was like discussingcreatures from another planet. "What clocks?"
"Women have their own internal clocks, and the hands are set on emotions, not thoughts. Pay attention to the emotional time, and you get to play the game."
"Is this leading to another proof of God's existence?" Sam asked, curious and kidding.
"No. Listen to me, do you like Ellen? Do you want to see her again? Have you given any thought to when you'regoing to call her up–"
"One question at a time, Buzz…but, yes, I like her. Yes, I want to see her again–though we didn't make any plans; and no, I haven't thought about when I'm going to call her up. I just got up and went to work. I was walking on air, until you started talking."
"You're going to mess up, then, Sam."
"I am?"
"Look, if Ellen's a normal woman, she's sitting at home and enjoying how she feels right now. She's treasuring last night 'in her heart,' like Mary did when she found Jesus in the temple as a boy. She's looking forward to your phone call. If you call her too quickly, you'll ruin her enjoyment, and ruin her anticipation of hearing from you again. If you wait too long, her good feelings will turn bad, to anger. She'll start resenting that you haven't called her. Callingher late will confirm her resentment. Mark my words."
"I'm completely baffled. So when should I call her?"
"In about two or three days." Buzz squinted, looking up as if there was a chart on the sun shade of his Festiva. "Monday or Tuesday. Wednesday or Thursday is too late. Today and tomorrow is definitely too early."
"It sounds so mechanical, Buzz. Isn't this the eighties? Don't women call menup?"
"Have you been reading Cosmo again? All that 'eighties woman' stuff is a bunch of crapola. Pure manure. Emotional clock stuff is genetic. Goes back before recorded history, and getting the right to vote and equal pay for equal work has nothing to do with it. It's the way they're wired. Men and women are like two different operating systems in computers. Women are Macs, men are DOS."
"Notvery complimentary to men, even if most of my work involves IBM clones…"
"But it fits," Buzz said. "Think women, think emotions. Think men, think heartless jerks. And send flowers."
"I like flowers."
"Sure you do, Sam. You're a sensitive guy. But when somebody gives you a rose, you chop the bottom off and stick it in a vase. When a woman gets a rose, she smells it, and looks at it, and feels abunch of emotions that we can only describe, as men, in a theoretical way."
Sam pondered Buzz's words.
"How do you know all this stuff?" he finally asked Buzz.
"Because I pay attention. I watch people. I study human nature. Maybe it's the way God made me. More likely, it's a coping mechanism. I study people so I can control them. So nobody can hurt me. Being a drunk son of a drunk and all thatpyschobabble stuff.
"And because I love women. Name something more beautiful than a beautiful woman? Compare Ellen to the finest piece of art you know. Which is more beautiful?"
Sam paused. "Ellie."
"No mountain landscape is more beautiful than a beautiful woman. You can't say that about men. Oh. Here's your proof of God's existence! Ready?"
"Lay it on me," Sam said affably. He was getting usedto Buzz after all these months.
"Did a slimy bunch of amino acids evolve into an Ellen James, or was she designed by someone, namely, God?"
"Slime."
"You've got to be kidding me."
"I am. I don't know where Ellie came from, except from Bucky and his ex-wife."
"So it's Bucky, now, is it?" Buzz asked. "And he's divorced?"
"Yes, and yes."
"And no comment, Sam?"
"What's there to say? Lots of peopleare divorced. You're divorced." There wasn't any accusation in Sam's voice. He was only stating a fact.
"It will mean a lot if you ever get serious with Ellie. Divorced children fear commitment," Buzz said with a remote sadness in his voice.
"Now you're the one who sounds like he was reading Cosmo," Sam joked.
"Just take her slowly, my friend. Show her she can
"Women have their own internal clocks, and the hands are set on emotions, not thoughts. Pay attention to the emotional time, and you get to play the game."
"Is this leading to another proof of God's existence?" Sam asked, curious and kidding.
"No. Listen to me, do you like Ellen? Do you want to see her again? Have you given any thought to when you'regoing to call her up–"
"One question at a time, Buzz…but, yes, I like her. Yes, I want to see her again–though we didn't make any plans; and no, I haven't thought about when I'm going to call her up. I just got up and went to work. I was walking on air, until you started talking."
"You're going to mess up, then, Sam."
"I am?"
"Look, if Ellen's a normal woman, she's sitting at home and enjoying how she feels right now. She's treasuring last night 'in her heart,' like Mary did when she found Jesus in the temple as a boy. She's looking forward to your phone call. If you call her too quickly, you'll ruin her enjoyment, and ruin her anticipation of hearing from you again. If you wait too long, her good feelings will turn bad, to anger. She'll start resenting that you haven't called her. Callingher late will confirm her resentment. Mark my words."
"I'm completely baffled. So when should I call her?"
"In about two or three days." Buzz squinted, looking up as if there was a chart on the sun shade of his Festiva. "Monday or Tuesday. Wednesday or Thursday is too late. Today and tomorrow is definitely too early."
"It sounds so mechanical, Buzz. Isn't this the eighties? Don't women call menup?"
"Have you been reading Cosmo again? All that 'eighties woman' stuff is a bunch of crapola. Pure manure. Emotional clock stuff is genetic. Goes back before recorded history, and getting the right to vote and equal pay for equal work has nothing to do with it. It's the way they're wired. Men and women are like two different operating systems in computers. Women are Macs, men are DOS."
"Notvery complimentary to men, even if most of my work involves IBM clones…"
"But it fits," Buzz said. "Think women, think emotions. Think men, think heartless jerks. And send flowers."
"I like flowers."
"Sure you do, Sam. You're a sensitive guy. But when somebody gives you a rose, you chop the bottom off and stick it in a vase. When a woman gets a rose, she smells it, and looks at it, and feels abunch of emotions that we can only describe, as men, in a theoretical way."
Sam pondered Buzz's words.
"How do you know all this stuff?" he finally asked Buzz.
"Because I pay attention. I watch people. I study human nature. Maybe it's the way God made me. More likely, it's a coping mechanism. I study people so I can control them. So nobody can hurt me. Being a drunk son of a drunk and all thatpyschobabble stuff.
"And because I love women. Name something more beautiful than a beautiful woman? Compare Ellen to the finest piece of art you know. Which is more beautiful?"
Sam paused. "Ellie."
"No mountain landscape is more beautiful than a beautiful woman. You can't say that about men. Oh. Here's your proof of God's existence! Ready?"
"Lay it on me," Sam said affably. He was getting usedto Buzz after all these months.
"Did a slimy bunch of amino acids evolve into an Ellen James, or was she designed by someone, namely, God?"
"Slime."
"You've got to be kidding me."
"I am. I don't know where Ellie came from, except from Bucky and his ex-wife."
"So it's Bucky, now, is it?" Buzz asked. "And he's divorced?"
"Yes, and yes."
"And no comment, Sam?"
"What's there to say? Lots of peopleare divorced. You're divorced." There wasn't any accusation in Sam's voice. He was only stating a fact.
"It will mean a lot if you ever get serious with Ellie. Divorced children fear commitment," Buzz said with a remote sadness in his voice.
"Now you're the one who sounds like he was reading Cosmo," Sam joked.
"Just take her slowly, my friend. Show her she can
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