of artist's openings I've been to on one hand.

On one finger, actually.

I secretly long to a part of this world of tortured ids and creative angst but here I'm compelled to stay below the surface lest I become a fish flopping wildly over by the featured installation until guests stare between their jet stick hair and oblong black glasses wondering what all the racket is about and who is that?


Rolling along the wall, I take considered looks at each piece on display. The first 20 seconds is always honest. After that I'm just pretending the work deserves more attention. Frankly I find it all drier than the Chardonnay hanging from my fingers. Despite this, I'm jealous of the passion she must have to create the work. Why does that theme always recur? Artists, salesmen, and Catholics. If I could only be demented enough to be so enthralled and sure of my own way.

I catch a glimpse of a fellow imposter. The husband of the gallery's manager, I'm guessing. Contact is made and we establish our common bond as outsiders. Inevitably, he asks "So what do you do for a living?"

"I repeatedly strike a yellow button on the wall with my beak until food pellets come out the chute, " I reply. "And you?"

" Same"

The CD changes from jazz standards to something impossibly hip. This increases the distance between my center and the rest of the room. A stealth glance at my watch tells me 9:30. I could leave now but I know where that road will take me. To questions I can't answer and rooms that plead escape.

South to North
In 1915 my father's mother died while walking down the stairs. He was 3 years old and they lived in Birmingham, Alabama. I never got many details about the odyssey that followed, just a few milestones.

My dad, Frank, was pretty much raised by his sister who was 10 years his senior. When his father eventually remarried, he gained a couple of stepbrothers to raise hell with and a stepmother he hated. The big change was the move to Chicago at age 14. He apparently didn't care for the Windy City and ran away from home on at least two occassions.

He must have found a way to accept his new home over time, because I remember hearing stories about him singing 3 part harmony on the street corners with his friends, and getting into trouble with his stepbrothers. He bought his first car new in Chicago, a 1931 Ford Fayeton for $750.
So My Dad was raised in 2 worlds - South and North - and I think it muddled his identity. He had no trace of a Southern accent but when he called his sister in Hattiesburg, Mississippi you'd think he'd never left the Gulf Coast. " Well. how y'all doin' down there!"
My favorite example of his cultural confusion happened about 1961. I was 10 and the news was full troubles in the South. That was long before any inroads had been made into racial equality. I asked my Dad at dinner one night "Daddy, you're from the South but you don't hate Negroes do you?"
His careful answer pleased my mother very much. Something like "No, son, I believe all men are created equal and that everybody deserves to be treated the same". My mother beamed during the brief silence that followed.

Then he said, "Of course I wouldn't eat with one!"
The scene closes with my mother screaming "Frank!"

Arcade
I took my son to the video arcade today while his sister had a play date. He raced cars and motorcycles through virtual landscapes, kickboxed with scary man beasts, and assaulted evil doers with a variety of weaponry. It's true that boys are made from snips and snails and puppy dog's tails but you don't really know your son until you see him brandish a semi-automatic weapon and take-out terrorists positioned on the Tower Bridge in London. It is both comforting and disturbing to see Jack's considerable sharp shooting skills. I supposed that if I'm ever in a standoff with an ATF task force it will good to have Jack on my team.

Meanwhile Aly was playing with her friend Allie who lives in one of the many mini-Tara's on the other side of town. Allie's Dad is in the baseball hall of fame but, of course, I never heard of him. He has apparently opted to be a free agent and divorced Allie's mom, a drop-dead gorgeous blonde. Going over there to pickup my daughter is another one of those worlds collide experiences. WE get a lot of those. Things often happen that struck Terry and me funny that just stay in our private world. Like the time I was in the local pool with the kids. Aly asked a girl if the woman behind her was her Mom and girl replied "No that's my au pair". I don't know but hearing that through Aly's ears (who was just beginning to learn English then) and seeing the look on her face struck me as funny.
Then there was the event in Jack's kindergarten last year to celebrate the hatching of chicks the kids had been monitoring. They put on a little party called Chick Fest and invited all the parents. And there was Terry trying to bond with the other Sudbury moms with lines like "I wasn't sure how to dress for the Chick Fest. Thought I should wear a black bra and tight pants". No reaction.
It can be lonely here.

Sack o' baggage
You run into this type once in a while - people who look perfectly normal on the outside but are bursting on the inside with a need to unload the story of their life. If you happen to be in the wrong place at the wrong time you'll suffer the consequences of an emotional water main break.
I was working on a lawyers PC yesterday. She was out sick but her secretary, Diane, decided I needed company. I'm not sure how I tripped the switch but for twenty minutes I oscillated between her speed-reading through the Cliffs' Notes of her life and my own internal movie.

I'll be starting at the new job in the courthouse if they ever getting done with the background check. I mean what's taking so long. I'll bet they have me confused with that other Diane M. White who did some jail time. White's my married name from my first husband who was killed... (by his own hand, no doubt). It better not be because of my job at Nixon Peabody. That woman was a bitch. No I mean it, she had big time psychological problems (birds of a feather...) People couldn't believe what I had to put up with. Well I finally had to tell them 'you either fire me or lay me off but I refuse to resign'. (I have to get some work done. Will she ever stop spilling her guts) Anyway I wish they'd hurry up because I'm going to Europe for five weeks. My daughter and her husband live in Switzerland. He works for Nestles. I know that last job contributed to all my stomach problems. They finally figured out it was diverticulitis and they removed a foot of my intestine (she really did spill her guts) My maiden name is Gemelli.....

Sunday Paper
I love the idea of the Sunday paper, so much so that I'm willing to risk my neighbors catching a glimpse of baggy PJs and scary pillow hair so I can retrieve it from the driveway while the coffee brews. There's comfort in sitting in bed with this fistful of stuff at the ready. But maybe it's time to see it for what it is: a mass marketing RPG fired at your house in an ecologically disasterous housing.
You developed invisible habits from reading the paper for so many years. The eyes slalom through advertisments, sidstepping mindless drivel, the fingers yank through pages of nothingness until you settling on the occasional piece of interest. But if you look at the paper with a beginner's mind it is mind-boggling how vacuous 90% of it is. There are, of course the bone-headed ads ( today Radio Shack implores you to Protect your Valentine from ugly overages). The propoganda leaflets that fly out of the comics section represent 45 places to buy a plasma TV. But even more insidious are the fluff news stories.
I'm starting to catalog the topics that make up today's mainstream news. Without trying too hard, here's a list of topics I don't need constant updates on:

• The Michael Jackson trial
• The Israeli-Palestinian conflict
• Charles and Cammilla
• The Pope's health
• Anything relates to the Catholic Church
• Romney, Kerry, Dean, or anything else about the 2008 election
• Stories about TV shows
• The business side of sports
  
• The Grammys

Actually's the Grammys, like the paper, would be a lot more interesting if the focus was taken off the mass media and shone on the little-known. I'll bet the first hour of the event is much more fun that the last.

If I could have a copy of the paper tailored for my needs, here's what would lie therein:

• Opus
• The Ideas section
• The magazine section (only for the crossword)
• Obituaries.
• All the stories after page 10

I am Dad Unit
...and so it has come to pass. By all observations I am starring in the role of Dad but for the life of me I don't how I got here. Much of what I know as real I wasn't prepared for.

• How much they love life. Was I ever that happy?
• How they have nailed English. I hope it is never perfected. I will miss Aly saying things like "I think so I'm gone be havin' a playdate."
• How freely they give their love. In the middle of a computer game Jack will grab my arm tight and say " I love my Daddy"
• How much energy is barely contained in a six year old boy. If you could only put that in a gas tank
• How hard it is to be with them....and without them

We have turned such a corner. I no longer makes jokes like the only thing better than a three day weekend is a two day weekend. It is so much easier now and, with language fully engaged, more rewarding. Lately Terry and I have both independently been thinking of their birth mother. I desperately want her to know that her children and happy, healthy, and growing. But there's no way to deliver that news and even if there was how could it not also be cruel. We will always feel her pain in someway. When I look at Jack and Aly sleeping I often think How bad things must have been for her to do what she did.
God bless, Natalia

Help Wanted
IT Consulting company in Boston area seeks an individual experienced in IT support and administration. To qualify, you must meet the following requirements:

• You know how to fight the vulnerablilities of today's PCs with well-chosen tools, manual edits, as well as practices and procedures honed over time. Your years of hands-on experience battling spam, spyware, and viruses have brought you to the point where you stare up in the heavens and shout "Sweet mother of God, what do I have to do to get some peace, buy a friggin Mac!?"
• You have enough knowledge of Microsoft Exchange to despise its very existence.
• You possess the communications skills to deal with a variety of clients ranging from those with perennial PC Magazine renewals whose ask arcane questions ("Should I get the 15 inch with XGA or the 14 inch with SXGA") to those who shouldn't be within a 1000 miles of a computer ("I've deleted 5 programs and still get out of memory errors").
• When working to revive a 5-year old Win98 PII in the client's 9th floor headquarters, you instinctively look to see whether the windows in the office open.
• You have paid your dues handling cabling issues under users' desks. On at least one occasion you have had to stop, turn off your flashlight and cry softly.
• You enjoy activities such as router configuration, DNS troubleshooting, and scripting not because the work is fun but because these tasks can be done in solitude where there is no one standing nearby asking questions, always with the questions!

Flags
We are like flags. Each tailored and considered, designed to represent something unique
But when you stand in a room where they all shout together, the colors are beautiful but each one seems trivial.
We always build our next step against some unknowable absolute. It is unlikely you'll make a mark in history or humanity. You can only find what's in you and push it out to the world.

Every year I can count on my friend Margaret to send a funny, usually off-color, birthday card. This year's card said, "Happy Birthday to a man who can still put it up and keep it up there". Open the card and there's a toilet with the lid raised.
Funny card, but these days I resonate more with the hand-made cards my kids give me. Aly presented me with her card on my birthday complete with stickers and her unique lettering. Lately her passion has been to practice her lettering by copying words from source she can find - magazines, newpapers, fliers in the mail, whatever.
I have to say I was a little surprised when I opened my card and read this...

Macs & Gays
I go to several clients most days and my world is generally one of corporate sensibility, serious haircuts, family photos, and PC safety. Lawyers, financial planners, construction people.
Yesterday I did some work for Steve, as I do occasionally. He lives in the world of Macs and gays, converted lofts, stark photos, minimal desks, edgy equipment, chrome & steel. Designers, galleries, ad agencies.
Those people are more interesting to be around and their workspaces make you sit back and look. Makes me think I should have gone the Mac route just like I should have veered Art/Left instead of Science/Right.

The results of the election are simply incomprehensible to about 50 million of us. I have rarely, if ever, voted for a winner in a national election. It is usually a short walk to an attitude that says 'Well maybe this guy won't be so bad.' But George W. Bush is a disaster beyond belief and the reality that he can be re-elected is stunning and frightening. It is no less than the beginning of the end of this country. I really believe that.
For people in our generation it represents a 180 degree turn from our days of empowerment. We learned then that a moral breach can be corrected if people take to the streets and make there voices heard through the political process. We ended a war that way. The results of this election tell us No, this can't be done. This war has the potential to be infinitely more dangerous than Vietnam. It's critical to have an intelligent leader who understands how to navigate the waters. Instead we have an idiot who reads nothing, always stays the course (no matter how disasterous) and is imbued with a sense of divine guidance. What could be scarier?I just don't know what to say except What is wrong with us?

365 Good Nights Later
One year ago today, Terry and I made the ninth and last trip to Taldom from Moscow, painfully aware that life as we knew was about to change dramatically. (Update: it did) `There have been moments throughout the year when we have looked across the living room at these kids and thought "Who the hell are these people and what are they doing in my house." That doesn't happen anymore because we crossed the threshold where you may briefly yearn for a resspite from the insanity but you cannot imagine your life without them.

The Sugrue kids have landed into the Sudbury school system like two Sputniks. There is now a woman whose fulltime teaching assistant position is dedicating to helping the our kids. Despite their sometimes odd, sociopathic behaviour, I am enormously proud of Aly and Jack. They are infused with some kind of special sauce that makes them survive. They would have every right to be sullen or scared but they are neither. Both kids embrace life in a big way.

Last night I discovered that I can use Russian to talk to Terry if I don't want the kids to know what I'm saying. They are becoming normal and that makes us a little sad. The incredible journey will be forgotten. Hell week at the Moscow hotel. Meeting the grandparents and cousins. The mind-boggling switch to English. Overcoming exceptionally bad behavior. Terry and I will remember these things but it will be a private matter.



Mala dyets, you guys (nice job).

There is a recurring theme these days that doesn't hit you from every angle as much as it seeps through the floorboards. Its the uneasy sensation that everyone in the world is slowly going mad and you may be the last one standing on solid ground. The bitter irony being: what good would it do to be the last sane man?
You won't see the evidence of this if you've already switched to the other side. You fellow hangers-on will know what I'm talking about. Let's start in the workplace.
Because my business involves service at the offices of many clients, we are afforded natural glimpses into the personalities and mini-cultures in those places. This is what we see
- People will do or say anything to cast a positive light on themsleves. They will tell outrageous lies, blame someone else, invent complex history to keep their reps afloat
- It really does appear that people who rise among the ranks are those who deflect responsibility, have little actual knowledge without revealing this, and know how to make themselves appear indispensible even though the whole organization would be much better off without them.
- It is amazing how even a small culture of 20-30 people can become so dysfunctional. Emails on arcane subjects thread themselves into conversatonal mushrooms as each reader assumes that adding useless input and hitting Reply All will somehow keep their credibility afloat.

The second batch of evidence for the Dwindling Sanity theory is from our currenty active political process. The real victor in this election with be Perception, who handily defeated Reality in a landslide. What's incredible is how people follow along. Just tell me something that makes me feel like American life isn't sliding into a pit. I can drive the Navigator for four more years. Iraq is Al Qaeda. Doesn't matter that 1000 of us died for nothing. We are safer.

Maybe it's not insanity but insanity's little brother: self-deception. But someday he'll grow up and then where will be be?

My town is considered an ideal breeding ground for children but I'm beginning to wonder. It's probably true that the school system is first rate. It's the culture that I worry about.
We have the ethnic diversity of an Icelandic church social. White is everywhere. A few oriental faces, maybe one or two Indian kids in the school, but otherwise a linen landscape.

There are advantages. My son has very dark skin, his biological father probably coming from southern Russia. I can pick him out of busy play ground at a hundred yards. Finding my blonde, blue-eyed daughter, however, is like finding a contact lense in a bowl of water.

I grew up in a town like this. Even worse actually - I never met a Jew or Asian until I went to college. The upbringing is safe, like a double-walled container. But I think there is a price to pay for not knowing the world as it is.

But it isn't just the ethnicity that bothers me. We see a lot of kids at the pool, the playground, and around town. Is it me or are they tightly controlled, building solitary worlds from Play-Dough, quiet and thoughtful, annoyed by loud noises like laughter? These are the budding bulemics, racing through flash cards while scratching hands underneath the table.

Just another day
We didn't hear the classic Jack vault from bed (with one-and-a-half gainer) until about 7:30 this morning. He came in for a parental sandwich for awhile then we were off to the races. For some reason, Jack wanted to paint his body different colors. Terry takes these things in stride now so a few minutes later our son is enjoying the gooey goodness of squeezing red and blue cake frosting from tubes all over his little brown body.

Aly has been wearing her CD walkman all week even tough it has no batteries. We're starting to figure out that fashion will play a role in her life and that this will torture us for years to come. I found some batteries and she took herself for a walk down the street. When she came back she needed to show me something. Someone had written a year (1982, I think) in the asphalt in front of our house. I tried to explain what this was but it's not easy because Aly doesn't know what year this is or what year she was born.

Aly wanted to listen to a different CD, preferably Britney Spears. We went to the usually-forbidden basement where, to my amazement, I produced a Madonna CD. A few minutes later I was watching Aly swinging her ponytail to the music while she read a magazine. It's starting to get scary....

Three years ago today Terry's cousin Christopher was killed in the first 9/11 plane crash. Auntie Rina was scheduled to deliver an inspirational message at a memorial mass. While Terry is scrambling to get out of the house I am drying Jack's whole body with a hair drier so he doesn't wander around the house adding red and blue to everything. 20 minutes later I'm making pancakes but of course there are fights about who gets to stir the batter, pour it, flip the pancakes....

Terry came in. She had only left for mass 40 minutes ago. I asked what happened.

"I got pissed off and left. I made a scene."

"Oh." We've been together 13 years now. I've heard it all but this is a good one. In the sermon for this alleged 9/11 memorial, the priest starts up about which local politicians are Catholic and who voted for and against abortion rights. Terry goes off, makes a noisy exit and yells from the aisle "I'm not here to hear about politicians and abortion. I'm here to remember my cousin Christopher who died."
The priest responds, "Maybe we can talk about it."
Terry says "We won't be talking about anything," and makes her exit.

What is it about Catholic hierarchy? They consistency demonstrate their cluelessness yet manage to take on an air of omnipotence at the same time. Yet people flock to the services in droves and get very upset if their local church is closed.

Anyway, after breakfast the kids watched a little TV. Terry called her mom, her cousin, and Auntie Rina. I took a picture I've been meaning to take all week and played a little piano. Then Terry took the kids to the library while I went for my standard 1 hour bike ride. Just got back. They're still gone.

And it's only 12:30. No wonder I'm tired.

Mr. Wise
For most of us there are only a few people in our lives who make an indeleble impression as we wend our way through life's slalom course. There are many ways a person can be influential. Perhaps they were paternal, avuncular, carefree, funny, focused, philosophical, or just attentive to you. The stickiest characters are the ones who are quirky.

I worked with Bob Wise at Ingersoll Rand. He was a Project Manager and I was a Project Engineer. We worked on a job together for the big contruction company CF Braun. I had only worked with one other PM before and he could not have been more different than Bob.

A couple of things about Bob Wise.
He flaunted organizational skills with multicolored pens, Gantt charts, and liner notes. Papers on his desk were always stacked in perfect tiers, the hand-made titles revealed just so. His array of Flair pens were fanned out in the corner, ready to do his bidding. While he talked on the phone arrows swept from one side of the page to the other. Words got double and triple underlines.

Bob's handwriting was beautiful to look at and almost completely illegible.

He combined a masterery of sarcasm with a readily-accessible bag of quips. During his incessant complaints about the customer he would say in his nasily California drawl, something like These guys don't need Preparation-H, they're perfect assholes! or These guys wouldn't know quality control from venereal disease!

He'd be the first guy to laugh at your joke. Also the first guy to cut you balls off in a meeting. He did it to me once. Maybe that's why he's unforgettable.

Hey, I just said he was memorable, not likeable.

A Self-Reflection Emergency (SRE)
I have impulsively pulled off the road this morning with a need to write. This is not a matter of literary inspiration but more like a journal-writing itch. It is such a beautiful morning. The crisp in the air is offset by the warm sun on my back while I hunch over this picnic table and it looks like a splendid day ahead.
I was queued up at the traffic light with all the other commuters, my bullet pointed toward The Workplace. I just had to break ranks.
There is a common theme emerging from different fronts: It's noise and habit that are killing us.

Maybe I could find these...

Spontaneity, Inspiration, Reflection, Communication, Avocation, Local Color, Appreciation, Sensitivity, Insight, Harmony, Facility, Synchronicity, Peace

... if I could avoid these...

Noise, Routine, Guilt, Excessive Responsibility, Functionality

I've been carrying around the name of a therapist for weeks, waiting for the right moment to call. When I have a rare inclination to think about it, I usually come to a quick conclusion that counseling has no place in a stable life.
But I've been thinking about therapy in another way lately. I imagine our first encounter when I tell her that I'm not here to overcome debilitating depression or panic disorder. I'm here to talk outside the box. Where else could I do that and expect someone's undivided attention and an occasional reaction? I need to hear myself think so that I can clear up who I am and what I value. I want to dispense with unnecessary weight (in every sense), and find resonance, titillation, and comfort again. But before I sign up I think there is some homework to do...

2 Questions
1. What's the problem?
2. What do you want?

First let's dispense with the obvious irony. Looking from the outside, how could a guy like me have a problem? I live in a nice house in a wealthy neighborhood. I am incredibly lucky to have work that has low stress, high income, and tremendous flexibility (shit, now my secret is out). I am reasonably healthy and look decent for my age. I have two wonderful kids that I was able to rescue from dire prospects. I am considered intelligent, creative, and funny.
Bring scope down to ground level
Increase magnitude..
A typical day opens with a few preset challenges. An appointment or two and some office tasks to complete. I do this work in my sleep (and it shows!). I try to nestle into the office but it never feels that good. On occasion there's a block of time in the day that I could apply to any number of things. Working on my web projects, getting exercise, doing something musical. I am rarely comfortable with my choice, usually because of guilt. My house is no longer my home. If the kids are home I feel too guilty to show up and then leave. Terry is stressed so there's even more guilt (although all offers to help are rejected). And so several times a week I find myself lost. And it is during these times that a strange disconnection between me and my own life is revealed. I dwell on the activities that were natural extensions of my identity (writing/playing music, walking in the woods, journal writing) that have all but disappeared without being replaced by anything as satisfying.

In these off-putting moments, I sometimes I'll go into a restaurant around 3:00 in the afternoon. Places are always empty then so you can get a big booth to yourself and have reasonable peace. I'll order a glass of wine with my lunch, open my laptop and have a pleasant hour noodling. Feels pretty good at the time but am I escaping or is that notion based on guilt? Is this guilt something I manufactured?

6 months
It was six months ago today that we walked out of the orphanage in Taldom with these two kids. They are doing extraordinarily well. Language, behavior, attachment...all headed in the right direction. They are growing in every sense of the word. The Best of all, we all love each other.

But here's what's hard from the parent's perspective. This has been a true odyssey. The two trips to Russia. The endless trips between Moscow and Taldom. The smell of the orphanage. The scene in the courtroom. A week in a Moscow hotel room with one bed. Speaking mostly Russian for two months. Some haunting memories of kids left behind. All of that forms a memory that is precious, painful, movie-perfect, and distinctive. Our kids are succeeding. They are blending quickly into the American landscape. It's what we want for them. But the cost is that their unique route to this reality will soon be lost to all onlookers. Not only that, but the special roles we've had to play in helping with their transition will soon be unnecessary. We will simply have to be good parents like everyone else.

We are delighted and sad.

My kids have a toy that consist of an oval plastic train track, a four-car train, a front-end loader that carries and unloads plastic logs and a little helicopter. The design is quite ingenious in the way the pieces interact. The truck dumps picks a log from a hopper, turns around and heads for the other side of the tracks. Just before it gets there it stops and waits for the train. When the train arrives, it stops, then the truck moves forward,dumps the log in a railroad car, and turns to go get a another log. The train dumps it's payload in the hopper on the other side.

What I like about this system is that it mirrors my metaphysical view of the world. The key is that only the truck and the train have batteries (brains). There is no system clock or other smarts associates with the system. Yet it all works in concert. So what the point? The way I look at the world we are more or less free spirits confined only by system (i.e. cultural, social, physical) parameters. Most religions, by contrast, suggest that the system itself has the energy, the smarts. Religions implore us to abide by It's Rules.

Now I don't mean to disregard the system. Nature (like the train tracks) seems specifically and elegantly designed to facilitate it's inhabitants. All I'm saying is it has No Brains. The Designer had brains, though. But what a great combination. A brilliantly-designed giant grid that grows and adapts. The little thinkers interact with it, try to learn from it, adapt it to their needs.

Ouch. My metaphor broke.

Bonsai
I first met Clark when he interviewed me for the job. He'd been a contractor at the FAA for three years by then and they wanted to add their first PC Specialist. It was one of those rare interviews where, by the end, is was obvious you'd just it off and they wanted to cut to the chase and hire you on the spot. Clark had a charming oddball manner that drew you in. He was clearly intelligent but something wasn't quite right. He was handsome and his dress, like his speech, was a little more formal than necessary.

So I became the sixth member of the contractor team. Those were heady days that took the FAA from 3 PCs to a 320 plus a network in a few years. Clark headed our little team leveraging his leadership skills picked up in the military. He often used words like esprit de corps. After getting to know him, it became clear that his experience in VietNam shaped his personality -- probably not in a good way. Much to everyone's horror, Clark often regaled us with gruesome stories of torture he had supposedly witnessed. I'm not sure if his devotion to Christian Science came later in life but Clark seemed to use every spare minute to read passages from the Bible.

He grew up in Gross Pointe, Michigan, one on the wealthiest towns in the country. He was chauffeured to school every day. His father and brother were both doctors. I got the vague sense that Clark was a bit of a black sheep. His reluctant enlistment in the army was an effort to avoid losing his inheritance.

Over time, the focus at the FAA shifted away from the mainframes and toward the PCs and network. That fact, coupled with Clark's odd personality, eventually demoted him to the rank and file. Shortly thereafter, I became head of the contractor team, which had grown to 11 people. Except for a brief instance, Clark handled this awkward reversal well and for the seven years we worked together we got along well.

When Clark's wife, Ruth, left him for an airline pilot, he tried to make the best of it, making jokes that he was now ruthless. But it was pretty clear that he was hit hard and his quirkiness picked up a notch. He was apparently ill-prepared for taking care of himself and we would hear stories about how he would put the pre-made sandwiches - plastic and all - in the microwave for three minutes. Work was all he had in those days so it was good that he got along well with his peers in the computer room. One day the Bonsai plant he meticulously cared for on his desk disappeared. He was distraught until a mysterious envelope appeared the next day. The Polaroid showed the plant front and center. An arm extending from the border held a pistol at close range. The attached ransom note was assembled from cut up newsprint.

Clark eventually met and married a much younger woman. She was an artist of sorts. He was under no delusions, he often proudly proclaimed he was her sugar daddy. We would all roll our eyes as Clark would tell us how exhausting it is to keep such a young woman satisfied. After a few years, she left him too.

One day, Clark indicated he needed a private meeting with me. In hushed tones he offered a cryptic account of changes in his life. His past was catching up with him. The CIA had people staked out in front of his house. He had to watch his back. I didn't have to worry this would be over soon - one way or the other. He was only telling me just in case he didn't show up for work. A few weeks later I happened to be in the computer room when Clark came in to work. When he opened his briefcase to take out his lunch I saw the pistol inside. We talked about it later that day and I asked him to leave the weaponry at home.

The contract at the FAA was cut back under Reagan in 1994. I was moved to another facility where I quickly crashed and burned. Clark was among the 4 or 5 who stayed on. In another year, he was let go. I got a call sometime after that from Lou. He said look on page 6 of the Globe. The body of a man that washed up on the shore near Cohasset was identified as that of Clark G. Kelley.

There was no funeral or wake. Christian Scientists have strange customs in that area. We assumed that the loss of two wives and his job got the better of Clark. But I'd prefer to think the CIA finally got him. That everything he said is true.