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May 13, 2015

"Just call me Scooter," Mr. McGillicuddy says, extending his left hand and then withdrawing it with a "Whoops!" and replacing it with his right hand, balled into a fist, which, when unballed, drops a palmful of dull silvery jacks to the reception area carpet.

Oh, for a little ball to materialize in my palm, so I could crouch and start up a game.  But even if I did, it wouldn't bounce on carpet very well.

"I'd rather call you Jack," I say with a chortle.  "Otherwise, what's the point?"

"Jacks are pointy," he says.  "Is that what you're saying?"

Ugh.