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smile began at the top of Mr. Richardson’s eyes and moved downward until it filled his entire face.
    “I believe, Mr. Rogers, that we can solve the problem for you. Perhaps you would be in agreement with a plan whereby I call a bank manager I happen to know and arrange for him to open an account for you and then we can deposit the money into that account.”
    And so the transaction was done. After what seemed to be an interminable time of waiting for papers to be drawn up, and signing his name in many places, John Hamilton Rogers IV, multimillionaire, left the offices of the lottery corporation and walked to the branch of the bank where his money was to be deposited. Once inside the bank, he approached the nearest clerk and stated his errand. Again there was a request to wait, and again he found himself sitting opposite a rather nervous young man in a quiet office. Again he went through the routine of giving his name and lack of permanent address.
    “Do you have some suitable identification, Mr. Rogers?” asked the manager. This time the forebodings came from the nether regions of John Hamilton Rogers IV. “What kind of identification are you looking for?”
    “Oh, a driver’s license, Social Insurance card, something like that will be fine.”
    The forebodings became acutely strong. “No sir, I have nothing like that at all.”
    “Well, surely you have something to prove who you are. We must have some kind of document to show that you are who you say you are before we can release the money to you.”
    “You mean you won’t give me any money until I can prove who I am with some kind of paper that has my name on it? Some official paper?
    “That’s correct, Mr. Rogers. I’m sorry but that is the only way we can do business.”
    John Hamilton Rogers IV sat very still for several long moments. Then he did a totally uncharacteristic thing. He jumped from his chair, reached across the desk and with the palm of his hand, smacked the startled bank manager across the side of his face. The manager yelled, people came running, including a bank guard, and later a policeman. John Hamilton Rogers IV stood still and let it happen.
    * * *
    “Name?” asked the judge
    “John Hamilton Rogers IV. ”
    “How do you plead to this charge? ”
    “Guilty, your honor. ”
    “Thirty days.” Bang went the gavel. “Next case. ”
    * * *
    Thirty days later, John Hamilton Rogers IV walked into the bank again. He looked different enough in his clean clothes and fresh shave that the clerk did not recognize him until he told her his name. This time the manager came to him and carefully kept the counter between them. He waited for John Hamilton Rogers to speak first.
    “I have brought you the identification that you need.” He offered an official-looking paper which stated that John Hamilton Rogers IV had served thirty days in the city jail upon conviction of the crime of common assault and was discharged with the record having been noted. The manager looked at the form for some time. Then he reached across the counter and shook hands with his client.
    “That’s what I call doing things the hard way, Mr. Rogers. Now, what is your next step, and how may I help you without sending you back to jail?”
    “Just let me have a thousand dollars. I’ve done a good deal of thinking during the last month. I need to get some clothes, a place to live and somebody to show me what to do with my money. Perhaps you would help. A man as careful as you about who you give money to ought to be able to help me look after it.”
    The banker joined in the laughter of the man who had just served a jail term for assaulting him. After all, John Hamilton Rogers IV was somebody of some importance.

Don’t Forget Cigars
    Who says smoking kills you? If I hadn’t remembered her cigars, I wouldn’t be alive to be telling you this story.
    “Don’t forget cigars,” she had said.
    I almost did forget. I remembered when I was halfway down the mall, just past the