While toiling away in the basement there is a quiet knock upon the secret door. It opens slowly and a very pretty young woman enters smiling. She introduces herself. She works as a tutor upstairs.

"Do you work here?" she asks with great interest.

I am winded from carrying a heavy box of uncorrected proofs. Sweat is running from my brow and I feel like a berserker panting before this extremely delicate & poised girl.

"What is this place? Rumor has it that this is some kind of honor system book borrowing annex. Did you see my note?"

I could not be more confused. She pulls a yellow post-it off the wall and hands it to me. It reads: "Hi, I work at ________. Can I borrow a book? ###-####." This makes me laugh, and I explain to her the situation, how it was not a library, that I worked on the 2nd floor and we rented the basement, how no one had been down here for months, that I never saw her note. I notice one of her coworkers is standing behind her at the bottom of the steps - tall, quietly peering over her shoulder. The poised girl smiles some more and talks and lingers. She stares right into my eyes. She exits saying she'll visit again sometime. The smell of her perfume hangs in the basement near the secret door.

Walking back to the office through the parking lot, I look at the note and her child-like penmanship. A Kinks song plays loudly in my head: People Taking Pictures of Each Other. So aloof I can be at the wrong moment. I don't think I even told her my name.

Thoughts: At age 9 or 10, stand on back deck and look up into the jeweled winter sky - into the vast celestial chemistry that was home - visions which brought me to an understanding that no matter what, I'd forever be alone - learning & embracing solitude. Some people fear loneliness worse than death, for others being alone is natural. My father calls it the Lighthouse Keeper's Syndrome - the person who'd rather spend Christmas Eve alone at a remote lighthouse overlooking a dark stormy sea, helping lost sailors of the Atlantic find their way home.

Today in other news . . . Milton Berle 1908-2002.