C. Scott Ananian
January 11, 1998
I always park in the same row, the seventh from the end nearest the highway entrance.
There's a nice stand of trees there, even if it's a bit far from the entrance.
But my doctor always said that exercise was what I needed.
Exercise was what I needed. Exercise.
I would tell him to exercise. Exercise-exercise, I'd say to him. That's what you need. But he was always complaining he had the wrong type of shoes. Just like Robert Xavier, I said. Robert Xavier. The man with three shoes.
I could not shake the unmistakeable feeling that, today, I was not myself. No. Today, I am Robert Xavier.
Robert Xavier was never said to have run over a road-runner. Therefore I have not run over a road-runner. Contented with logic, I, the man with three shoes, drove on.
A cowboy, a gynecologist and a postman go into a bar.Such a funny boy.
Being Robert Xavier is not easy. Heavy weights drag on me. I do not think I am quite myself.
Inexplicably, space-age concrete overshoes float through my mind.
The conspiracy begins with a joke of three shoes.Even the stern-faced warden thought my Mark amusing.
I even grinned when I realized what he was trying to say. He meant:
The traitor Robert Xavier must always die.Entirely correct. Such a funny boy.