I hadn't heard from Paul in months.  He'd left Philly and
vanned out to Seattle, where he knew no one.  I remember seeing him
just before he left.  
     "Paul, where'd you get that fridge on wheels?"  I looked the
van over:  it was a '63 Ford Econoline--three on the tree.  
     "Only four grand!  And it's got new rims!  Come on in."
     I entered through the fun doors.  Like a Tardis, it was
roomier than it should have been.  
     "Over here, Rich," Paul swelled, pointing out the numerous
standard features of the Big Bondura, as his mom had christened it. 
     "Love the art."  I was mesmerized by the Bosch forgeries that
lined the van.  
     "You like the triptych?" he said.
     I looked more closely at the painting.  "Paul, what do you
make of the figures in the doorway?"
     "Not much unless I dose.  Then it's quite clear."
     The tour continued.  Paul had a futon, queen-sized(with
canopy!), bug zapper, Coleman stove, gun rack, two ounces Mexican,
and a copy of Bugalkov's _Master and Margarita_.
     I opened the book, intrigued.  "Wasn't this censored until
after his death?"
     "Yup."
     "But this is signed!?!"
     "Been around, Rich," he said, picking his teeth with the
cover.  
     At the helm, Paul pointed out the various dash gadgetry. 
"Note the speedometer."
     "Seems to max out at 80.  What's that brick on the gas pedal?"
     "Cruise control."

     That was August.  Not a word in two months.  Bitch.  It was
time to track him down.  
     I flew out to Seattle.  I had very little to go on, but it
always seemed to work for The Fall Guy and hell, I'm RICHH!  First
thing I did was call the warrant line.  Nothing yet, they said, but
they were expecting him.  Headed to the U. district, a likely
target area.  Paul does well with coeds, especially art/finance-
chicks.  I explored the Ave.  No luck in Starbuck's, Jack-in-the-
Box, or the UW Bookstore.  Had a great latte in Cafe Roma.  I hiked
up to Ravenna Park where I saw a convoy of Volkswagen buses parked. 
Paydirt!  There was a group of hippies outside beating drums.  The
fierce absence of any detectable rhythm was surprisingly
infectious.  They smoked me out and I started asking questions.  No
one had even heard of Paul, so I tried his bevy of clever aliases.
     "Seeker?" I asked
     "Sorry."
     "Menace?"
     "Wait.  He play the gamelon?"
     "Nope."
     "Pippi?"
     "No."
     "Butchie Boy?"
     The drumming stopped and I was immediately frisked.  When they
saw I wasn't wired they told me to head to The Last Exit.
     The Last Exit was cool.  Coffee-house atmosphere, a
hippiechick trying to play "Sugar Mountain" on a blues harp, a huge
Greenpeace clergy stifling all opposition, gameplayers of all
kinds, a would-never-be Georgia O'Keefe, and EVERYBODY stoned!  
Then, boom, THERE HE WAS, smoking Old Golds down to the filter,
hustling chess.  He didn't look up from the board, but motioned me
over, "Rich, bring any water ice?"  Clearly, he was expecting me.
     "Paul, how did you know?"
     "Caught the message in the drum beat, friend."
     "Mate in six," Paul then exclaimed, "I think that's forty
bucks.  Thanks."
     Paul's mark paid and left.  We ordered some pb&j's and
espresso floats.
     "Man," I said, "I thought it'd be easy to find a '63 van, but
I see em everywhere!  What's that all about?"
     "Welcome to Seattle.  It's just a glorified Norwegian fishing
village."
     "So I've noticed.  Whatcha been up to?"
     "Knee-deep in flannel, lately."
     "So I've noticed.  Whatcha been up to?"
     "I'm married."
     "What trimester?"
     "No."  Paul lowered his voice and leaned in and said, "I'm
onto this aMAzing karma motherlode."
     "Huh?"
     "Tail, money, curry, and petting zoo!"
     "Explain."
     "Annulment by Friday, married again Tuesday night.  Ten grand
in the bank.  Interested?"
     "Keep talkin, whoa keep talking."
     "Hey Konicke, wanna take a ride up to Vancouver."
     "What for?  I hate Canadians.  They're like us, only not as
well-armed."
     "Okay, here's our angle:  There's a HUGE population of upper-
middle class Indians there.  They all have daughters.  They all
want green cards.  Need I say more?"
     "You dog."
     "That's dogg, got my mind on my money and my money on my
mind."
     "Ten grand, eh?"
     "*And* I'm a principle shareholder in the Southland
Corporation."
     "Mmmmm, Slushie." I Homered.
     "I'm thrice-divorced, got thirty g's tucked way, and I make
the best dosas!"
     "Great, I'm starved."
     

a RICHH/PAUL joint
--the boys are back in town