Well, we're maple trees to the _slizzers_, and that life-stuff is the sap we supply them. They do it mostly when we're feeling good--feeling really terrific. It's easier to tap us that way, and there's more to be had. (Maybe that's what makes so-called manic-depressives ... they attract _slizzers_ when they feel tip-top; the _slizzers_ feed; and _floo-o-m_ ... depressive.) Like I say, think about all this next time someone treats you just ginger-peachy, and makes you feel all warm inside. So see how long that feeling lasts ... and who is hanging around you at the time. Experiment. See if it doesn't happen again and again with the same people, and if you don't usually end up wondering where in hell your nice warm feeling went off to.... * * * * * I found out about the _slizzers_ when I went up to Joe Arnold's apartment last Friday night. Joe opened the door and let me in. He flashed me his big junior-exec's grin and said, "Sit, Jerry. I'll mix you a gin and. The others'll be along in awhile and we can get the action started." I sat down in my usual chair. Joe had already fixed up the table ... green felt top, ashtrays, coasters, cards, chips. I said, "If Mel--that's his name, isn't it, the new guy?--if he starts calling wild games again when it comes his deal, I'll walk out. I don't like 'em." I looked at the drink Joe was mixing. "More gin." Joe crimped half a lime into the glass. "He won't call any crazy stuff tonight. I told him that if he did, we wouldn't invite him back. He nearly ruined the whole session, didn't he?" I nodded and took the drink. Joe mixes them right--just the way I like them. They make me feel good inside. "How about a little blackjack while we're waiting?" "Sure. They're late, anyway." I got first ace, and dealt. We traded a few chips back and forth--nothing exciting--and on the ninth deal Joe got blackjack. He shuffled, buried a trey, and gave me an ace-down, duck-up. "Hit me," I said contentedly. Joe gave me another ace. "Mama! ... hit me again." A four. "Son," I told him, "you're in for a royal beating. Again." A deuce. Joe winced. I turned up my hole ace and said, "Give me a sixth, you poor son. I can't lose." A nine. "Nineteen in six," I crowed. I counted up my bets: five dollars. "You owe me fifteen bucks!" Then I looked up at him. I'll repeat myself. You know that hot flush of pure delight, of high triumph, even of mild avarice that possesses you from tingling scalp to tingling toe when you've pulled off a doozy? If you play cards, you've been there. If you don't play cards, just think back to the last time someone complimented the pants off you, or the last time you clinched a big deal, or the last time a sweet kid you'd been hot after said, "Yes." That's the feeling I mean ... the feeling I had. And Joe Arnold was eating it.