Oscar Christopher Duvall

Oscar was busy. He stood perplexed in a hallway, staring at a wall of family photographs which stretched back five generations. On the left were the Duvalls, his father's family, and on the right were the Duponts, his mother's family. The french-american man looked on in frusteration and he gave Olivia Catherine Dupont's portrait (his grandmother) a tiny nudge, a slight adjustment.

And then he felt rage boil up with him. After fixing his grandmother's portrait, he realized, his father's brother's portrait, one Oliver Constantine Duvall, was off kilter. He gave it a slight push. But then, Olivia Catherine Dupont somehow slipped to a slight degree. Oscar angrily pushed it in place.

He stepped back and looked at the wall. Octavio Charles Duvall was off-center. And much too high for Oscar to reach. Oscar got a step stool and gave the picture the slightest nudge.

And it fell. With a resounding shatter, the picture hit the floor, sending shards of glass all over and breaking the wooden frame.

Oscar swore loudly. Then he apologized to himself. Oscar always apologized after he swore. Even though no one was there to hear him. Oscar was alone for the week, his wife, Ottie Charlene Duvall (previously DePaul) was off at a teacher's conference in Amsterdam. Oscar had no kids. Oscar didn't like germs and he did not wish to sit on a dirty airplane seat for several hours so he elected to stay home.

Besides, Amsterdam was full of dirty pot-smoking hippies who had more germs on them than Oscar cared to know about. Before Ottie came home, Oscar intended to make her take a long shower with plenty of disinfectant.

He stepped off the stool and picked up the picture. The photograph was now scratched, an imperfection that would mar the entire hallway. Perhaps he could fix it digitally . . .

He was pondering this when suddenly the entire collage of family photographs came crashing down on him.

He swore, and then apologized for it. Glass shards were everywhere. Oscar was glad for his steel-toed boots. He always wore them, even around the house. Going barefoot, he decided, was the quickest way to catch germs. But bacteria were no match for steel toed leather boots.

Especially after he sprayed them (three times daily) with disinfectant.

He looked at the terrifying mess. Every last photograph on the wall had fallen, leaving a bare wall with a bunch of ugly nails poking out.

Then he noticed a slight sting on his hand. Somehow, he had cut his hand! He was bleeding! In horror, he dashed to the bathroom and locked the door to wash it. He opened the cabinet. There was nothing but bar soap inside. He took out a soap, opened it. He washed his hand with it and then threw out the soap. He did this two more times, throwing out a bar of soap each time. And then applied a band aid.