It wasn´t until after the before that what´s-his-name got the call—thunder-bolt, pipe-bomb, a microsecond blank that hurls the body down the stairs—he picked up only to remember that something wanted his attention…it was…it was…thunder-bomb, pipe-bolt, a lengthy plenitude that watches numbers on a screen in a plastic chair. Conviction like soapy water in the kitchen sink began slowly to scale the sides…it was…it was…not until after he paid the bill that he remembered what his name was for: to remind those who called his number that something inside wanted their attention. At last at the end of his rope he pulled from his empty pocket a string of olive-wood beads bought by a tourist piety in Jerusalem and settled down to tell them…all about his life. But like a second hand on a watch with decrepit battery he gets stuck ticking back and forth between joyful and sorrowful mysteries.