PITTSBURGH - For four years, high-powered attorney Steve Plumber strolled through the lobby of the Tufts Tower to start his day and felt obliged to stop and exchange mindless pleasantries with Jerry, the front desk receptionist.
"Despite my best efforts to slink past Jerry and blend in with the passing horde, he'd spot me. 'Hi, Steve!' he'd yell. Damn! Waylaid again! Then, five minutes shot-to-hell listening to Jerry's pointless blather on the tedious subject du jour of Jerry's choice," said Plumber. "I heard about his cats, and 'the big game,' and his car doors freezing up, and 'the big game,' and that he'd fallen asleep during 'the big game.' He'd repeat things from the day before. About two years ago, I decided I'd be better off if Jerry were dead."
Then last Friday, the years had finally taken their toll on Plumber. Late for a deposition, Plumber hurried through the lobby. "Hi, Steve," yelled Jerry. Plumber ignored him. "Steve! STEVE!" Jerry yelled sharply. That did it. "I guess it had built up in me like a pressure cooker," said Plumber. Plumber turned toward the receptionist's desk and lunged for Jerry's neck, grappling him to the floor. But then Jerry started tossing Plumber around, putting chokeholds and armlocks on him. Within seconds Plumber was unconscious. When Plumber awoke in Mercy Hospital two hours later, he remembered that amid the stories about the cats and frozen car doors, "Jerry sometimes would prattle on about being a black belt in Judo."
Now paralyzed and unable to run away, Plumber does his penance in a sterile hospital room by listening while his most faithful visitor, Jerry, regales him with one senseless tale after another, each and every day of Plumber's wretched life.
