Vince Delvecchio stood outside my office, back to the hall, his nose no more than twelve inches from the wall, his arms folded, truculently. That apparition was perfect for the kind of day I was having: a visit from my biggest smallest fan.

The man's black tasseled prima donna shoes had been cruelly buffed to an unworldly sheen that matched the laminate applied to his hair. Mr. Delvecchio's head swiveled like an owl's to face me. He did not have an appointment, yet he glanced at his goldbanded wristwatch, communicating that I had kept a very important man waiting. He extended his hand, gold cufflink spiky as the head of a mace at the end of his dazzling white sleeve. His broad solid red silk tie furled against the background of a navy blue suit: colors of an aggressive, unimaginative nation. His grip was warm and soft and vaguely sticky, like sponge cake, and the fingertips were rounded into perfect crescent-shaped butter cookies. Though the man was the size of a typical freshman, he conveyed that bigger-they-are-the-harder-they-fall cockiness.

Though he was invited to enter my office, somehow he barged in anyway, and my furniture, shades, and wall hangings all seemed to flinch. He sat in the browbeaten squawking chair and announced his purpose.

"OK, Philip and you been going at it. He's a good kid, but a little hard-headed. He wasn't disrespectful, was he? I will kick his scrawny little ass--I mean, I would have to address the problem with him if he was, Brother. OK, you can have a difference of opinion with someone in authority, I always tell the boys, but don't question the power." I explained that Philip would be well advised not to try plagiarizing again.

Copyright 2000 by Joseph Di Prisco