Professor Crystal greeted me at the door. "Hans, so good of you to come. We were just speaking of you. My wife has been so eager to meet you. She is simply crazy about your work." The professor's little mustache trembled with excitement as he spoke.

"Sorry to be late," I mumbled. "Car would not start." It was not true. I had been circling the block afraid to enter the party.

"They never do," the professor said, guiding me into the bowels of his house. If there is one thing I am it's uncomfortable socially. I shrank back as the professor steered me along.

"Here he is. Here's Hans Blanck," Professor Crystal said over and over. Professor Boring shook my hand. He had some sort of cancer that hadn't been diagnosed as yet, and I could feel the negative energy leaving his body. There was a horrible tumor on his pancreas. My palm was wet in his as Professor Crystal's wife came from the kitchen and located me with a high-pitched shriek.

"Oh, Hans, there you are, you naughty poet. We were afraid you wouldn't come. We know what a bore these departmental Christmas parties are."

I mumbled something about "No, not at all. I had the car trouble."

The professor's wife was not interested in my car. Her brain glowed with dexfenfluramine. Weight loss problems. "Oh, now you must tell us about your latest poem."

"I'm afraid it's not very good. English is still difficulty for me." I said.

"He's a modest one," Professor Crystal boomed so that every eye in the room was fastened on me. I felt like an insect pinned to the wall of a display case. If I could have become translucent, I would have .

"Please, Bob, you're embarrassing the boy," Professor Boring said, interrupting. "Let's give the young man a break. How about I'll tell about my latest research into so-called unidentified flying objects? I ran a study of 729 reported sightings here and in Latin America, and 100 % of them were explainable when all the data was in. The thing about these sightings is this -- with 85% of them, there's always either the element of alcohol, a hallucinogen, a monetary gain, or a mental disorder."

I was of so much grateful to Professor Boring for taking the spotlight off me. Having written successful poems does not mean one is willing to stand in the spotlight in a circle of colleagues much older and wiser than himself. It does not mean one is witty or comfortable in one's own skin.

"Well now don't keep us in suspense, Arthur," Professor Crystal said. "What about the other fifteen percent?"

"Attention crazed idiots. People will do anything to appear on television," Professor Boring said. "Take the case of the Mississippi levy abduction."

I was all of rapt attention as Professor Boring detailed the story of the construction workers in Mississippi who claimed to have been alien-abducted in order to get their faces on the local news. However, it all blew up in (is that how you say?) their noses when one of the two let the truth slip to a reporter.

"Hi, I'm Jennifer Katz," the girl seated opposite me suddenly said, leaning forward in my direction so close we were almost touching. I was very nervous. In my confusion I hadn't noticed her at first, but she was very attractive with glowing red hair and freckles and a very youthful look.

I shook her proffered hand. I felt a little squeamish touching her skin so thin and bluish as it was obvious that she was in the midst of her period, but I didn't want to be unfriendly to such an attractive young woman.

"I'm Professor Crystal's niece, Jennifer, " she said. "I'm a graduate student at Northeastern. Psychology! I understand you write poetry."

"I make such an attempt," I said, not wanting her to know the truth behind my poetic reputation. Then I fidgeted not knowing what to say next. To me this is the most difficult thing knowing what to say next. There is such a thing as knowing a culture and what the appropriate next activity is; however,. I'm woefully lacking in that skill. The only thing harder is what to do with one's eyes when listening. It seems others know exactly where to look, but my eyes are always roaming about in terror searching for a receptor to lock on to as we do in my own country. However, the professor's niece took care of my lack of poise.

"Hans, what do you think of Professor Boring's research. Do you discount the possibility of alien life?" she asked leaning close to me. I could feel the discomfort in her womb.

"Professor Boring is one of the foremost investigators into psychic phenomena in this country," I said, reddening. "I would very much hesitate to put myself in the position of disagreeing with him."

Jennifer laughed out loud. "Oh he 's an old windbag. You're so polite and old-fashioned you just tickle me, Hans."

"Tickle me? I'm not familiar with this expression," I said, feeling like a fool.

"Oh you know -- make me laugh. You make me laugh."

"Is that laughing good?" I asked genuinely baffled.

"You silly boy. Of course it's good. There are far too many stuffed shirts at affairs like these. You're totally refreshing."

"Then I am very happy to have made you laugh," I said.

Just then we were interrupted by Mrs. Crystal. The professor's wife was bringing about goblets of cranberry juice and champagne..

"Oh I see you two have gotten to know each other," the professor's wife said, smiling at Jennifer. "Bob and I had been hoping you might hit it off." It was embarrassing, for it was obvious to me she didn't to care for her niece.

When the professor's wife was gone, I asked Jennifer what exactly it was "to hit it off."

"Oh you know to be friendly. We are friendly aren't we, Hans?"

"I would be very happy to be your friend." I said, smiling largely.

And so that is how we came to meet one another. It was only a week or two later that the two of us had a (how you say?) -- date.

There is a feeling that I have heard of that one gets in the chest when an emotional attachment grows to above-average intensity. That was the feeling that I am sure I experienced with Jennifer. We had gone to a foreign film because that was her preference although I preferred American films for there was so much mysterious to me about that culture

"Hans, have you ever been romantically involved with someone before?" Jennifer said. "In your own country I mean."

"I'm not sure what exactly this romantically involved is," I said. "But from what I understand I should think not." I believe I blushed and turned very red as I said this for the temperature in my cheeks was above normal.

Jennifer took my hand. This was not a pleasant experience for me because so much is involuntarily revealed through the touch of skin. I think I detected a certain perturbation of her emotions for the skin was clammy between us. "Well, would you be interested in having a romantic relationship with me? You know in America girls are not reluctant to make the first advance."

"I'm not sure exactly what an advance is. Like cash payment ahead of time?"

She laughed out loud. It was a wonderful laugh. This laughing is a sound that people should value more for it is very unusual in other cultures. "You are a trip; you know it, Hans?"

"I like to go on a trip with you very much," I said.

"Good," she said. "Then you're coming with me back to my bedroom."

I was in a state of confusion, but didn't want to appear too naive, so I kept quiet about asking why we would go to her bedroom, for it was still early and I could tell from her temperature as I grasped her hand that she was not sleepy nor was I.

When we got to her apartment, all decorated in strawberry, there was a blue-eyed cat prowling about. I refused to enter. Such cats are restless with tortured souls from past lives. Jennifer laughed at my fear of the cat.

"C'mon scaredy," she said, forcing me to sit and take off my jacket and tie. This was very uncomfortable to me as in my country we always maintain the formality of a jacket and tie, and I am somewhat embarrassed about the thinness of my body. I am not a robust sort of person.

"Now you just sit here on the side of the bed and watch while I get ready?" Jennifer said, touching my forehead.

I frankly did not like the feel of her touching my forehead as her fingertips registered intense emotional disorder and some sort of wild anticipation. Her serotonin level was very high. Furthermore, the excited feeling was very contagious and suddenly I felt ill. I jumped up and flung on my tie and jacket.

"I must go now," I stammered as the cat leered at me malevolently.

She laughed. "Are you crazy or what?"

"No, but I am feeling a sense of panic and internal disorder," I said.

Her face suddenly became very serious. "Hans, you're not gay are you?"

"No, I am not gay nor even high-spirited. I am very agitated and upset now. I must go to my apartment. There is much work to be done."

"Hey, are you for real?" Jennifer said, throwing her over-heated arms about my neck.

"Yes, I am very much in a state of reality," I said, breaking away.

"Well, I'll tell you what, Hansie; if you weren't so extra cute, you'd be irritating me, buddy."

Arriving back at my apartment, I drank a large beaker of milk and spent the next hour creating poetry. My technique was very simple. I had accumulated a huge stack of American magazines and I would count to the fiftieth word, cut it out, and paste in on a sheet of paper. Nine words on one line; seven on the next. Such was my secret. Professor Crystal was very enthusiastic about my poetry, claiming it had the "internal chaos that mimicked man's predicament in the Twenty-first Century" although I had never yet revealed to him how I constructed it.

However, before too long in my poetry-making I found it difficult to concentrate on counting as Jennifer's face intruded on my concentration. She was apparently in a state of anger over my departure and I felt very upset that I had been the cause of her being unhappy. And yet I had done the best I could. American ways are very strange to me, but with time perhaps I should adjust, or so I said to myself as I heard a knock at my door..

"Who could it be?" I said.

"Claude, man. Open up; I saw your light."

I opened the door. It was the brown man across the hall. I could see his teeth. They were extremely healthy even to the root tips. We did the elaborate thing with the hands that I do not enjoy.

"Let's go steppin', man," he said.

"I don't understand this steppin'."

"You know -- let's go for some wine where the chicks are fine."

"I do not like chickens, but I enjoy the wine," I said. "I will go."

Claude laughed. His stomach went up and down in a pleasant way. His soul is clean, polished obsidian.

"C'mon, man," he said. "Let's book. We'll take my car."

His car was somewhat battered and rusted and refused to start. I generated energy and made it start.

"Stupid egg beater," Claude said, shoving it into gear. "Tonight I'm going to take you where you never been before, man. You ever heard of Harlem?"

"It is famous," I said.

It grew quiet between us as we rode with Claude drumming on the steering wheel with his thumbs. His pulse was 86 beats per minute.

"Claude," I said at length. "Are we not both different? What is it like to be brown in America?"

His pulse went to 106 beats. "You're white, man. You ain't different. But I'm black , man, black!"

"Is it difficult to be black?"

"Ain't nothing but a thang , man."

Claude's tongue was bluish. I knew he was lying.

"What is a thang?" I asked.

"Whoa, Hans. You are a trip you know it, bro?"

"I am a vacation?" I said.

Claude laughed. Laughter is a pleasant thing.

It was later in the drinking place we drove to. We had our drinks and were listening to the music. Music, too, is a pleasant thing to the ears. Claude's pulse was 86 beats again, so I tried once more.

"Again I ask you my friend -- what is it like to be brown in America?"

"You are a chump, Hans. " His dark eyes fixed me sorrowfully. "Listen, dude. They brought us here in chains, man. When they made enough bread off us they finally let us go free, but by then we wasn't ready. Understand what I mean? Finally they had to put us in cages. Those high-rises we drove by -- they're just cages, man. Put us in cages because we're dangerous. See we ain't figured out how to be free yet." Claude's heart was suffused with blood. His tongue was no longer blue.

"That is very desolation," I said. "Are all your people in cages?"

"Nah, man. The smart ones busted out. It's the rest, man. Trapped like rats."

"Perhaps they will escape."

"They all escapin' every day, man -- cocaine, heroin, pot you name it."

"I can not name it," I said.

Claude laughed again as the gunman stepped out of the restroom. He wore a black jacket and a nylon stocking over his face.

"Hands high," he said.

"Raise your hands," Claude whispered to me.

I raised my right hand like swearing an oath.

"You," the gunman said to me, "both mitts in the sky, pronto!"

I didn't understand.

"I said now, Dude!" the gunman said.

There was a commotion then the gun went off. The gun barrel rose slightly as the trigger was pulled, and there was a flash and an explosion. I felt the bullet rip though me. The gunman's intestines turned white. His brain was alive with chemicals. Dopamine. Norepinephrine. Someone screamed.

"You re not nice," I cried as the bullet caused me pain.

The gunman fired again. I felt the bullet explode into my chest.

"Run, Claude," I shouted as patrons screamed and I staggered towards the gunman.

The gun fired again and again and again -- six times all together. Then the patrons swarmed over the shooter.. Meanwhile, I could feel each bullet exploding into me. The pain was excruciating as I staggered towards the sidewalk, for I could see blood gushing out of my body and I did not want to create a mess on the carpet.

"Are you all right, man?" Claude sobbed as my body fell to the sidewalk, and I stepped out of it. Soon enough I would find another body and go on with my work. However, I wondered if Jennifer would love me still in another body.