Had there been this medical procedure, the sampling of amniotic fluid to screen for the development of a fetus, including sex determination, the following scintillating words would not have been written. Robert's mother had decided to stop at two children. The Depression was depressing, and well, two is enough. Joel and Seymour were twelve years and nine years older than Robert. You do the math. When his grandmother, Rebecca, died, his mother wanted a girl to name after her. She decided to let this pregnancy make it through to term, go with the flow. This was, after all, a sign. A rogue sperm had found its way to an ancient ovary. She just knew it would be a girl. Robert surreptitiously slipped into this world by default. So, here he is, this accident waiting to happen, happy to be hanging out on this Earth. It's all good, so good. There he was, born with a crayon in his hand on October fourth. Ten-Four, over and out. He slept in the crack between two beds until his oldest brother moved out to join the Coast Guard. When you're introduced to the grand scheme this way, you have a leg up. You're not supposed to be here, be around, exist. So, hey, every moment is a gift. You're playing with house money, always in the bonus round, right from the get-go. Now, much closer to ephemeral dust in the wind than birth, he is heard to say, "I'll take 'Existentialism' $2,000, Alex." Robert's journey takes us from the hardscrabble streets of Post-Depression Brooklyn to the dunes of a Sartre-like Rockaway beach. Tales are couched in the conceit of Dinner Theater as he peers out from the wings, gains the courage to emerge, mingle, improvise and clutch the stage mike.
