"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?"