The Cat Who Played Post Office

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A caucasian male — fiftyish, six-feet-two, weight two-thirty, graying hair, bushy moustache — opened his eyes and found himself in a strange bed in a strange room. He lay still, in a state of peculiar lassitude, and allowed his eyes to rove about the room with mild curiosity. Eyes that might be described as mournful surveyed the steel footboard of the bed, the bare window, the hideous color of the walls, the television on a high shelf. Beyond the window a tree was waving its branches wildly.

He could almost hear his mother's musical voice saying, "The tree is waving to you, Jamesy. Wave your hand like a polite little boy." Jamesy? Is that my name? It doesn't sound — exactly — right… Where am I? What is my name?

The questions drifted across his consciousness without arousing anxiety — only a vague perplexity.

He had a mental picture of an old man with a Santa Claus beard standing at his bedside and saying, "You haft scarlet fever, Jamesy. Ve take you to the hospital and make you veil." Hospital? Is this a hospital? Do I have scarlet fever?

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