It was the tuxedo that fooled me and for two seconds I didn’t recognize him. To me, he was just a possible client, the first that had whiffed my way in a week – and he looked beautiful.

Even wearing a tuxedo at 9:45A.M.he looked beautiful. Six inches of bony wrist and ten inches of knobby hand continued on where his sleeve left off; the top of his socks and the bottom of his trousers did not quite join forces; still he looked beautiful.

Then I looked at his face and it wasn’t a client at all. It was my uncle Otto. Beauty ended. As usual, my uncle Otto’s face looked like that of a bloodhound that had just been kicked in the rump by his best friend.

I wasn’t very original in my reaction. I said, “UncleOtto!”

You’d know him too, if you saw that face. When he was featured on the cover of Time about five years ago (it was either ’57 or ’58), 204 readers by count wrote in to say that they would never forget that face. Most added comments concerning nightmares. If you want my uncle Otto’s full name, it’s Otto Schlemmelmayer. But don’t jump to conclusions. He’s my mother’s brother. My own name is Smith.

He said, “Harry, my boy,” and groaned.

Interesting, but not enlightening. I said, “Why the tuxedo?”

He said, “It’s rented.”

“All right. But why do you wear it in the morning?”

“Is it morning already?” He stared vaguely about him, then went to the window and looked out.

That’s my uncle Otto Schlemmelmayer. I assured him it was morning and with an effort he deduced that he must have been walking the city streets all night.