There was a lady. She was very nice but she didn't hardly have any money. She had lots of apartments and rooms though, in the city and she helped people who had a difficult time putting things back on shelves. The rooms were bigger than usual. Big enough to put a table in the room. But because the lady did not have money, she had no plates. She had some leftover spaghetti and she dumped it in a pile on top of a newspaper for everybody to eat off of. There was one fork to share and she stuck it in the pile of spaghetti like a flag claiming Antarctica. She said she had to make sure if the lady left her i.d. card out on the table that she put it in the slot. We were in the waiting room. Cheap plastic and aluminum chairs attached to the walls so nobody would steal them. My mother and my father were arguing viciously and me and Dora and Rudy were sitting acting like we weren't there--not saying anything. My mother said, "I send you to take care of the deed to some property next door and you sell it to Charles Manson." And my father said, "Jerry, I went and told the fella I had some property I needed him to help me take off my hands and he said OK and this is what happened." She was screaming and crying and saying, "I try and I try;" with that horrible crying that makes you so nervous that you forget everything else in the whole world. my father whispered without raising his voice, "If you don't hush up, I'm going to take you to that therapist. You know what I'm talking about and don't act like you don't.