But the news of Meyer's death did not come. Only guilt-provoking remarks by his friends at the poker game.

"Oh, you haven't seen him yet? You really ought to. He gets so few visitors and he's so appreciative."

"He always looked up to you, Lenny."

"Yeah, he always liked Lenny."

"I know you must be very busy with the show but you should try and get up to see Meyer. After all, how much time does the man have left?"

"I'll go tomorrow," Mendel said, but when it came time he pushed it off again. The truth is, when he finally got up enough courage to make a ten-minute visit to the hospital it was more out of needing to have a self-image that he could live with rather than out of any compassion for Iskowitz. Mendel knew that if Iskowitz died and he had been too scared or disgusted to visit him, he might regret his cowardice and it would then all be irrevocable. I will hate myself for being spineless, he thought, and the others will know me for what I am-a self-centered louse. On the other hand, if I visit Iskowitz and act like a man, I will be a better person in my own eyes and in the eyes of the world. The point is that Iskowitz's need for comfort and companionship was not the force behind the visit.

Now the story takes a turn because we're discussing shallowness, and the dimensions of Lenny Mendel's record-breaking superficiality are just beginning to emerge. On a cold Tuesday evening at seven-fifty (so he couldn't visit more than ten minutes even if he wanted to) Mendel received from hospital security the laminated pass that allowed him access to room 1501 where Meyer Iskowitz lay alone in bed, surprisingly decent looking considering the stage to which his illness had advanced.

"How's it going, Meyer?" Mendel said weakly as he tried to maintain a respectable distance from the bed.

"Who's that? Mendel? Is that you, Lenny?"

"I been busy. Otherwise I'd have come sooner."

"Oh it's so nice of you to bother. I'm so glad to see you."

"How are you, Meyer?"

"How am I? I'm going to beat this thing, Lenny. Mark my words. I'm going to beat this thing."

"Sure you will, Meyer," Lenny Mendel said in a feeble voice, constricted by tension. "In six months you'll be back cheating at cards. Ha, ha, no seriously, you never cheated." Keep it light, Mendel thought, keep the one-liners coming. Treat him like he isn't dying, Mendel thought, recalling advice he had read on the subject. In the stuffy little room, Mendel imagined he was inhaling billows of the virulent cancer germs as they emanated from Iskowitz and multiplied in the warm air. "I bought you a Post," Lenny said, laying the offering down on the table.

"Sit, sit. Where you running? You just came," Meyer said warmly.

"I'm not running. It's just that the visiting instructions say to keep the visits short for the comfort of the patients."

"So what's new?" Meyer asked.

Resigned to chat the full time till eight, Mendel pulled up a chair (not too close) and tried to make conversation about cards, sports, headlines, and finances, always awkwardly conscious of the overriding, horrible fact that, despite Iskowitz's optimism, he would never be leaving this hospital alive. Mendel was perspiring and felt woozy. The pressure, the forced gaiety, the pervasive sense of disease and awareness of his own fragile mortality caused his neck to grow stiff and his mouth to dry up. He wanted to leave. It was already five after eight and he hadn't been asked to go. The visiting rules were lax. He squirmed in his seat as Iskowitz spoke softly of the old days and after five more depressing minutes Mendel thought he would faint. Then, just when it seemed he could stand it no longer, a momentous event occurred. The nurse, Miss Hill-the twenty-four-year-old, blond, blue-eyed nurse with her long hair and magnificently beautiful face- walked in and, fixing Lenny Mendel with a warm, ingratiating smile, said, "Visiting hours are over. You'll have to say goodbye." Right then Lenny Mendel, who had never seen a more exquisite creature in all his life, fell in love. It was as simple as that. He gaped, open-mouthed, with the stunned appearance of a man who had finally set eyes on the woman of his dreams. Mendel's heart virtually ached with an overwhelming feeling of the most profound longing. My God, he thought, it's like in a movie. And there was no question about it either, Miss Hill was absolutely adorable. Sexy and curvaceous in her white uniform, she had big eyes and lush, sensual lips. She had good, high cheekbones and perfectly shaped breasts. Her voice was sweet and charming as she straightened up the sheets, teasing Meyer Iskowitz good-naturedly while she projected warm concern for the sick man. Finally she picked up the food tray and left, pausing only to wink at Lenny Mendel and whisper, "Better go. He needs rest."

"This is your usual nurse?" Mendel asked Iskowitz after she was gone.

"Miss Hill? She's new. Very cheerful. I like her. Not sour like some of the others here. Friendly as they come. And a good sense of humor. Well, you better go. It was such a pleasure seeing you, Lenny."

"Yeah, right. You too, Meyer."

Mendel rose in a daze and walked down the corridor hoping to run into Miss Hill before he reached the elevators. She was nowhere to be found and when Mendel hit the street with its cool night air he knew he would have to see her again. My God, he thought, as he cabbed home through Central Park, I know actresses, I know models, and here a young nurse is more lovely than all the others put together. Why didn't I speak to her? I should have engaged her in conversation. I wonder if she's married? Well no-not if it's Miss Hill. I should've asked Meyer about her. Of course, if she's new… He ran through all the "should-haves" imagining he blew some kind of big chance but then consoled himself with the fact that at least he knew where she worked and he could locate her again when he regained his poise. It occurred to him that she might finally prove unintelligent or dull like so many of the beautiful women he met in show business. Of course she is a nurse which could mean her concerns are deeper, more humane, less egotistical. Or it could mean that if I knew her better she'd be an unimaginative purveyor of bedpans. No-life can't be that cruel. He toyed with the notion of waiting for her outside the hospital but guessed that her shifts would change and that he'd miss her. Also that he might put her off if he accosted her.

He returned the following day to visit Iskowitz, bringing him a book called Great Sport Stories, which he felt made his visit less suspicious. Iskowitz was surprised and delighted to see him but Miss Hill was not on that night and instead a virago named Miss Caramanulis floated in and out of the room. Mendel could hardly conceal his disappointment and tried to remain interested in what Iskowitz had to say but couldn't. Iskowitz being a bit sedated never noticed Mendel's distracted anxiousness to leave.

Mendel returned the next day and found the heavenly subject of his fantasies in attendance with Iskowitz. He made some stammering conversation and when he was about to leave did manage to get next to her in the corridor. Eavesdropping on her conversation with another young nurse, Mendel seemed to get the impression that she had a boyfriend and the two were going to see a musical the following day. Trying to appear casual as he waited for the elevator, Mendel listened carefully to find out how serious the relationship was but could never hear all the details. He did seem to think she was engaged and while she had no ring he thought he heard her refer to someone as "my fiance." He felt discouraged and imagined her the adored partner of some young doctor, a brilliant surgeon perhaps, with whom she shared many professional interests. His last impression as the elevator doors closed to take him to street level was that of Miss Hill walking down the corridor, chatting animatedly with the other nurse, her hips swinging seductively and her laugh musically beautiful as it pierced the grim hush of the ward. I must have her, Mendel thought, consumed by longing and passion, and I must not blow it like I have so many others in the past. I must proceed sensibly. Not too fast as is always my problem. I must not act precipitously. I must find out more about her. Is she indeed as wonderful as I imagine she is? And if so, how committed is she to the other person? And if he didn't exist, would I even then have a chance? I see no reason why if she's free that I couldn't court her and win her. Or even win her from this man. But I need time. Time to learn about her. Then time to work on her. To talk, to laugh, to bring what gifts I have of insight and humor to bear. Mendel was practically wringing his palms like a Medici prince and drooling. The logical plan is to see her as I visit Iskowitz and slowly, without pressing, build up points with her. I must be oblique. My hard sell, direct approach has failed me too often in the past. I must be restrained.