“Marvin,” she said, “do you make house calls?”
“You know, love counseling … fly tying.”
“Uh, sure, why not? You need some help, Margaret?”
“Not me. I’m calling for George Walker. You know, Pop Walker?”
“Isn’t he about 105 years old?”
“Eighty-seven, I think. Can you come over?”
Marvin packed his portable fly-tying kit, put on a necktie and drove to the edge of town, near the park, where the home for old-timers stands.
“Hi Pop,” Marvin said, walking into his room.
“Oh hi there, uh … “
“Right. Marvin. Sit down. What can I do ya fer?”
“I thought you wanted some love advice from me. You know, the fly tying love advice?”
“Fly tying! That’s right. I need the love fly, Marvin. Tie me up one, because I need a date with Opal. That’s what you do, right? You tie a fly. I pin it on my shirt, and the girls just go nuts over me, right?”
“Well, Pop, I can do that, but most people want love advice from me, and the fly just kinda goes along with it.”
“Now why would I be asking a youngster like you for love advice? You just tie me up that lucky love fly and watch me work. What kind of fly do you think I should have?”
Marvin looked solemnly at the antique leprechaun.
“A spinner, I think. You know, for the all-out graceful last-minute love. I think I’ll tie you a spent drake.”
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