As Suspected....

At first, the nameless, urinous man seems to be vamping for the buck in rut – swishing his hips, running his hands through his longish hair.

It seems to be some instinct-driven and intense mating dance.

Our stranger is at turns coy and beckoning. The buck is….

The buck is….

The buck is about to break his way through the glass! Or so it seems to a growing throng of bystanders and to appear from stress fractures that have cracked the glass and are rippling out in concentric circles.

The man faints straightaway. The wall holds.

A park police officer in her Interceptor III is on the scene immediately:

“Ma’am, do you know this man?” she asks.

“He seems to be coming ‘round here a lot, and roiling up our animals when he does.”

“I think we should call 911,” says UnderWoman.

Just then, the man comes to.

He is on his knees, pleading: “Please, please, UnderWoman. Take me to Columbia Presbyterian. My memory’s coming back. I need…I need….A safe place to crash.”

OMG, she thinks, he IS an amnesic neurologist after all -- something that had occurred to her the first time they met.

“Okay, I’ll call an ambulance. I just wonder what we’ll do with….”

He glances at the animals, takes her hand: “Let us go on foot, with entourage. It will give us time to regroup, to recount.”

UnderWoman begins to call 911 anyway, just to cover all the bases; but instead calls her neurologist, the renowned Dr. Lewis Knowland.

He is there, as always.

“Ms. Do-It,” (he addresses her formally; has not yet met UnderWoman), “I suspected it a few weeks back, when you called. But now I’m fairly certain: Ms. Do-It, I believe you have found Brian Liebman. Can you bring him here?”

“We are on our way,” says UnderWoman. “But it could take time, as we are on foot and with entourage. Dr. Knowland, do you allow pigs in your office?”

“It is our preference and intent not to do so, Ms. Do-It. But that has never stopped them before….”