Secret Agents . . . Continued

(continued . . . )

Naturally, when anyone begins a conversation with, "I've got some bad news", I figure there is bad news coming. Experience tells me this. If, for example, my wife begins a conversation with, "I've got some bad news," I am led to believe that she has either wrecked the car, or has decided to leave me and marry an acrobat, or perhaps has received a phone call from my doctor who has decided that I have 24-hours to live (and that was eight hours ago). Or, say, my son says, "Dad, I have some bad news", I figure he has either flunked algebra, or has shot out every window in the house with his paint ball gun, or, oh, perhaps has decided to pursue a career in the church. Or, well, if my daughter says, "Dad, I have some bad news", I know she has either wrecked the car, or has decided to marry an acrobat, or has found a far more expensive university and expects me to flip the bill.

Yeah, I know all about bad news.

So when Madeleine says, "I have bad news", I already know what is coming. "I'm only going to represent ghost writers," Madeleine says.

I didn't see that one coming.

Ghost writers? I didn't know that ghosts could write anything!

"But if you want to do some ghost writing, I have a project for you," she tells me. "Otherwise, we're through."

I'm desperate. So I ask about this ghost writing possibility.

"It's a book for the retired boxer, George Foreman. Why don't you draw up a proposal for a children's book and send it to me. George is tired of selling grills. He wants to try his hand at children's literature. But, well, George can't write. He can barely speak. So he's going to need a ghost writer."

I draw up a proposal in three days, but I already know the end of the story. Madeleine and I are through. George ain't gonna pick me. I'm not a ghost writer. And if I write anything, I'm vain enough to want to see my name on the book jacket, not George Foreman's.

This is the last conversation Madeleine and I have. Literary agent number two has divorced me.

Later that night, I do jump off the roof of the parsonage. But all I do is sprain my ankle.

(Continued . . .)