THE OTHER SHORE

         Today, I’m going to walk on water. The writing business has been slow and I thought I could use the publicity. It was two weeks ago or so when I came up with the idea. I’d popped "Being There" in the VCR. Watching Chance end that fable by strolling across the pool at the cemetery gave me goose bumps. What a career move! I’ve always had the inkling to go out in a spectacular way, perhaps by sailing off in a balloon, but water walking would leave a better impression.

         Then I began to think. If I just strolled up to the east bank of the Hudson and started to amble across, no one would notice, even if I could be seen from the Rip Van Winkle Bridge. I needed to make sure the press and television crews were there, so I invited my PR man Sidney Falco over for a drink.

         "Walking on water? That's passé today. You need to do something really outrageous, like raping a sheep in public. That will get you real hype. You know, do it to represent your support of the North American Man/Sheep Lovers association.”

         I had to stop him. “Sheep are not my thing, Sidney. To work with an animal you must be smarter than the animal and, well, I think you understand. You’ve read my portfolio.” Sidney nodded, made some notes and a few days later sent out his assistant, Marlene Dietrichson, who looked a little like a young Jack Lemmon. She brought a photographer, who took some head shots. Then we adjourned to the back yard where I filled the child's wading pool I use to wash the dog.

         It is less than five feet across, but both Marlene and her companion, who could not keep his hands off her, wanted me to do a trial run. I obliged them, but the photo-op was ruined when a thirsty Holstein from next door clambered into the little man-made pond. I wondered if I should add the bovine to the act. If a man walking across the Hudson would cause a sensation, what about a man leading a large black and white cow?

         Marlene sent out press releases to the local papers, the television stations, ESPN and the Times. She refused to give details or permit anyone to interview me. I was to be the "Mystery Man of Columbia County." Last night Sidney tried to worm his way back into the act; I told him to be there at 1 p.m. today. I'll gave him three cartons of my books to hawk. He’ll get thirty percent of the gross and meet me with the cash when I reach the West Bank.

         It's 11:20 now; local television is reporting that the bridge is packed with people. Cars cannot drive across it. The hills on the east bank are black with onlookers. Despite the fact that it is sunny and hot, I’m wearing a dark suit, blue shirt and maroon tie, carrying an umbrella and sporting a Homburg atop my head. My only concession to the water will be duck shoes on my feet.

         I should reach the opposite shore by 2 p.m. Lindbergh was given a ticker-tape parade; I'll settle for a straw boater.