I'm at an old railroad station or museum; the people have just finished a meal and are in a room with wooden benches as at a fine old railroad station with a fireplace. A man comes in that I know to be a poet and teacher. "Let's get this discussion session going," he says. I ask which poet. He says Robert Frost, so I decide to stay since I can discuss without study. Just as we get started, the leader of the Retreat Center comes back with two heavy suitcases and looks tired. My friend Earl is sitting close to me, agitated with several sheets of papers in his hand with columns of figures I can see. Earl says to the old director, "The Retreat has this estimate for tax purposes, and this other one... they are different by 48 cents." I say to Earl in a whisper, "I'll give you the 48 cents so we can get started on the poetry." He ignores me. The director must have heard me since he says to Earl, "Hand them to me." He looks and changes them to the same figure with his pen, sarcastically I think--and justifiably so. Earl is still not satisfied. I say loudly, "I'll donate a dollar to the Retreat Center so we can get to the poetry." I'm angry with him.