I wish to relate to you the strange tale of J. Barrington Steep. You know the man. His office fronts on J—Street just down from Brolio's Restaurant. You must have looked in when upon a stroll at night. The red damask walls, the row upon row of legal tomes, the vast teak desk, the stuffed heads of impala, gazelle, nilgai—all lit indirectly and just so, all advertisements of a sort, all bespeaking the man. Last week I was something of a guest at a party of his, a monologue more likely, or a diatribe. He fairly railed at us.
"My life is in shambles, I tell you, falling apart... and I have no control. I should be doing the summoning. Instead, I am called at 3:30 in the morning for nothing, repeatedly called, my household alarmed, and then... for nothing. Halfdressed, tearing from the house for some minor squabble, for
Michael A. LaCombe. Something Sweet. JAMA. 1987;257(22):3125. doi:10.1001/jama.1987.03390220123036