Free This Old Man by Lois Ruby

for Mr. Saxe’s toying with the lock on his pitiful briefcase. Out on the street he looked harried. He avoided my eyes. “Well, that was even more successful than I thought it would be. I’ve got to dash. My five-thirty’s waiting for me at the office. You know how to get home, don’t you?” he asked vaguely. What if I had said no?
    â€œSure I do, I’m streetwise, remember?”
    â€œOh, yes.”
    â€œYou know what, Mr. Saxe?”
    â€œWhat’s that?” he asked, shoving his sleeve over his watch. I didn’t know why he bothered, because the clock tower was striking the half hour. I guess he was trying to tell me to make it snappy.
    â€œI say this with all due respect, Mr. Saxe. You’re an S.O.B.”
    He seemed startled for a second, as if he had been accused unjustly, but he’d been trained not to respond to personal insult from clients, so he just turned around and said, “I’m not sure I know where you’re coming from just now, but we’ll discuss your feelings in my office on Tuesday. Put them on hold, okay?” And he was gone.
    Talk about feeling deflated. I walked in slow motion to the newsstand on the corner. The headlines were screaming things like MASSACRE IN LEBANON and 9.8% UNEMPLOYMENT and FIRST AMERICAN WOMAN IN SPACE . I looked over the magazines—the women’s magazines, the diet magazines, the mechanics magazines, the science fiction magazines, the girlie magazines, the puzzle magazines, the decorating magazines, the Pyychology Todays and Today’s Healths —and I picked out one called Major League Baseball . I decided I’d give myself two weeks to become the world’s expert on the San Francisco Giants.
    There we were on Tuesday in the same office, with the same moon-sized clock that clicked each time it advanced a minute. Mr. Saxe wasn’t about to bring up the Incident on Sutter Street. He was waiting for me to do it.
    â€œI was mad,” I blurted out.
    â€œWould you like to expand on that?”
    â€œOh, I don’t know, I guess I was just fed up with your patience and your monotone. Don’t you ever get mad?”
    â€œI try not to get mad here.”
    â€œWhat self-control.”
    â€œThere was more to it than that, wasn’t there? After all, you called me a particularly hard name.”
    â€œOkay, you want to know?” Why not? He had promised he wouldn’t get mad. “You made me sick groveling in front of that pig Quinn. What could he do to you, that you have to get down on your knees?”
    â€œIt’s not what he could do to me, it’s what he can do for you. For so many of my kids. He represents several corporations that are willing to hire, well, let us say, high-risk individuals. I need him.”
    I wasn’t satisfied. I was going for blood. “I think I’ll drop by my mother’s place tomorrow.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œYou heard.”
    He regained his composure fast. “You realize what the risk is in doing that, don’t you?”
    â€œOh, yeah, sure.”
    â€œI will not be responsible for what happens, if you disregard my advice.”
    â€œNaw, I’m not going to hold you responsible.”
    â€œGreta, I submit that you’re just angry at Mr. Quinn, at me, I’m not sure at what all. But please, my dear, don’t do anything foolish. Don’t invite trouble.” The hand clicked toward the end of our hour.
    â€œOur time has expired,” I said, imitating his tone exactly, down to his thick s ’s. Let him feel like a parking meter, for a change.
    He gave me a heavy sigh. “Nothing is resolved; we’ve only opened wounds.” I almost felt sorry for him. He was so used to tying things into neat forty-five-minute packages, and this one was popping out all over.
    â€œListen, we’ll work on it next time,” I assured him flippantly. I hoped I had succeeded in spoiling not only my