From: IRA WOODS

Oddly enough upon entering I notice that on the inside the place is
in fact, lit.  The lighting is the sickly flickering kind produced
by those old florescent lighting fixtures.  It dawns on me that I
have walked into the long defunct Commodore Diner on Park Avenue
South in Manhattan.  I look at my greeter and he is still smiling at
me, his arm pointing to the Deli counter.

As I walk over to order something to eat I notice the floor is
sticky and my shoes seem to squeal along the way.  The lighting has
made me a little queasy and I am unsure how to react to all of this.
I finally reach the counter safely, confronted by a big beef of a
counterman.  He bears absolutely no expression except that in the
light, with his acne scarred face, he looks more like a ripe old
salami than a human.  I find myself asking for an open-faced turkey
sandwich with plenty of gravy, though the voice seems like someone
else's.  The salami slowly and carefully lays some white bread on a
plate and slops the turkey cuttings on top.  He then picks up a
ladle and pours on a brown liquid which seems to be mostly fat and
grease.

Without bothering to give thanks and without so much of a peep from
the salami I throw my Magician's Cape over one shoulder to free my
arms and put my food onto a tray.  Sqeacking without shame, my feet
move me over the sticky linoleum to the coffee urn.

At that point I take a moment to look around and try to grasp what's
going on.  I notice a pair of eyes riveted on me.  No, I shouldn't
say "on me," I really should say looking into me.  There is plenty
of motion in the room, but for some reason it is almost silent.  I
don't recognize anyone and no one seems to give a hoot about me
except for one.

He is seated alone at a table for two.  In front of him is nothing
except for a glass of water and two extremely large hands folded
together.  I am getting the feeling that the purpose of this soiree
is about to become unfortunately clear.