Deak Snapkowski fell asleep while watching late-night TV in his bean bag chair, bathed in the silver effervescent light of the Panasonic's off-air hours. He had made it through Johnny Carson's tired old Rat Pack guests, but let his eyes close when the pompous, insufferable Tom Snyder followed. Deak was often critical of entertainers. He was one himself, a standup comedian who worked the small clubs in Baltimore and Washington, D.C. He made his high school friends laugh with a dead-on impression of President Nixon's Watergate histrionics, and managed to turn it into a modest career upon graduation. At twenty-two, Deak made enough to buy a townhouse in Columbia, Maryland, a sterile suburb midway between his two working cities. But what he really wanted to do was write fiction. He had come to learn that comedians were a neurotic lot. Nailbiters, obsessives, worry warts. He fit the mold. But he wanted out.

The Panasonic came back on-air at 7 a.m. with Sunrise Serenade. But it took a shrieking faith healer to pop his eyes open. He knew his infirmed mother was watching as well, in a tiny apartment in Northwest DC, on a black and white set whose rabbit ears' reception was augmented by jury-rigged strips of aluminum foil. She prayed to be healed - daily, constantly. His mother had Huntington's disease, and it was a coin flip that he would get it, too. It was the slowest of slow deaths. His neurotic, fatally overreacting father blew his brains out after his wife's diagnosis. But family members glibly said that he was just looking for the first good reason to do it. He'd wanted to for a long time. Tragically, everyone knew that. It was a load for Deak to handle, but he just stayed busy to keep his mind from it.

The Sunday paper consumed Deak's morning. It made his fingers inky as he scanned it for standup ideas. The doorbell chimed at ten - it was probably the paperboy, he figured, looking to collect. But when he got to the door he saw a young woman through the peephole. Oh, yes. He had met her after last night's show at The Laughing Hyena. What was her name, Deena? Delia? No, Deirdre. Those bangs invading her eyebrows, hard to miss, even distorted by the one-way lens. They had talked about fiction, flirted quite a bit, and even shared a kiss on the cheek goodbye. Christ, she probably had read too much into that encounter. But how had she found out where he lived? Deak had a decision to make: pretend he wasn’t home, or open the door. His curiosity, or perhaps his libido, prevailed. He undid the deadbolt and hoped it wouldn't turn out to be a mistake.

"Hi, Deak! I looked up your address in the White Pages and now, here I am!" She certainly was a looker, here in better light. And she had a brightness in her delivery that mitigated somewhat her unsettling, unexpected visit. But Deak was a worry wart, true to his trade, and he had his reservations.

"Ah, Deirdre! Well, come on in, I guess. I wish you had called first." He would have to contact the phone company first thing Monday morning and get his address and number unlisted.

"I wanted to surprise you. I hope I'm a good surprise." She seemed harmless enough, if a bit strange to be doing this. That large handbag was scary; it could easily fit a gun in it. It was a ridiculous suspicion, he quickly decided, and tried to put it out of his mind.

"Well, you're here now. Have you had breakfast? I have some cheese Danish in the fridge, if you like. Oh, I remember now. I said that I would read your short story some day."

"That's why I'm here," she said. Deirdre nodded so vigorously, and smiled so wholesomely, that Deak's apprehension was completely allayed. He realized this young woman was merely a wide-eyed optimist. Too pure for the real world.

"Well, let's gnosh and then I’ll take a look at your story."

"Can you read while you eat, Deak? I'm so anxious to get your opinion."

"I guess I could do that." She reached in her oversized handbag, which startled him a bit, and placed a manila folder next to his plate of pastry. He opened it and began to read. It was pretty bad stuff. So many awkward metaphors. He read for ten minutes and then tried to blunt the critical monster that she had no clue he was.

"Deirdre, I write my own standup material, but I've never had a story published. So take what I say with a grain of salt. This needs a lot of work. It's somewhat overwritten, in my opinion. Fiction is a tough game - few succeed. You might want to do something different with your life."

"Well, neither of us have been published. We can work on our stories together." Deak could see that it took some effort for Deirdre to retain her bright, beaming face. He was often the executioner of dreams. People came up to him after his shows and asked how to get into comedy. He often shot them down, especially if they started going into a lame, poorly rehearsed bit, right on the spot. He couldn't help his critical self.

"Deirdre, let me tell you something about comedians that people don't know. Most of us are actually pretty morose. I try to be upbeat at a club. The rest of the time, however, I am not fun to be around. You're such a positive person, anyone can see that. But I don't just rain on people's parades, I drown them in misery. You don't want that."

"Oh." Before she would burst in tears, Deirdre put her precious story back in its manila envelope and slowly made for the door. Deak just let her leave. He heard her car start, followed by a brief, bird-like chirp of tire rubber. And then she was gone.

Yeah, he could've tried to make it work. She might've been fun for a while. But he was doing her a favor. He didn't want to inflict himself upon her. Groucho Marx had said, "I wouldn't belong to any club that would have someone like me for a member." Woody Allen had revived the line. Now it was Deak's turn to apply it.