Three Balconies by Bruce Jay Friedman Page B

with his flounder fillets in time to receive a call from the representative of a family of blind Hispanics who had all been fired from their basket-weaving jobs on the eve of Thanksgiving. Before the man could ask for financial assistance, Dugan, to his everlasting shame, shouted into the phone.
    â€œI can’t take any more of this. Speak to my wife.”
    On that note, he packed an over-the-shoulder carry-all bag with pajamas, underwear, toiletries and a Helmuth Von Moltke memoir he planned to finish reading, no matter what. Then he drove to the hospital, although in truth, it was so close to his house that he could have walked. Of late, his wife had hinted that she’d
had her fill of small town intrigue and wouldn’t mind moving back to the city. Normally, Dugan gave in to her every whim. But on this occasion, he stalled and failed to list the house with a broker. He loved his spacious Colonial which was in such sharp contrast to the cramped apartment he had lived in as a boy. Also, he enjoyed the proximity of the hospital. In the winter months particularly, when the chic vacationers were partying in the city, he had the facility virtually to himself.
    Dugan took a seat in the waiting room and was alone, except for a bartender who had suffered a clamming injury on his day off. When Dugan’s name was called, he flashed a Fast-Track card and was whisked right through to a preliminary examining room where a nurse silently recorded his temperature and blood pressure.
    As luck would have it, the doctor on call was Alvin Murdoch, Dugan’s own physician, who had recently moved to the community, quickly attracting a strong following among the locals. Murdoch had once stopped Dugan outside the post office and gotten him to sign a petition having to do with encroaching health providers. It probably made sense, but Dugan felt he had been bullied into putting his name on it and had mistrusted Murdoch ever since. But the doctor had a reputation for thoroughness and it was difficult to get an appointment with him – so Dugan stayed on as a patient.
    Murdoch checked the nurse’s findings, then called up the results of Dugan’s recent physical on the computer. He made some notes, then crossed his legs daintily, folded his hands on his knees and flashed the boyish smile that everyone except Dugan had found engaging.
    â€œYou look great. What’s wrong?”
    â€œNot a thing,” said Dugan. “Actually, I’m fit as a fiddle. But as we both know, it’s just a matter of time. So I thought I might as well check in and get an early start.”

Neck and Neck
    ALBERT P. WIENER. The mention of his name hadn’t always made Baum sick with envy. Weiner was a few years his senior, but the two had started out neck and neck in the literary world. Wiener had published a bildungsroman which was praised for its intellectual reach, although several critics found it “bloated.” Baum agreed, but felt that Wiener’s skills were undeniable. Baum himself had written a book of stories – fables, really – that were admired by reviewers for their inventiveness and concision. Both Wiener and Baum were cited by the Frederick Buchner Foundation as two of the most promising artists of the Post-World War Two era.
    Baum met Wiener for the first time at a literary cocktail party in Cologne. The tall and hawk-nosed Wiener told Baum: “You are on the cusp of something.”
    â€œAs you are, too,” said the shorter and more compactly built Baum, somewhat awkwardly.
    For the next decade, both artists followed a similar path – publishing books and stories and essays that, for the most part, were warmly received. Wiener was shortlisted for the distinguished Gechwisterlein Award. Baum actually won the only slightly less esteemed Frankel/Sagner Prize for yet another volume of his finely crafted fables.
    At this point, their careers – or literary lives – took divergent