With some men, it's just a box on their dressers, or a desk, or a corner of an unused back room. But I had set my sights high early in the game. With me, it was the whole workshop in the garage. * * * * * At first, Marge tried open warfare. She had to clean the place up, she said. I told her I didn't _want_ her to clean it up. She could clean the whole house as often as she chose, but _I_ would clean up the workshop. After a couple of sharp engagements on that field, Marge staged a strategic withdrawal and reorganized her attack. A little pile of wood shavings would be on the workshop floor one night and be gone the next. A wrench would be back on the rack--upside down, of course. An open paint can would have a cover on it. I always knew. I screamed loudly and bitterly. I ranted and raved. I swore I'd rig up a booby-trap with a shotgun. So she quit trying to clean in there and just went in once in a while to take a look around. I fixed that with the old toothpick-in-the-door routine. Every time she so much as set foot in that workshop, she had a battle on her hands for the next week or so. She could count on it. It was that predictable. She never found out how I knew, and after seven years or so, it wore her down. She didn't go into the workshop any more. As I said, you've got to be persistent, but you'll win. Eventually. If you're _really_ persistent. Now all my effort paid off. I got Marge out of the house for an hour or two that day and had George Prime delivered and stored in the big closet in the workshop. They hooked his controls up and left me a manual of instructions for running him. When I got home that night, there he was, just waiting to be put to work. After supper, I went out to the workshop--to get the pipe I'd left there, I said. I pushed George Prime's button, winked at him and switched on the free-behavior circuits. "Go to it, Brother," I said. George Prime put my pipe in his mouth, lit it and walked back into the house. Five minutes later, I heard them fighting. It sounded so familiar that I laughed out loud. Then I caught a cab on the corner and headed uptown. We had quite a night, Jeree and I. I got home just about time to start for work, and sure enough, there was George Prime starting my car, business suit on, briefcase under his arm. I pushed the recall and George Prime got out of the car and walked into the workshop. He stepped into his cradle in the closet. I turned him off and then drove away in the car. Bless his metallic soul, he'd even kissed Marge good-by for me! * * * * * Needless to say, the affairs of George Faircloth took on a new sparkle with George Prime on hand to cover the home front.