Around 6:00 he left. It was truly vile outside. The climate in New York ten days before Labor Day is pretty awful even on a relatively good day, which today most definitely wasn't. It was hot and very humid. The air was thick. Thunderstorms were in the forecast, but they weren't here yet. To Jack, the bad days like today gave him the impression that the entire city was trapped inside a gigantic, inflamed boil. As if in response, the itching in his groin was suddenly, sharply intensified. To make the day even more unpleasant, there was some sort of undefinable, foul smell in the air. Hell couldn't be worse. Jack walked the three blocks to the pharmacy. He came to the doorway and ducked into the marginally cooler air inside.

Jack looked around for a white coat, found one, and headed for its wearer. This turned out to be a very young man, at least from Jack's perspective. He was exceedingly neat. Not a single hair was out of place and the part looked like it had been made with a precision instrument. His pants legs, visible below the coat, had razor-sharp creases. Looking at all this crisp perfection made Jack feel more rumpled and seedy than he usually did. The young man had slightly arched eyebrows and a slightly arched upper lip. He seemed always to be looking down his slightly uplifted nose. The young man's facial features all together made a fairly convincing sneer, as if he was utterly contemptuous of whomever he was talking to. "He has the ideal face for customer service," Jack thought. According to his plastic name badge, his name was Richard and he was, in fact, a pharmacist.

Before Jack could say a word, the young man asked, "Hi! Have you heard about our special compounded Viagra? It could really improve your love life!"

"What?" Jack spluttered. He wondered if he looked like he needed Viagra. He felt very old. Then his eyes fell upon a large sky blue banner hung on the back wall which had the following words on it, "Ask Us About Our Special Compounded Viagra...For Those Moments When Neither You Nor She Can Wait." Jack reflected briefly that during a lot of those moments when he couldn't wait, he was alone. Life was often unfair. He heard Richard's fingers tapping on the counter and looked up at him. Richard's sneer was a little more pronounced.

"No, I haven't heard and I don't want to hear now, thank you. I need your help, Rick. I have this itch that is driving me nuts!" Jack began. The sneer deepened slightly. Jack explained his itch, where it was, how long he had it, what he had tried to do for it, and the fact that it was getting worse.

"First, it's Richard, not Rick," corrected Richard in a pedantic tone of voice.

"Sorry. Richard.," said Jack. He was glad he hadn't called him Dick.

"Second, you've had these symptoms for about 48 hours?" Richard continued. So did his sneer.


"That's right," said Jack, a little impatiently.

"And you have tried a good fungicide, to no avail?"

"That's right, Richard." Jack felt his spleen beginning to tighten.

"When was the last time you had a sexual contact?" Richard asked, sneer more pronounced than ever.

It was clear to Jack that Richard thought that "old" guys like him never had sex, and didn't deserve it even if they managed to get it. Not even if they did buy special compounded Viagra. Jack felt a surge of outrage. He thought, to himself, "I have been having sex for years longer than you've been alive, you little twerp. And I still do. The last time..."

"Uh..." began Jack, out loud, then he stopped. He searched his memory When was the last time? He felt himself beginning to panic. Then he got it. He remembered. Sort of. It was the night he got drunk, four days ago. He had gone to a bar, met some woman ("Which woman?"), gone home, had sex, slept it off. In the morning, when he awoke, she was gone. ("Who was she?")

"Four days ago. Friday night," said Jack, a little too emphatically.

"All right, then," said Richard brightly, like a teacher encouraging a slow-witted pupil who has just gotten the right answer. He thought for a second, then said, "You know, it sounds like it could be crabs."

"What?" exclaimed Jack in a shocked voice. Then he paused. There was that whiff of memory again, stronger this time, just beyond the range of recognition.

"Crabs. Pubic crabs. Pediculus Pubus." Richard said in a voice that barely masked his impatience.

" I know what crabs are," Jack began, "I just don't think...I think..." Crabs. Then it came to him. The memory that had been haunting him all day. It was her. His girlfriend from years ago. They had lived together for several months during his second year of law school. It had been her third year. She was a little older. They had broken up when she graduated and took a good job in another city. But the months they had been together had been great. She had been something special. It also had been the best sex he had in law school, and among the best of his life. He remembered fondly a thing she did, not with her hands, which they called the "Happy Handshake." He got a warm, fuzzy feeling just recalling it. When she left, it had taken him months to get over her. And he never forgot her.

After she had left, he discovered that she had left a little something, many little somethings, behind. Crabs. And they felt just the same as what he had been enduring for the last couple of days. That was what had been tickling his memory. He looked up to encounter Richard's look of genuine amusement at his predicament. Jack remembered how he had gotten rid of the crabs before. "Just sell me the damn shampoo," Jack said. Richard handed Jack a small brown bag. He had known all along and had been enjoying Jack's discomfort far too much.

While Jack was waiting to complete his purchase, he continued to reminisce about sweet days more than thirty years ago, and the strange paths lives can take. She had gone into private practice while he began his career as a prosecutor. Years went by. They both started families. She kept hers. They both advanced in their careers. She became a lecturer at a local law school, then later a full professor. He became the Executive ADA. More years went by. Then one day Mayor Giuliani was giving a little tour of the office to the new District Attorney, who had just been appointed on an interim basis to complete the unfinished term of the prior District Attorney, who had resigned. It was her. It was Nora. He had seen from her eyes that she remembered him just as well as he remembered her, but she covered well. "It's the great Jack McCoy," she had said, "I've heard a lot about you." Right after she was appointed, Abbie had asked him if he knew her. "Yes, I do," he had said, or words to that effect, "I know her well." But as far as he and Nora were concerned, there might never have been a relationship. They had never discussed the past, not once, in the two years he worked for her. It suddenly occurred to Jack that perhaps Nora's silence about their relationship was due to her having blamed him for the crabs. He had a small moment of discomfort at this thought.

Five minutes later, a small paper bag with a bottle of Rid in his hand, Jack left the pharmacy. He now regretted that he hadn't called the pharmacist, "Dick." Special compounded Viagra indeed, Jack thought. Richard probably needed it himself. After a moment of enjoyment at the thought of Richard having something limp and sweaty, Jack observed that the fetid heat seemed to have gotten worse. He headed for home. When he got there, he poured himself about three fingers of scotch in a water glass and sat down on his sofa. The questions flooded in. Who had given him the crabs this time? It must have been Friday's mystery woman. But who was she? He thought back to Friday and began to replay it in his mind.