"Yes."

Nancy stripped off her bra and panties.

"What are you doing?"

"Rewarding you for telling the truth. Now lay down and take a break while I see if I can resuscitate the little guy."

BLUE MONDAY.

The man standing before Amir Patel was dressed in a b.u.t.ton-down white collared shirt, black pants, shoes, and a matching tie. "Now at least you look like a professional. Sit down, Jacob."

"If it's alright with you, Mr. Patel, I'd rather stand. My b.u.t.t is a little sore from, uh, working out."

"Then I'll make this brief. I'm giving you a second chance, but you're on probation. Your first repair call is with one of our most important clients. Zev Bourla owns the biggest advertising firm in Miami. They were hit by a computer virus early this morning. I told Zev I would send him our best man."

"You're sending Sanjay?"

"I'm sending you. Here's the address," Patel handed him a business card. "Remember, you are representing my company, so-"

"I know . . . always be polite."

THE DRIVE SOUTH on Interstate-95 was harrowing, the rush hour traffic weaving from one congested lane to the next at seventy miles an hour, the construction lanes narrowed by concrete shoulders.

An hour after leaving Boca, Jacob arrived at the address in Miami, his nerves frayed, his fingernails chewed down to the nub.

The high-rise building was on scenic route A1A, the advertising firm occupying the entire sixth floor. Jacob was escorted to the president's office, a large corner suite divided into a desk and work area and a small conference table, its white Formica top cluttered with four-color glossy posters. The east wall offered a floor-to-ceiling view of the Atlantic Ocean, the turquoise and blue tapestry partially concealed behind Venetian blinds.

Zev Bourla greeted Jacob with a warm smile and handshake. The advertising executive was trim and in his late forties with a youthful face and jet-black hair. The Brooklyn accent seemed perpetually upbeat. "So, you're Amir's new superstar?"

"No, sir. The truth is, this is my first service call and I'm a little nervous. Actually, I'm very nervous; I don't do well in new environments with strangers I've just met. That's not to say I can't fix your computer-I can. I just work better alone."

"Do you want me to have the building evacuated?"

"No, sir."

"Good. So, the computer's over there on my desk, and I'm just going to work over here at the conference table . . . if that's okay?"

"Yes, sir." Jacob entered the horseshoe-shaped work area. He carefully moved the leather swivel chair out of the way and knelt by the computer keypad. After typing several commands, he connected his own laptop to Zev's hard drive and began running a diagnostics program.

Several minutes of quiet caused Zev to look up from his work -- the shy technician nowhere to be seen. "Jacob?"

"Down here, sir. I'm just waiting for the diagnostic program to finish running."

"You don't have to sit on the floor; you can use my chair."

"It's okay, I don't mind."

"How much longer will the diagnostics program take?"

"Another twenty-nine minutes."

"Twenty-nine minutes . . ." Zev smiled, looking up at the ceiling. "Sent me another one, huh?"

"Excuse me?"

"Jacob, come on out from there and have a seat on the sofa."

Jacob crawled out from beneath the desk, walking over to the sofa as if had a tail tucked between his legs.

"You seem nervous. Relax, I don't bite. I like you, Jacob. I wonder if you could keep an open-mind, say for the next twenty-nine minutes?"

Stranger-danger . . . Jacob felt his skin crawl. "I have a girlfriend, sir."

"I'm sure she's a very nice person."

"I meant, I'm not gay."

"Mazel tov to your girlfriend. I simply wanted to share something with you-advice that has helped me over the years. Are you okay with that, or would you rather sit under the desk?"

"No, advice is cool."

"Good, because I love hearing myself talk. Jacob, everything in life is consciousness; the way in which we view things affects us both conceptually and on a physical level."

"If you say so."

"Let me give you an example. You told me that you don't do well in new environments with strangers. When your boss sent you to see me, the way in which you accepted the a.s.signment created an energy field, either positive or negative. Do you follow?"

"No, sir."

"I'm talking about being afraid. Fear is a weapon of ma.s.s destruction, Jacob, it creates all kinds of negative energy that can manifest in our physical lives."

"Being around strangers . . . it's not my only fear."

"All of us have fears. Fear of dying, fear of catching a disease. Fear of losing our jobs, fear of poverty-"

"Amputees."

"Amputees?"

"They freak me out. The water scares me, too-and heights. Maybe you could shut the blinds?"

"Of course."

"And elephants."

"Elephants? Do you come across a lot of elephants in your line of work?"

"Thank G.o.d, no."

"G.o.d . . . now there's an interesting subject. Do you believe in G.o.d, Jacob? A higher power?"

"I guess so."

"You guess so?"

"I'm not really into religion."

"Neither am I. I'm strictly talking G.o.d. Because if you really believe in a Creator, then what's to fear? Why don't you just pray-'hey, G.o.d, please-no amputees riding elephants today. Hey G.o.d, I could use more money . . . help me to lose weight, to live until I'm two hundred.' If you really believe in G.o.d, what are you afraid of?"

"Maybe I should check the computer."

"What you're afraid of, Jacob, is your own inability to connect with the higher power that you say you believe in. Feeling powerless, your life becomes overwhelmed with chaos. Chaos leads to fear . . . fear turns you into a victim. Trust me, I've been in your shoes-a member in good standing at Victim.com. What I've learned is that our fears actually create what we're afraid of. It's always the guy who's afraid of amputees that runs into a VA hospital. The people who are afraid of flying-those are the ones who always find themselves on the planes experiencing turbulence. The reason is that fear manifests a negative energy field that brings the actual situation to life. When you're afraid or angry or anxiety-ridden you've essentially shut yourself off from G.o.d. That's the negative energy at work. Instead of drowning in fear, focus your mind on swimming to the solution-it's these positive thoughts that will connect you to the power of the Creator-the place where real miracles come from.

"Now, I know what you're thinking-you're thinking, 'get me out of here-this guy Zev is some kind of nut.' But the information I'm sharing with you is not some hokey conceptual thought or theory, it comes from teachings that are four thousand years old.

"True story: When I was your about your age I was living a textbook life. Beautiful woman, successful business, big house, driving around in a sports car . . . you name it, I had it. Then my son was born with an immune deficiency that was undiagnosable. I spent six months sleeping on a cot in Jackson-Memorial hospital while my infant was hooked up to machines to keep him alive. This went on for years. I felt my life spiraling out of control. I felt anger toward the doctors who had no answers. I found myself hating the Creator . . . what did I do to deserve this, G.o.d? I'm not a bad person. I'm not a drug addict or an alcoholic. I'm not a criminal. Why won't you answer my prayers?'"

Jacob sat up, finding himself relating to the man's angst.

"When my son turned six, we attempted to enroll him in public school. Because he had spent the first years of his life in a hospital, he had never learned to crawl. When a baby doesn't crawl, it doesn't develop the strength or coordination to use its thumbs. As a result, my son couldn't dress himself. Because he wasn't around other children growing up, he couldn't speak properly. No school would take him, the administrators insisting he had to go to a special school for the mentally handicapped.

"Again, I was devastated. 'Why, G.o.d . . . why is this happening?' I was lost, full of fear. A friend recommended I speak to a man who was teaching a course on spirituality. The teacher told me I wasn't a victim; in fact I was in total control, only I was looking at things all wrong. He explained to me the reason my son was placed in my life and exactly what I had to do to change the situation. He also told me that I had to shed my anger toward the doctors and school administrators, and especially toward G.o.d, that there was no one to blame . . . that it was my anger that was causing me to block the Creator's energy, what he called G.o.d's Light. Well, normally my ego would have dismissed this teacher and his ridiculous advice, but at that point I was so desperate that I would have listened to anyone. And so I listened, and I began working on changing my consciousness. And slowly but surely things began to get better, not just with my son but in my relationships, with my health, and with my career. Today my son is seventeen and in an excellent private school for normal kids where he's a straight-A student. We bike ride together, play sports together, and he's become so physically coordinated that he plays the drums in a local band. Instead of being inst.i.tutionalized, my son is enjoying a full normal life, all because I changed my consciousness and with it, my perception of the challenges given to me. Challenges are opportunities, Jacob. In the process of changing myself, I became someone who shared versus someone who received for the self alone."

"This ancient wisdom . . . is there a book I can read about it?"

"There are books, there are courses being offered at local centers and on-line. As a way of giving back, I offer a free introduction called Twenty-Nine Amazing Minutes."

Jacob smiled. "Twenty-nine minutes. That's why you wanted to talk to me."

"And why Patel sent you to service my computer, no doubt." Zev searched one of his desk drawers, retrieving a flyer with a Boca address.

"Kabbalah?"

"It's not what you think. Come by. Meet a few of the teachers; see if you like what you hear. Meanwhile, think of your life as a bank account-the more positive things you put in, the more you'll eventually get out. Just bear in mind that you may not reap the rewards you sow right away. If that were true-if we were rewarded immediately after we did something positive, then there'd be no such thing as free will; man's existence reduced to a dog performing tricks in order to receive a cookie from his master."

DOG TRAINING THE AMERICAN MALE.

LESSON TWELVE: THE SHOCK COLLAR.

Nancy arrived home to find Spencer's van parked by the curb, the dog trainer seated on her front porch. As she approached, he shot her a look of consternation.

"Sorry I'm late, traffic was a b.i.t.c.h."

"b.i.t.c.h . . . as in female dog? I happened to listen to your show on Friday. Am I right in a.s.suming you're advising your listeners to use dog training techniques to domesticate their men?"

Nancy blushed. "Well . . . sort of."

"Madam, I've spent my entire adult life working with both dogs and men, and based on my experiences the canine is the n.o.bler creature. Unlike humans, they are loyal to a fault, their love is unconditional, their motives free of personal gain. A dog's reward for obedience is simply to have pleased its master."

"A man's reward for domestic obedience is to be pleased by his woman."

"Stop it . . . you're confusing the issue."

"I thought the issue was conditioning."

"You miss the point. Unlike men, dogs are receptive to training; what you're doing is using deception to overcome inherent laziness. The average American male would rather sit on the couch all day; scratch his b.a.l.l.s, and sleep."

"Sounds like Sam before I had him neutered."

"My point is free-will. Man's first priority is to fulfill his own selfish needs. A dog's loyalty is instinctively to its pack."

"Would you consider a frat house a pack? Or a bar room filled with drinking buddies watching football? And correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't a Sergeant-Major the Alpha dog of his platoon?"

"Yes, but-"

"Have you ever performed for a treat, Spencer? Ever peed on a tree or dry-humped a woman's leg? Stuck you nose in her groin? Chased p.u.s.s.y? Do you enjoy having your b.u.t.t scratched?"

"Well, who doesn't?"

"Be honest-have you ever inspected your own bowel movement before you flushed?"

"What?"

"Ever pick a fight with another man just to prove who's tougher? Dug a hole at the beach? Howled at the moon?"

"Good . . . G.o.d, I'm a dog."

"You and the rest of the heteros.e.xual Y population. And, by the way, you should know that since I've been employing dog training techniques on my boyfriend he's been more content, less anxious, and he's lost weight. More important, he's been more attentive to my needs."

"Does he really inspect his own poo?"

"He gives them names. Torpedoes fire cleanly out the hole. Floaters float. Chunky's have nuts, corn fritters have-"

"Stop. I just ate Taco Bell for lunch."

"Ah, the Mexican toilet grenade."

"Good lord. Is this boyfriend of yours housebroken?"

"No, but he's getting there. So what's on today's agenda? This is a big week for me and I could really use something new."

"I've got just the thing." From his jacket pocket Spencer produced a black dog collar with a small built-in two-p.r.o.nged metal device, along with a thumb-size battery-powered control box.

"This is an electrical training collar. Far superior than a choker or p.r.o.ng collar, the remote trainer generates a small charge that will shock the dog's central nervous system, deterring any undesirable behavior for up to half a mile away."

Nancy inspected the device. "It really shocks the dog? That seems kind of cruel."