NO GUTS, NO GLORY, by Edward M. Lerner I have a theory about baseball caps and intelligence. Grown men who wear baseball caps move their lips when they read. Grown men who wear baseball caps backwards can’t read. Okay, I’ll make exceptions for actual pro ball players.
And then, in a league of his own, we have Alistair Winkler. The first words I heard from Alistair’s lips, plaintively spoken, were, “Have you seen my baseball cap? I can’t find it.”
Appearances can be deceiving.
* * * *
I had just emerged from my office, too bored for the usual charade. You know: where my secretary keeps a client waiting to show how little I need the business. Right.
Winkler was looking all around, befuddled. He was comfortably middle-aged, average in height and spare-tire size. His eyes, behind Coke-bottle-bottom lenses, were muddy brown. It was windy today; my new client hadn’t bothered to comb his sparse hair since coming inside—maybe not since the Carter administration. For sure, that was when he’d bought his tweed sport coat. Lapels don’t lie.
“Mr. Winkler?” I said. “Come this way, please. My secretary will be happy to look for your cap.” It might even have been true. Phyllis was as bored as I.
My client clutched a shoebox that leaked receipts. If only he had misplaced that. He mumbled something as I settled him at the conference table.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Doctor Winkler.”
“Sorry.” Appearances can be deceiving, I thought, reaching for his box. “When you made your appointment, did Phyllis tell you to bring your last three returns?”
“They’re in the box.”
Meaning they were, at best, folded. Based on the crumbled receipts, I’d have bet on finding the returns wadded up. Too bad I didn’t have any money; I’d have won. Sliding the old 1040s back and forth across a table edge to flatten them, I asked. “So what’s your field?”
Winkler mumbled again, something about guts. That was less disturbing than his old returns, which, it appeared, he had prepared himself. He sure wrote like a doctor.
“Um,” I responded insightfully. “I don’t understand medical specialties. Does that make you a GI doc?” As in: It may be shit to you, but it’s my bread and butter.
Winkler’s hearty laugh surprised me. “I’m a Ph.D. in physics, not a medical doctor. GUT stands for grand unified theory. You’re familiar, of course, with the work aimed at unifying the gravitational, electroweak, and strong nuclear forces.”
Electro-who? I hid behind an old tax form, where an odd entry caught my eye. “What’s this $407,000 in ‘other income’ from two years ago?”
Winkler scratched his head, then brightened. “Oh, that must be my share of the Nobel.”
I did say appearances can be deceiving, didn’t I?
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. От классики до современности.