"At least you're allowed juice," I reminded Dan. I'd finished my own breakfast - and cleaned up the reminders - before he'd woken up. "Cheer up - maybe you'll get some good news. How about an early lunch after the exam?"

Dan was looking distracted, sitting at the table, nursing a glass of orange juice and tapping the cover of a book with his fingers. "Yeah, sure," he agreed, staring off into nowhere.

"How's Thorne's 'Modus Operandi Nova'?" I referred to the book he was tapping absentmindedly.

"Huh? Oh, uh, yeah ... it's pretty good. Haven't gotten very far but I read a bit last night. Something different." Dan shook his head briefly, then changed the subject. "Hey, I've got to arrange a new network account for you. I'll do that from the office later. Uh, I'll set it up with my password, then you can change it when you log on. Okay?"

"Sure. That's fine," I agreed. Whatever was bothering him, he'd shelved it for the moment and was looking awake and present again.

"How's your schedule looking," he asked, throwing a glance toward my notebook.

"Just a few items," I ticked them off. "Get the license from Caesar, find a less flamboyant shirt or two, and a less flamboyant tie for that matter. What I have is a little gaudy for a group of Japanese businessmen - the tan suit's okay but the shirts ... Anyway, I thought I'd take a walk along the Embarcadero and the Embarco Center, then check out the trolley lines - get a feel for the downtown area. That's probably about all I can manage this afternoon. Probably hear from Bay Tour Services this evening. While I'm at it, is there anything I can do for you?"

"Thanks," Dan smiled, then continued with a slightly secretive expression, "but you already have. Naw, let's go over to the hospital. Then, if you don't mind waiting while they poke their scope down my throat, we can get some lunch."

"Sounds fine with me." I gathered my notebook and the maps and guide book into a plastic bag, reminding myself that I was also going to have to look for something better for keeping things together.

I had one other errand as well - that I hadn't mentioned to Dan. Not so much a case of being secretive but more a case of not being sure how to explain it. Or even exactly how to do it.

* * *

Caesar, spotting us coming down the hall, parked the gurney he was pushing and came to greet us. "Hola, amigos. Good morning, Señor Tambeau, Señor Wills." Then, dropping his voice, he added, "Aqui, tengo su licencia." He produced an envelope, passing it to me.

"Muchas gracias," I accepted the envelope, passing Caesar a fold of bills. "Con mordita," I added, smiling.

Technically, a mordita was a 'little bite', a bribe paid to an official, not a tip given a friend for special services - which would have been a propina - but Caesar understood the joke. After all, my objective had been to obtain an 'official' document.

I slipped the envelope with the licencia in my pocket - I'd check it later when it was less obvious.

* * *

In the ward, the now-perpetual pinochle games were in full swing while, off to one side, George - true to his word - was playing tivoli with Captain Donavi.

Crossing the ward, Dan and I spent a few minutes saying hello and chatting with various acquaintances, receiving updates on everyone's condition and being introduced to a few new patients.

When we reached our target pair, it was George who had the announcement to make - that he would be released, on an outpatient basis, that afternoon. He'd be back for checks for a while but he could finish recuperating at home ... where, he reminded us, the food was much better ... as well as the company.

"So," the Captain boomed when George had finished, "no reason for my staying, eh?"

Except for his endoscopy appointment, Dan was ready to commander a wheelchair on the spot. Instead, he settled for making arrangements to pick the Captain up that afternoon, then, reluctantly, left for his examination, giving me a chance to tell George and Captain Donavi my own news - about being employed, that is, not about the licencia.

"So," I concluded after accepting their congratulations, "it's a relief to be profitably employed. And, while not disputing your opinions, George," I smiled, "I do owe Father Hardesty a sincere 'Thank you'." I didn't add that I'd already done so via the good Father's voice mail - taking the indirect route to avoid having to agree to 'counseling'. While not depreciating Father Hardesty's good intentions, I had too many other things to occupy my time and really wasn't interested in explaining to a counselor why I wasn't a mental basketcase. Or, even worse, trying to fake being one.

"You will be busy then," George considered, "on Friday and Saturday. But these businessmen will be leaving Sunday?"

I nodded.

"Then you can join us for dinner Sunday evening? All of you, I mean."

I didn't see any reason not ... and I did enjoy George's company. "Sounds fine to me," I agreed. "But you'll have to ask Dan if he has any conflicts. And," I suggested with a smile, "keep Dan's ulcers in mind as well. We don't want to put him back in here."

* * *

Dan was considerably happier about the endoscopy exam after it was over - mostly because the doctor had found his ulcers improving and had suggested, in a few days, that his diet might be relaxed somewhat.

In the mean time, having missed breakfast, we were both ready for an early lunch.

"Speaking of which," I asked as we were climbing into the car. "How do you feel about sushi?"

Dan hesitated a moment, prompting me to think of an alternative suggestion, then collected himself: "I said I was going to change ... so, by damn, let's go."

"You haven't eaten sushi, then," I made the obvious guess.

"It's raw fish, right?"

"Some of it," I confirmed. "But not all."

"And what is it that's poisonous?"

"Oh, you're thinking of fugu - puffer fish. And you're right - if it's not properly prepared, it is quite poisonous. In Japan, a handful of people die from it every year ... but, relax, it's not on the menu here."

"What's it like?" Dan's question said that he knew me better than I expected.

"I must have tried it," I agreed. "Since I have a memory of thinking it was vastly overrated. I suspect, if it weren't potentially poisonous, it wouldn't be nearly as popular. But I don't think I'll try it again."

"Okay, no fugu - it even sounds horrible - but bring on the raw fish ... and I'll try it." We wheeled out of the hospital parking lot and into the street.

"Himachi," I suggested. "Maguro, unagi - unagi's barbecued eel, cooked - and futomaki - that's made from eggs ... chicken eggs," I hastened to add. "They're all mild, nothing to bother your ulcer and, if you really don't like them, there's always yakatori - cooked chicken - and some more conventional foods."

* * *

"This is really good," Dan said for the tenth time, still sounding slightly surprised, as he finished another piece of himachi.

I'd persuaded the sushi chef - taking the opportunity to practice my Japanese - to leave the wasabi, the green horseradish paste, off of Dan's order. Other than that, and cautioning Dan to treat the pickled ginger with respect, I'd watched Dan work his way through ebi - sweet shrimp - saki with lemon - smoked salmon - and a half-dozen other varieties. When he'd asked for the salmon skin roll - with radish sprouts - I'd intervened but, otherwise, I'd left him to make his own choices. Radish sprouts - just for the record - run wasabi a close second for heat and can put some peppers to shame.

He was right, of course - as long as it's fresh, sushi's always good.

But I felt a little like I'd tossed a duck into water for the first time ... and was watching it swim away.

* * *

After lunch, Dan and I spent a few minutes at his office arranging a separate internet account where I became "tambeau@pbn.net" - one more piece of identity.

As a precaution, I wrote the internet address and my password on a small slip of paper, adding the slip to the compartment in my belt.

Tasks completed, I left Dan at his office to take care of mail, messages and other details and headed downtown - only a few blocks - to take care of some of my errands.

One detail I hadn't had time to finish the night before was creating business cards - things had been a little busy and I'd have to finish this evening. On the other hand, now I had an internet address to include.

For the moment, the first task I tackled - since I was afraid it might be the more difficult - was to find a computer shop with a digital camera. Not that I wanted to buy one - I wasn't feeling that rich by half - but because I needed a couple of pictures in digital format.

It turned out to be easier than I'd expected. After my third stop, I had a diskette in my pocket and a head full of information that was interesting ... but irrelevant. I'd also been offered the chance to make a short video - also digital - and to record an audio segment but I'd settled for the still pictures. Even a short video took a lot of memory space compared to a still photo and memory space also translated into transmission time on the net. Besides, a video - even assuming I'd known what to say - wouldn't have been any more useful than the still photo.

The nicest part, perhaps, was that the computer store provided the photos - and the disk - for no charge.

The price was hard to argue with.

* * *

A while later, I'd found a very nice briefcase / overnighter in a soft pigskin. The price was a little higher than I'd wanted to pay but the case had lots of room, was soft enough to serve as a rough pillow, small enough to be convenient to carry and large enough - expanded - to carry a lot. Add the fact that the unpolished pigskin looked like it would wear well without showing the wear and I couldn't think of anything better. Hardsiders - attaché cases - memory insisted - were always awkward to carry, hard to fit aboard airlines and made lousy pillows. And the polished, glossy-finished leather briefcases weren't much better ... besides looking like junk after a banging around for one or two trips.

I paid the ticket price - resisting the impulse to haggle - and transferred the contents of my shopping bag to the briefcase, walking out with it slung over my shoulder. Somehow, with the case, I felt more at home - like it was another missing item ... another navigation point in the void in my memories.

* * *

One more stop - this time at a discount house - and I'd added two shirts to the briefcase. One a light blue broadcloth with button-down collars, the second a light beige in a smooth cotton. I'd also found a plain tie - in a medium width, soft yellow knit - which would fit with either shirt. Together with the tan slacks and sports jacket, the effect would be summery but still conservatively reassuring.

Last, on impulse, I picked out a panama fiber hat with medium-width snap brim and a plain black ribbon band. Tropic but without being flashy ... and better than having my scalp sunburn when the fog lifted.

* * *

My immediate errands completed - and feeling relaxed - I spent the rest of the afternoon playing tourist, riding the trolley cars, walking around Fisherman's Wharf, taking the bus along the Embarcadero ... and trying to match what I was seeing against vague memories and the guide book and map.

The weather was good and, even if it wasn't the height of the tourist season, there were still a lot of visitors ... and a few street vendors ... as well as homeless, beggars and performance artists. The mimes - white-face was out this year - were heavily into the mechanical bit, assuming robotic postures and slow, jerky movements, accompanying their motions with mechanical whirring sounds produced by small mouth harps ... or whatever you'd like to call them.

One - standing on an overturned wire milk carton, his afro features and hair turned silver with some kind of paint or dye - was dressed in a matching silver-metallic suit. Others, with more talent, relied on less on props and more on performance.

Elsewhere, a bassoonist was crooning on his horn, a clarinet was playing something that needed heavy accompaniment and scattered guitars were usually no better than the voices of the players.

A panhandler - with a sign reading: "Why lie about it? I want a beer!" - was proving that honesty pays.

And a group of three kids - two girls and a boy, all with oriental complexions - were working a set of African drums with a beat and style that called for deep green jungle surroundings, not sidewalks, glass and neon.

And there were others, some less remarkable, others with their own original gigs. In some ways, the wharf felt like an oriental bazaar. If the air had been a bit warmer - with the same humidity - I might have thought I was within twenty-degrees of the equator.

Finally - my legs were getting tired - I caught a bus back downtown, then boarded the BART train for Daly City.

* * *

Back home - Dan's house, anyway and it was feeling like home - I found I had the place to myself. I assumed Dan was picking up Captain Donavi - since that had been his plan - so I set about starting supper.

I'd made a detour to the grocery - still with Dan's stomach ulcers in mind - and dumped the groceries in the fridge, filling a pot with water and putting some potatoes in to boil.

When the phone rang, I let the answering machine pick it up. Then, when I heard the oriental voice replying to the announcement, I grabbed the phone and answered - "Moshi, moshi. Konnichi wa! May I assist?" - in Japanese, of course.

"Please may I speaking Mr. Tamleau?"

"Watashi wa Tambeau desu," I replied, introducing myself

"Tambeau san, I am Shoji. Ostrider san say you will be guide, hai?."

"Hai!" I agreed. "I am pleased to be of service, Shoji san." The next few minutes were spent exchanging courtesies.

Contrary to the attitudes of many people - usually people who are somewhat insular and certainly not those who have traveled to any extent - the exchange of courtesies is much more than merely a pointless social custom or pleasantry. In this case, exchanging courtesies allowed Mr. Shoji and myself to appraise each other and gain an initial sense of who the other person was and what they were like.

My insulting challenge, the night before, to Señor Aguilar had served a similar purpose - not to be insulting but to provide my credentials. In like fashion, Señor Aguilar's response had been both recognition of my status and an agreement that we could proceed as equals.

In this case, the purpose was slightly different. Here the purpose was to reassure Mr. Shoji not merely that I spoke his language but also that I understood his culture and would be a suitable guide. In return, Mr. Shoji's side of the conversation was to give me an idea of what he and his companions required - not so much in details as in form and style.

Thus, several minutes later, when we finally settled to discussing arrangements and their interests, we each had already appraised the other in social terms. Granted, if you were hiring a taxi driver, presumably his credentials would be supplied by a license displayed in the cab - there would be no need for an extended discussion to decide whether you were going to ride with him or not.

But a guide - on Mr. Shoji's terms - was a more involved ... or more personal ... relationship - therefore the protracted exchange of courtesies.

However, once the courtesies had been dispensed, the arrangements were easily settled. That I would meet Mr. Shoji - and his companions - tomorrow around three in the afternoon at their hotel. That their business arrangements would be concluded at this point and, until their departure on Sunday, there were a number of things they would like to see and do ... but they were also requesting suggestions.

Friday afternoon and evening, they were interested purely in sightseeing ... but would it be possible that I please arrange for them to visit Alcatraz. It seemed that The Rock - with subtitles - had been featured in the in-flight movie on their trans-Pacific voyage and Mr. Shoji's party was most anxious to view the location in person.

I would, I assured him, make all the arrangements immediately and that I would be at their service on the following afternoon.

There were more details but none which required any special preparations and, after a final exchange of courtesies - these latter essentially formalities - we said good bye.

Also, by this time, the potatoes were well boiled.

* * *

When Dan and Captain Donavi finally appeared - Dan had taken a detour to purchase a second printer for home - the potato salad was ready along with sliced ham, cheeses, a relish tray, spinach dip and a loaf of still-warm sour dough. The bread and spinach dip were from the bakery and deli at the market. The rest had been easily prepared - nothing elaborate but solid. And, as long as he laid off of the mustard and cherry peppers, nothing to irritate Dan's ulcer.

The doctor had said Dan was better but hadn't said he was cured ... yet.

As for Captain Donvai, having his leg in a cast did nothing to hamper his appetite.

And, this time, Dan had a story for the Captain.

Still, even though I'd been there, I really didn't remember the mustachio'd banditos wearing crossed ammunition belts ... and some of the other details also seemed slightly at variance with my memory.

Not, under the circumstances, that I was touting my memory as the ultimate record of reality but I really didn't recall being quite so outrageous in challenging Señor Aguilar's fees. And I was quite sure no knives had been drawn and ... And at that point, the embellishments reached such a height of originality that Captain Donavi found himself in a cleft between the choices of eating and laughing.

When Dan finally paused in his account, the Captain set his fork down and, with a classic poker face, addressed Dan with: "Tell me, mate. Would you know the difference between a sea story and a fairy tale, eh?"

Dan took a moment to consider the question, then shook his head, puzzled.

"A fairy tale, laddie, begins 'Once upon a time ...' but a sea story begins 'Now this is no shit ...'" The Captain paused for a moment, then added: "But, in your case, we may need a new category, eh?" punctuating his remark with a generous belly laugh.

An instant later, Dan and I joined him.

* * *

"What you need to remember," I suggested later, "is to make your tales just tall enough that your reader will wonder if they might be true ... but not so tall that they'll immediately dismiss them as fiction ... unless, of course, you're thinking of a Baron von Munchausen theme."

"It was worth the effort," Dan admitted, "to top Captain Donavi ... just once."

"And are you suggesting that my stories might be less than true," the Captain tried - unsuccessfully - to insert a note of hurt innocence in his voice.

"No more than I'd question how bright you claimed the sun to be at midnight," Dan returned the smile. "Speaking of which, Alex - how's the driver's license?"

The truth of the matter was - I hadn't checked it. The envelope was still in my pocket where I'd placed it and then forgotten about it.

I pulled the envelope out, feeling rather sheepish, and tore the end off to extract the plastic card.

It looked good ... The name - Alexander Jason Tambeau - appeared above Dan's street address. Señor Aguilar had given me a date of birth in 1948 and the license was good for another three years according to the expiration date. By the time it needed replacement, I'd surely have been able to make other arrangements. After all, it was hardly like the State of California was going to send me a renewal notice.

At least, I didn't think they would.

The plastic overlay - with the faint DMV and State of California seal holograms flashed as I tilted the card. I passed the card to Dan for comment.

"Looks official," he agreed, producing his from his wallet for comparison. "Looks damned good." He passed the card to Captain Donavi.

"Then it was worth the price," I decided. "Think it's good enough that a bank would let me open an account?"

"Probably," Dan agreed. "You'll need to invent a social security number but I can introduce you to my bank. Couldn't hurt."

"Fine piece of workmanship," the Captain agreed, returning the card, then adding: "Have I told you about the time in Algiers when a mate of mine needed a passport after the police conveniently forgot ..." and he was off on another tale - or a sea story, depending on your viewpoint.

* * *

In addition to the printer, Dan had also picked up a package of microperf business card sheets. Each eight-and-a-half by eleven inch sheet of card stock was crossed with microscopic perforations allowing them to be separated cleanly in standard business card size after being run through the printer. The manufacturers also sold a set of templates - suitable for most popular word processor programs - to assist in setting up the layout for your custom cards.

Of course, we wasted several sheets of paper before the layout looked right but, after downloading a Kanji font from the internet, I had two dozen business cards with my name at the top left and Dan's phone number and my new internet address at the bottom left and right. In slightly larger type, the word 'Guide' appeared centered in a half-tone gray and, last, at the upper right, my name repeated in Japanese phonetics.

Printed on an antique parchment card stock, they looked superb.

* * *

"I haven't had a chance to ask," Dan caught me alone in the kitchen. "But how are you fixed for cash? That license cost you a pretty good piece of change and, with the shirts and briefcase ..." He was holding another fold of twenties, offering me replenishment for my wallet.

I had spent a bit the day before ... and almost as much today ... but ... with the promise of payday on Sunday, I declined the offer. "I'm fine," I assured him, feeling mildly guilty for not mentioning the fact that I still had folded hundreds concealed in my belt. "I've plenty to get by on the next few days and I get paid after the clients leave. So, I should be able to repay you the first loan in a couple of days. But thanks." And I meant it - most people wouldn't be nearly as considerate.

"You're sure," Dan looked doubtful.

"Absolutely," I repeated.

"Well, at least let me pay you back for the groceries," he peeled off two twenties and handed them over.

"Seventeen and change covers it," I returned one of the bills, adding, "It's the freezer section that's expensive." There was still enough ham for a couple more meals ... and enough potato salad for several. Not to mention the cheese, celery and assorted extras.

And I figured, in my absence during the next couple of days, that the Captain would be able to whip something together - memories said that I'd never met a sea dog who couldn't find his way around the galley in a pinch - but I would have a word with Captain Donavi about exercising restraint with the spices.

* * *

I spent the rest of the evening - while the Captain was teaching Dan the tricks of tivoli - setting up a simple homepage, transferring the photos, preparing a message and, not least, using internet search engines to locate the addresses I wanted.

The last part of the task was the hardest and, by the time I'd finished and posted my email, both George and the Captain had retired for the evening.

Since, tomorrow, I was anticipating spending late hours shepherding my clients, I posted the message, logged off and went to bed.