I don’t revel in a short story that’s impetus stems from sorrow, however, my first week in New York City, nearly sixteen years ago, I heard a man aggressively shout to a woman, “Pack your sh*t up, and be gone when i get back!” It startled me to be sure. While I’m positive that same line is dropped like a bomb daily in towns, cities, and pueblas all over the world – I hadn’t seen such a thing growing up in The Beaver’s neighborhood. Today, I heard the exact same line delivered by a guy to his gal on 8th Ave. They were younger, but the tirade was laced with the same venom. At that point it occurred to me, I’ve heard that line at least four times on the city’s streets between the first time and today’s. I thought about telling this couple virtually the same anecdote I’m writing to you now, maybe it would have diffused the situation a bit. They’d laugh with me, as I queried, “How many times do you guys think this very thing could be heard by one man?” Then they’d thank me for the laugh, patch things up, and this gentleman, who was also extremely concerned about missing class today because of their quarrel, would make it there after all – get a good degree, and maybe someday cure cancer or reverse global warming – all because I took the time to share a little yarn. Someday, while accepting his well deserved kudos, he might not mention me, but he’d at least be standing there thinking about the guy who started it all with a quaint tale about overhearing he and his now wife’s argument. On the other hand, maybe I’d not be writing this right now, and instead be in the back of an ambulance on me merry way to intensive care. It was a tough call, but I suspect he probably would have come up just short of a solution for either, so don’t blame me when the ice cap’s are flowing through your front doors.