Grogan
I'm in a house that is best described as swanky
. There's shag
carpet on the floors, mod furniture, indirect lighting, and dark wood
accents. The exterior wall of the den is a huge window that looks back
over some woods and a creek. It's overcast out, chilly and misty, and
the view is obstructed by a big, brown dumpster that's filled to
overflowing with debris blown out of the trees.
Several people live in the house, and one of them is a tennis pro. He's giving lessons. I watch for a while. (We're outside now. The courts are clay.) It looks like fun, batting the ball back and forth over the net. I haven't played tennis in a long time, but before I give it a try, I have to find my tennis racket. It's been so long, I can't remember where I left it.
After walking for a while across a grassy field, I find a bag with a racket in it. It's a racketball racket, but I'll be able to make do.
Coming toward me from the courts is one of the people from the house.
The person tells me, You might want to come back. Someone's asking for
you.
Together, we hurry back to the courts. As we get closer, I see that the group is standing around a figure seated on the ground, with his back against the fence. He's grown his hair out again, and has a horseshoe moustache, but it's clearly my old friend Michael Farrar. Even from this distance, he seems withdrawn. People are talking to him, but he's not saying much back.
Hey!
I call to him from an appropriate distance. It's
good to see you, Mr. F. What are you doing here?
He looks up at me. You'd better call me
Grogan
.
What do you mean?
He seems tired. Turning his eyes back down at the court, he scuffs at
the clay with his shoe. The
Michael
identity is pretty worn
out.
I can't think of anything to say.
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