PLANET KANTOR

Wisps of grey hair half-surrounded the rouge planet, it’s smooth surface blazon with glare from the nearby sun, bobbing amid the stars and galactic effervescence, speckled by liver spots and eyebrow wrinkles.

“Captain, we are approaching Planet Kantor. Shall I lower the shields?” Kevin asked, blank-faced at the controls.

“Not just yet.” I responded. “The gravitational pull seems rather strong here. We can’t risk any further damage to the shuttle.”

Kevin nodded his silent approval, studying a sudden outcropping of craters that had formed in our path. With a flip of the controls he gracefully evaded the obstacle and piloted the star-craft back on course, drifting amid the suspended ruins of a once great planet.

The fantasy and subsequent phone conversation ended when Kantor finally did arrive, with his high-gloss baldhead and sweater and slacks and golf-shoes. I closed the phone on Kevin—call you back later—just as day gave way to a pale blue twilight, summoning sundown, and Kantor drove his golf-cart up to the door, grinning about his game. I cleaned his clubs and loaded them into the back of his Mercedes.

The ride home was cold and late and I crashed on the couch, exhausted, at 9:30.

Again.

KANTOR, Bob Kantor—late night, last-one-out, golfer extraordinaire. 

Last one out.