Friday, October 15

Jason Papparis had been in the rug business for almost thirty years. He started in the Plaka district of Athens in the late sixties, selling mostly goatskins, sheepskins, and fur rugs to American tourists. He did well and enjoyed himself, especially with the young, college-age female tourists to whom he invariably and graciously availed himself to show the night life of his beloved city. Then fate intervened. On a sultry summer night, Helen Herman of Queens, New York, wandered into his shop and absently caressed some of Jason's higher-quality rugs. A romantic at heart, Helen found herself swept off her feet by an irresistible combination of Jason's soulful eyes and fervent attentions and the romantic mystique of Greece.

Jason's ardor had been no less. After Helen's departure for the States, Jason found himself inconsolably lonely. An impassioned correspondence began, followed by a visit. Jason's trip to New York only fanned the fires of desire. Ultimately he emigrated, married Helen, and took his business to Manhattan.

Jason's business thrived. The extensive contacts he had established over the years with rug producers in both Greece and Turkey stood him in good stead, and provided Jason with a monopoly of sorts. Instead of opening a retail shop in New York, Jason had wisely opted for a wholesale business. It was a lean operation. He had no employees. All he had was an office in Manhattan and a warehouse in Queens. He out-sourced all his shipping and inventory control and occasionally he hired temps for clerical work.

The business operated by telephone and fax. Consequently Jason's office door was always locked.

On this particular Friday his mail was dropped through the mail slot as it always was, but due to a thick catalogue it landed with a louder than usual plop on the wooden floor. At his desk, Jason's attention was plucked from his bookkeeping. He balanced his omnipresent cigarette on the edge of his overflowing ashtray, then got up to retrieve the mail. He was counting on receiving a significant number of checks to alleviate his burgeoning accounts-receivable balance. Regaining his seat, he sorted through the mail, placing each piece in its appropriate pile and the junk mail directly into the wastebasket. Reaching the next-to-last envelope, he hesitated. It was thick and square instead of rectangular. Jason detected a small, irregular bulge in the center. Glancing at the postage, he noticed that it was a first-class letter, not bulk mail. In the lower left-hand corner the envelope was stamped with an admonition: Hand Stamp. The explanation was: Fragile Contents!

Jason turned the envelope over. It was made of rather thick, dense, high-quality paper. It was not the usual paper for an advertisement, yet the return address was for ACME Cleaning Service: Leave Your Dust to Us. The business was located on lower Broadway.

Flipping the envelope over once again, Jason noticed that it was addressed to him personally, not to the Corinthian Rug Company. Below the address were the words personal and confidential.

With his thumb and index finger, Jason tried to determine the source of the bulge. He had no idea. His curiosity getting the better of him, he picked up his letter opener and sliced through the envelope's top flap. Peeking inside he could see a folded card made with heavy paper of quality equal to that of the envelope.

"What the hell?" Jason said aloud. This was certainly not the usual advertisement. He pulled out the card, marveling that some advertising executive had been able to talk a cleaning service into sending out such an expensive gimmick. The card was sealed with a tab. In the center of the front of the card was the single word Surprise!

Jason worked the tab loose from its bed and as soon as he did the card leaped in his hands and snapped open. At the same time a coiled spring mechanism propelled a puff of dust along with a handful of tiny glittering stars into the air.

Jason was initially startled by the sudden, unexpected movement, and he sneezed several times from the dust. But then a smile quickly appeared. Inside the card was the caption Call Us To Clean Up The Mess!

Jason shook his head in amazement. He had to give credit to whoever was responsible for this advertisement for ACME Cleaners. It was certainly unique and clever -- and effective. Jason found himself wishing that he could enlist ACME Cleaners, but he didn't need a cleaning service since his landlord provided one.

Jason tossed the card and envelope into his wastebasket, then leaned over to brush off the tiny glittering stars from the front of his shirt. As he did so he felt another tickle in his nose which caused him to sneeze several more times, hard enough to bring tears to his eyes.

As usual for a Friday, Jason finished work early. Enjoying the fall weather, he walked to Grand Central Station to board the five-fifteen commuter train. Forty-five minutes later, just as he was nearing his station, he felt the first twinges of discomfort in his chest. His first reflex was to swallow, but that had no effect. He then cleared his throat, which was equally ineffective. He then patted his chest and took several deep breaths.

The woman sitting next to Jason lowered the edge of her newspaper. "Are you okay?" she asked.

"Oh, yeah, no problem," Jason responded, feeling embarrassed. He wondered if he'd smoked more than usual that day.

That night, Jason tried to ignore the odd tickle in his chest, but it didn't subside. Helen became aware that something was wrong when he pushed his dinner around his plate instead of eating. They were at their usual Friday haunt, a local Greek restaurant. The couple had started going to the place at least once a week after their only daughter left home for college.

"My chest feels funny," Jason finally admitted when Helen asked.

"I hope you're not coming down with the flu again."

Although Jason was basically healthy, his heavy smoking made him susceptible to respiratory infections, particularly influenza. He'd also had a serious bout with pneumonia three years earlier.

"It can't be the flu," Jason said. "It's not flu season yet. Is it?"

"You're asking me?" Helen returned. "I don't know, but wasn't this about the time you got it last year?"

"That was November," Jason said.

When they got home, Helen insisted on taking Jason's temperature. It was ninety-nine point four, barely above normal. They discussed calling Dr. Goldstein, their primary care physician, but decided against it. They were reluctant to bother the doctor on a weekend.

"Why does something like this always happen on Friday night?" Helen complained.

Jason slept poorly. In the middle of the night he had a hot flash resulting in so much perspiration, he felt obliged to take a shower. While toweling off he had a chill.

"This settles it," Helen said after putting several blankets on her shivering husband. "We're calling the doctor first thing in the morning."

"What's he going to do?" Jason grumbled. "I got the flu. He's going to tell me to stay home, take aspirin, drink a lot of fluids, and rest."

"Maybe he'll give you some antibiotics," Helen said.

"There's some antibiotics left over from last year," Jason said. "They're in the medicine cabinet. Get them! I don't need a doctor."

Saturday was not a good day. By late afternoon Jason admitted that he was definitely worse despite the aspirin, fluids, and antibiotic. The discomfort in his chest had worsened to pain. His temperature had risen to one hundred and three, and he'd developed a cough. But what he complained about most was a splitting headache, along with generalized aching muscles.

Attempts to reach Dr. Goldstein were unsuccessful. The doctor had gone to Connecticut for the weekend. His answering service advised Helen to take her husband to the local emergency room.

After a long wait, Jason was finally seen by the emergency-room physician, who was impressed with his condition, especially after a chest X ray. To Helen's relief, the doctor advised Jason's immediate admission to the hospital and referred the case to Dr. Heitman, who was covering Dr. Goldstein's inpatients. The diagnosis was influenza with secondary pneumonia, and the emergency-room physician started Jason on intravenous antibiotics.

Jason had never felt worse in his life as he was taken to his hospital room just before midnight. He complained bitterly about his chest pain, which was excruciating when he coughed, and about his headache. When Dr. Heitman came by to see him, Jason pleaded for relief and was given Percodan.

It took almost a half hour for the pain medication to have an effect. By that time Dr. Heitman had departed. Jason lay on his bed, exhausted but unable to sleep. He sensed a mortal battle was raging inside his body. Allowing his head to loll to the side, he looked at Helen in the half light and gripped her hand. She was maintaining a silent vigil. A tear traced a path down the side of Jason's face. In his mind's eye Helen was still that young woman who'd wandered into his shop in the Plaka all those years ago.

Helen's image began to fade as welcome numbness suffused Jason's body. At twelve-thirty-five A.M. Jason Papparis fell asleep for the last time. Mercifully, he was unaware when he was later rushed to the intensive care unit by Dr. Kevin Fowler, who waged an unsuccessful battle for his life.