"I did everything you told me."

"You did something wrong." Princippi appeared to have dropped into a daydream. He stared blankly into space as his attorney spoke.

"Yes," the lawyer sniffed tartly. "I allowed you to draw me away from my practice. My booth at Sears wasn't much, but at least I didn't have people hocking loogies on me all day. This is revolting." He picked up his faux-leather plastic briefcase from the Formica tabletop and tipped it to one side. Viscous liquid slopped out of a hole in one corner, puddling into the musty, dirt-encrusted linoleum cracks in the floor. "These people hate you," the lawyer added. With a loud slap, he dropped the briefcase back to the table's surface.

Princippi did not appear to notice his lawyer's outburst. He was lost in thought.

In times of intense personal strife, he had a habit of winking out of reality for long moments. He considered it to be a psychological defense mechanism. It shielded him from the vicissitudes of a painful world. A psychiatrist might have better described it as a grand delusion.

He was having "the Dream."

Princippi was in the Oval Office. Standing at the window in silhouette. JFK, circa 1961 and 1962-Bay of Pigs, Cuban Missile Crisis. Very statesmanlike.

The brightness of the sun streaming through the window exploded around his image, enveloping it, obliterating it. Nothing remained. Just a sheet of blinding whiteness.

All gone. Snatched away in a heartbeat. He had nearly had it all. Now he had nothing. Just a crumbling house and a two-bit mall lawyer.

The trance was broken. Michael Princippi was back in his grimy kitchen. He was staring at the filthy floor. His eyes were focused on a pair of soaking-wet shoes.

Princippi did not even raise his head as he spoke.

"You are discharged from my service," he informed the lawyer, his face a somber mask. "Please type up a letter of resignation."