In downtown San Antonio, Texas, my father and I had walked into a building which appeared to be a bank or a savings and loan. There was just one large rectangular room with women working at perhaps 15-20 desks. A man who was obviously the owner was standing and attending to some customers. He was a tall lanky fellow, approaching middle age, with black hair and a mustache. Although he looked like the oily wily type, I had the impression that he was quite wealthy.

The man walked over and began talking with my father, who had some business to conclude with the man. After they had talked for a few minutes, the man turned to me, addressed me by my last name, and implied that he understood that I was my father's son. I looked straight into the man's eyes, and as was my wont, fixed him in a scrutinizing stare. The man, feeling my eyes, stared straight back at me, showing that he also knew how to unflinchingly hold someone's stare. He even went further and began moving his head toward me, coming so close that his face finally touched mine, culminating with a short peck of his lips just below my lips. He then backed off, as if to say that he had met me at my own game of staring at him, and had proved himself the master.

The man expressed curiosity about what I was intending to do in San Antonio, whether I would be setting up some kind of business there or practicing law. I had been considering moving to San Antonio, and possibly going into the real estate business. In the past I had shown a knack for buying and selling real estate, and I was thinking of taking it up again. I thought I would prefer the real estate business to practicing law, since law practice was so confining.

My father had also established himself in San Antonio and he was thinking of moving there permanently, even though he had lived in Portsmouth, Ohio all his life. The only thing that still really tied him to Portsmouth was his mother Mabel; but she was old and wouldn't live much longer. When she died, it was possible that my father would move to San Antonio. I also knew my father had business connections in Columbus, the capital of Ohio, about 150 kilometers north of Portsmouth. If my father moved to San Antonio, he could have business connections in Austin, the capital of Texas, which was only about a 150 kilometers north of San Antonio.

The staring-match man was still standing in front of me, still interested in what I would be doing in San Antonio. He blabbered on and on, mentioning in the process that he was also a lawyer, although he didn't actually practice law. He chided the modern law profession, bemoaning the influx of so many new lawyers, and complaining that so many new, second-rate law schools were opening. He mentioned that he had attended a prestigious law school in San Antonio, but lamented the opening of another, far inferior law school in the town. I also knew of at least one other law school which had recently opened, and which was of inferior quality, but I was unsure I could agree with the man's assertion that a new law school was opening every week.

It seemed that the man's disparagement of the new law schools in Texas was a way of complementing me because he apparently knew I had gone to Baylor Law School, one of the best law schools in Texas. I was somewhat flattered, but I was becoming increasingly uncomfortable with the man's artificial and cloying obsequiousness, and I was ready to go. Besides, I was becoming more and more discomfited by something else: I was completely naked.

Yes, I was naked, but I did at least have a blue sleeping bag draped about me so my nudity wasn't visible, except for the side of my left arm and leg, where the bag came together. No one seemed to be paying any attention to the fact that I was standing there naked with a sleeping bag wrapped around me, but I was becoming quite concerned about the effect this bizarre attire might have upon my reputation if I were thinking of establishing myself in San Antonio. Certainly people would think something was wrong with me, that I was weird, if they saw me walking down the street, wearing nothing but a sleeping bag.

I appealed to my father to leave, but he wasn't quite finished with his business. Increasingly anxious, I told him I was going to leave, and that he could follow. We each had our own vehicle – I would simply go ahead in mine, and he could follow in his.

I exited the establishment and walked straight to my vehicle, an old dilapidated pickup truck which my father had given me. I quickly boarded the truck, impatient to leave as quickly as possible. I started it up and pulled out, hoping no one on the street had seen my strange attire. As soon as I pulled out, however, I realized I had problems. The truck seemed ready to fall apart and would barely move. When I did get it to rolling down the street, I realized I had no brakes. I managed to pull over and stop, realizing I would just have to sit there and wait for my father to come in his car and pick me up.

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