Not to be outdone by Ray Dryden, a few hours later, Jack Hanrahan and Eleanor Burian-Mohr drop in to deliver Heathcliff and The Catillac Cats' story springboards. Specifically, they deliver twenty-six story springboards which Jack extracts, with exaggerated aplomb, from his weathered and battle-scarred briefcase.

He deposits the stack on my desk with, “Every one a gem!”

I offer, “Why don’t I greenlight you to go to treatment on all of them right now?”

The portly writer suggests, “It’d save a lot of time.”

I put the springboards in my in-box and look to Eleanor standing alongside him, a benign, a long-suffering smile on her lips. As she moves an unruly strand of brunette hair from in front of her eyes, I ask, “Is he always like this?”

Eleanor’s lips purse into a red bow as she softly replies, “Always.”

Jack asks his well-worn, “So when do we hear back from you?”

I turn to Jack with, “You’ll hear from me when you hear from me.”

I’m pretty sure I hear a low growl of protest coming from him.

They’re sandpaper and lace, the textbook definition of yin and yang, interconnected opposing forces. They have a certain talent. But there’s more to it than that. Eleanor knows precisely when to let him run like a marlin on a deep sea fishing line, and, to his credit, Jack knows exactly when to zip it and let her work her charm.

So here I am sitting in my home office thirty-seven years after they dropped in to deliver Heathcliff and The Catillac Cats story springboards, writing about Jack Hanrahan and Eleanor Burian-Mohr…and smiling. Some things never get old.