"Mr. Denney wants you for a ten o'clock meeting." "What's it all about?"

"He doesn't tell me everything for chrissake." "Don't get mad, Binky. It was just an idle question." Standing there she crossed her ankles awkwardly, a sort of non-facial pout. I sat behind my enormous desk and at once imagined myself naked. Then I pushed the chair back slightly and began to revolve in a magisterial 180-degree arc, surveying my land. The walls were covered with blow-ups of still photographs from programs I had written and coordinated. My bookcase was full of bound scripts. There were plants in two corners of the room and a dozen media periodicals arranged neatly on the end table. The ashtrays were all from Jensen. I had a black leather sofa and a yellow door. Weede Denney's sofa was bright red and he had a black door.

"What else?" I said.

"A woman called. She didn't leave her name but she said to tell you the frogs' legs weren't as tasty as usual."

"My life," I said, "is a series of telephone messages which nobody understands but me. Every woman I meet thinks she's some kind of Delphic phrasemaker. My phone rings at three in the morning and it's somebody stranded at some airport calling to tell me that the animal crackers have left the zoo. The other day I got a telegram-a schizogram-from a girl on the Coast and all it said was: my tonsils went to a funeral. Do you ever send messages like that, Bink? My life is a telex from Interpol."

"If it's all so annoying, why did you smile when I told you about the frogs' legs?"

"It was good news," I said.