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IT WAS PAST TEN when I returned to my Nederland home. I let the dogs out, removed my already loosened tie, and noticed the flashing red message light on the phone in the kitchen. There was one message. "Hey, peckerhead, give me a call." I punched in my brother's number. It used to be long distance to Denver, but in a rare example of government disregarding the desires of business, the Public Utilities Commission had recently ordered U.S. West to expand its local calling area. "Hello?" "Hello," I bellowed in my best equine voice, "Tm Mister Eddddddddd." He responded with his imitation of an irate Mr. T. “I pity the fool that calls me this late in the evening." I laughed. "I guess we both like old TV shows," I said. "Yeah, but I chose one from the eighties and you chose one from the sixties, so I'm more hip." "What's up?" "Just wondered how you were doing." "Pretty damn good," I said. I've suffered from mild depression since the death of an old girlfriend in a car accident years ago, but little brother still calls nearly every day to make sure I haven't killed myself. "I tried calling earlier." "I was meeting a new client." "Long meeting?"