Once Upon a Time by Constantine Gochis

 It is time, I think, for another Constantine Story.

Mr. Randolph was one of my father's favorite customers.  It was not that he was a big spender. In fact, he was one of Papa's elite clientele whose nature was never to carry cash, or anything heavy. "Put it on my account, and have the boy bring it up," was the usual interaction. In my pre-teen years, I was the "boy".  But this was not the essence of their close association. 

He was a person who exuded elegance, although somewhat worn. He was carefully attired, carried a can and wore a soft felt hat, tan in color.  He wore it contantly, regardless of sartorial color conflicts.  To my youthful eyes he too seemed somewhat worn, probably not of the very affluent of the neighborhood.

Mr. Randolph was friendly and garrulous. Whether he bought something or not, he frequently became engaged in philosophical discussions with my father. Papa always addressed him as "Professor Randolph" althought he was in fact of more pedestrian accomplishments.

To better understand this application of distinction, it must be explained that my father applied his own value to states of accomplishment.  "Professor" was not a title of reverence for him.  It was a challege, and invitation to a joust. In the society of grat minds, he felt sure that ony the vagaries of early deprivation separated him from the heights of learning.

I suspect that it was Mr. Randolph who introduced my father to an aphorism that my father employed, throughout his life in many dissertations on the profundities of life, one that varied lightly in syntax, "Stay on your feet and limitations," or "Lay on your feet and limitations." It became his paradigm of universal application. 

When he was confounded by the logic of an adversary, he resorted to his store of illustrative fables. It was his riposte. His most pointed rebuttal lay in the story of a man who was sitting on the branch of a tree and sawing it from the inside.  A "professor" who was passing, cautions him that if he continues his action, he will surely fall.  The man, who always replies with pique, responds, "Professor, if you are so smart, tell me when I am going to die."

I do not mean to disparage, though I was told by unimpeachable authority that the high note of his early education in the old country was his feat of tying his master to a tree.

But I temporize.  It seems that in one of the many dissertations with Professor Randolph, the subject of a magical substand, "ergosterol", was revealed to my father. Ergosterol is an enzyme that humans posssess beneath the skin that produces Vitamin D, but only when exposed to the sun.  This revelation had evil consequences of some severity for me.

On the next day after the epiphany, my father directed Mr. Hagiopolis, his employee, to take me to Long Beach for a sunbath.  I was, consequently, badly burned and blistered.  My mother, not yet instructed in the salutary effects of "ergosterol" opined that the event was caused by the "Matia", the evil eye cast upon me by her sisters in law.

The patriarch, however, inspected the areas of holocaust and was pleased. He was of the philosophy that medicine that tastes good is bad, hence, the discomfort of minor burns had to be equally beneficial.

He directed Mr. Hagiopolis to take me back to Long Beach the next day.