Odd Hours

recipe and passed it off as her own in the county-fair competition.
    The eat-your-liver-with-fava-beans grin melted into the smile of any grandfather in any TV commercial featuring cute little kids frolicking with puppies.
    The knotted muscles in his face relaxed. The tension went out of his body. As if he were a chameleon moving from gray stone to a rose, a touch of pink appeared in his skin.
    Amazingly, the venomous green shade of his eyes changed, and they were now Irish eyes, happy and full of delight. Even his eyes were smiling, his lips and his eyes, his entire face, every line and plain and dimple of his countenance marshaling into a spectacle of sublime good will.
    The previous Hoss Shackett could never have become the chief of police of Magic Beach, which was an elected position. Before me now was Hoss Shackett, the politician.
    I was dismayed that he wasn’t up for election this year, because I wanted to go out right this minute and work in his campaign, put up some signs, canvass a few neighborhoods, help paint his portrait on the side of a four-story building.
    Mr. Sinatra came to the table to stare more closely at the chief. He looked at me, shook his head in amazement, and returned to the corner.
    Slumped in his chair, so relaxed that he seemed to be in danger of sliding onto the floor, Chief Hoss said, “Kid, what do you want?”
    “Want, sir?”
    “Out of life. What do you want out of life?”
    “Well, sir, I’m not sure I can answer that question accurately since at the present time I don’t know who I am.”
    “Let’s suppose you don’t have amnesia.”
    “But I do, sir. I look in the mirror, and I don’t know my face.”
    “It’s your face,” he assured me.
    “I look in the mirror, and I see that actor, Matt Damon.”
    “You don’t look anything like Matt Damon.”
    “Then why do I see him in the mirror?”
    “Let me hazard a guess.”
    “I’d be grateful if you would, sir.”
    “You saw those movies where he has amnesia.”
    “Was Matt Damon in movies where he had amnesia?”
    “Of course, you wouldn’t remember them.”
    “Gone,” I agreed. “It’s all gone.”
    “ The Bourne Identity. That was one of them.”
    I considered it. Then: “Nope. Nothing.”
    “Kid, you’re genuinely funny.”
    “Well, I’d like to think I might be. But there’s as good a chance that when I find out who I am, I’ll discover I’m humorless.”
    “What I’m saying is, I’m willing to stipulate that you have amnesia.”
    “I sure wish I didn’t, sir. But there you are.”
    “For the purpose of facilitating our discussion, I accept your amnesia, and I will not try to trip you up. Is that fair?”
    “It’s fair, sure, but it’s also the way it is.”
    “All right. Let’s suppose you don’t have amnesia. I know you do have it, I know, but so you can answer questions with more than gone-it’s-all-gone, let’s just suppose.”
    “You’re asking me to use my imagination.”
    “There you go.”
    “I think I might’ve been a guy with a good imagination.”
    “Is that what you think, huh?”
    “It’s just a hunch. But I’ll try.”
    This new Chief Hoss Shackett radiated affability so brightly that being in his company too long might involve a risk of melanoma.
    He said, “So…what do you want out of life, son?”
    “Well, sir, I imagine a life in tire sales might be nice.”
    “Tire sales?”
    “Putting people back on good rubber, getting them rolling again, after life threw a blow-out at them. That would be satisfying.”
    “I can see your point. But since we’re just imagining here, why don’t we imagine big?”
    “Big. All right.”
    “If you had a big dream in life, what would it be?”
    “I guess maybe…having my own ice-cream store.”
    “Is that as big as you can go, son?”
    “My best girl at my side and an ice-cream shop we could work in together all our lives. Yes, sir. That would be terrific.”
    I was serious. That would have been some life, me and Stormy and an ice-cream shop. I would have loved that life.
    He regarded me pleasantly. Then: “Yes, I see, with a little one coming along, it would be nice to have a business you could rely on.”
    “Little one?” I asked.
    “The baby. Your girl is pregnant.”
    Bewilderment is, for me, a natural expression. “Girlfriend? You know my girlfriend? Then you must know who I am. You mean…I’m going to be a father?”
    “You were talking to her this afternoon. Utgard saw you. Before you jumped