Roy Cafferty finished his summer job on his cousinJackie's fishing boat, glad to leave the grease and stink behind. He went back to college, along with a flood of baby boomers streaming into schools across the country, who were eager to open the portals to the good life. Roy registered for drama, literature and history courses, still completely unsure of what he wanted to major in, despite being in his junior year at Hunter College. He bumped into Ann in the hall outside the registration area. They had gotten to know each other in an astronomy class, but it had never gone past a casual acquaintance. He hadn't seen her for months. Her sweet, sad, honest face made her more appealing than any of the more glamorous women he had been meeting recently. She seemed less skittish than she used to be and agreed to go with him to the San Remo bar in Greenwich Village, on the corner of Bleeker Street. Roy didn't have to go to the Off-Broadway theater where he worked that night, since the next production, a genderless interpretation of Sophocles' 'Oedipus the King,' set in a rock and roll club in the 1950's, was blissfully not scheduled to start rehearsals for another week.

Roy and Ann went to the San Remo and hung out for hours, catching up on the past, rediscovering each other. Roy gently explored whether or not they could go further in their relationship, but she was elusive. People Roy knew kept stopping at their table, buying them beer, sitting for a while, talking about whatever subject came up. Someone offered Roy a joint and they went into the men's room to smoke it. Roy came out feeling no pain, went back to his table and found Ann in a heated discussion with some novelist about poetry. The novelist asserted that poetry was an act of intellectual creation. Ann maintained that it came from the heart, soul or guts. The novelist sneered at her. "Well, which is it? One from column A, B or C?" Ann was unruffled. "That depends on the poet." "But you're telling me they don't have to think." "That's not what I said. The poet's first requirement is to feel deeply, then project those feelings into the poem. If they write without deep feelings, all they'll produce will be intellectual exercises or impersonal ramblings. If poetry isn't emotionally moving we may as well read prose." Roy had never seen her so animated.

Their table was located next to the window looking out on McDougal Street and they had been watching people walk by for hours. Hippies, tourists, shoppers, residents, artists, workers and students formed a parade of diversity. Everyone at the table was a little high, or stoned and they started playing a game, giving nicknames to passers-by suggested by their face or appearance. Some of the nicknames were funny. Some were silly. Some were accurate and provoked gales of laughter. There were only two rules. The nickname had to be given quickly, so the person could be identified and enjoyed, and they couldn't embarrass anyone. The game went on for a while and among the favorites were a short, jowly man with a cigar, who Roy dubbed Winston Churchill, an artificial blond Doris Day, three lively, glamorous black girls who were called Diana Ross and the Supremes, a precisely bearded Sigmund Freud, and an old, gray haired street woman who they named Apple Annie.

They had been making a commotion and Jimmy the bartender kept telling them to quiet down. They tried, but just as silence descended, someone came up with a good nickname that set them off again. They were still smiling at a sinister looking man dressed in black, who Ann called the Boston Strangler, when Jimmy offered to buy them a round if they'd shut up. They loudly accepted and cheerfully promised to end the game with a contest to pick the best nickname of the night. Each participant proposed a candidate that was greeted with boos or applause. Ann's entrant, the Boston Strangler, was the winner. Her prize was the drink of her choice and she ordered a brandy.

Roy's head was swirling pleasantly. He was about to offer a toast to the victor, when something white caught his eye and he looked out the window. A tall, muscular, bald-headed man with a large gold earring, wearing white T-shirt, white pants and white shoes was standing there, looking at him. Roy yelled: "I see a genie," and pointed. Everyone looked. The genie bowed. Roy gestured to him to come in and join them and he nodded yes. Roy cautioned everyone: "Now be cool, or he'll disappear in a puff of smoke." The genie came to their table, followed by drunken stares. Roy pushed out a chair. "Sit down, genie. How about a drink?" Someone offered him a beer. The genie took the beer, downed it in a few big gulps, wiped his mouth with his wrist and let out a long sigh of satisfaction. "Ahh." Roy was amused. "Was that good, genie?" "Yes. I was thirsty." He had a high pitched voice that didn't match his big, powerful body. "I bet that was your first beer in a thousand years, huh, genie?" Roy remarked.

The genie looked at Roy, bewildered. "What are you talking about? Why do you keep calling me genie?" "Aren't you a genie?" Roy asked hopefully. "No." Roy was disappointed. "Then I don't get three wishes?" "No, sorry." "Then who are you?" "I'm Mr. Clean." Ann quickly piped up with: "I'm Miss Pure." Others introduced themselves as Mr. Sanitary, Miss Brillo Pad, Mr. Pristine and Senor Spic and Span. The ex-genie was very sincere. "I really am Mr. Clean." Ann was tolerant. "That's very nice. What do you clean?" He started wagging like a puppy at the chance to explain. "I go to various places around the city, showing people how clean I am, letting them know I'm on their side in the fight against dirt and grime." Roy almost fell off his chair laughing. Mr. Clean was insulted. "What's so funny?" "I thought you were a genie, who would grant our wishes, but all you want to do is recruit us to clean our rooms."

After a few more beers everyone had settled in comfortably again. The novelist took Mr. Clean to the men's room and got him high. They came back and started a profound discussion about bagels. The novelist rapturously droned on about onion bagels, while Mr. Clean defended the virtues of poppy seed. Roy didn't pay any attention to them. He sat looking out the window, feeling unpressured for the first time in months. He knew it was only because he was high and that he wouldn't get high often, but for the moment he felt good. He thought about his problems without getting the least bit upset, despite knowing they would be back full force in the morning. His attention came back to the table when Ann asked Mr. Clean to tell them about himself. By then he was stoned out of his mind and he rambled on bitterly about having to dress this way to make a living. He claimed to be a serious stage actor, who wouldn't prostitute himself by doing soaps on TV. Instead, he was a living zombie ad for a commercial household product. Ann told him that Roy worked in the theater. Before that could become a topic of discussion, Roy took it as his cue to leave.

"I've got to be going. It's been an experience." He got up to go and Ann stood up and said she was leaving. "Do you want me to walk you home?" Roy asked. "No, thanks. It's only a few blocks. I'll see you in school. How about we meet next Monday in the cafeteria. One o'clock?" It was clear that she didn't want to be alone with him. "Sure. See you then." He left while Ann was saying good-bye to the others. When he got to the door he looked back and Mr. Clean waved at him. He waved back and called cheerfully: "I liked you better as a genie."