The tall, curly haired mailman passed in front on my window every day. If he would only come in, or call for a dental appointment!

I had just opened my dental office in downtown Jamaica, I was 26 years old and I had almost no patients. I looked like a teenager. I had to use my wife's eyebrow pencil to reinforce and accentuate a mustache that would not show itself.

I sat in my own dental chair and read novels, borrowed from the Queensborough Library across the street. On certain occasions when I reached a good part of the novel, and the doorbell or telephone rang, I got annoyed at being disturbed.

How to get more patients? I was consumed by that thought. Should I join organizations and offer my business card in a friendly and subtle manner? Buy at local stores? Send out notices, speak to family, friends and strangers? A historical note: In 1962 there was no dental advertising. No neon signs...no pictures in the yellow pages in full-page ads...no slogans...no "We cater to cowards!"...no "Family Dentist!" Even your dental signs had to conform to Queens County Dental Society Laws. The signs were measured and could not be a half inch larger than prescribed.

The Jamaica YMCA was next door to my office. I joined the "Y" and played basketball and swam on their premises. No new patients!

The YMCA also had a building full of residents. These men came from all over the metropolitan area and actually from the entire USA and the universe.

They paid $18 a week for a small room with maid service and a place to receive mail and phone notices. There was a great cafeteria and I spent time in the "Y" lounge, watching television.

That is where I first saw the mailman. He spoke loudly and was always joking and kibitzing with the large group gathered around him. He was always at the center of social activity. Everyone clustered around him seemed to admire and toast him.

If he would only come in or call for a dental appointment. Then, I'm sure, all his buddies would eventually make appointments as well. My fortune would be made!

Then it happened!

Barging in on me, without knocking or ringing the bell, the mailman came in to set up an appointment. Hallelujah, my fortune was made! I was secure!

The mailman would be the "Judas Goat" that would lead all the "Y" residents to fill my empty waiting room. I steeled myself in preparation for the mailman's first visit.

His name was Phillip S.

He had originally come from Chicago, a son of a rich family. His father, a prominent attorney, had remarried and excluded him from the family home. Phillip told me his father would pay all his bills. (In 1962 - nobody had dental insurance - there was none.) Never mind, Phillip S., just bring in all those "Y" residents.

Phillip turned out to be a handful. He never kept his appointed time. He popped in whenever it suited him. Usually when he popped in, he requested a note for a dubious dental pain or a nonexistent dental problem. He needed the note to miss a day's work, while still getting paid by the US Postal Office.

He was erratic and so were the payments coming in from his father. I telephoned his father, in Chicago, and he stated, that he was washing his hands of Phillip, and from now on, "Phillip is on his own."

No horde of patients from the "Y" was breaking down my door and filling my empty appointment book.

Phillip S. drove me insane!

An appointment missed, a note given, no payment. Phillip was getting to be a liability, instead of an asset. On one treatment visit, I handed Phillip three letters to mail. Who better to give letters to than a uniformed mailman? My office rent, my home rent, and my mortgage payment on my dental equipment - three epistles that controlled my life.

An inkling of trouble emerged four weeks later. The superintendent of my apartment house, Mr. Patterson, approached me and gently asked why I had not paid the rent. (Usually I paid the rent a day in advance of the 1st of the month.)

I traced my checkbook and three checks were missing.

Phillip S. sprung into my thinking. Did he post those letters? Coincidentally, Phillip S. had an appointment on that day of discovery. I paced back and forth angrily as I waited to confront Phillip.

He barged in for his appointment, much like Kramer entering Jerry Seinfeld's apartment.

"Can I get a note, Doc? I missed work yesterday," Phillip S. blurted out.

"I have a question for you Phillip," I said sternly.

"Doc, I'm in a hurry. Can I just get the note? I missed work yesterday and I went to the ballgame. I don't want to lose a day's pay."

"Phillip, I want to talk to you about something that happened a month ago," I said, with my teeth clenching in anger.

"Yeah, what Doc?"

"What did you do with those three letters I asked you to mail?"

"I mailed them Doc."

"Are you sure Phillip? Are you positive?"

"Doc, I'll check the glove compartment in my car, but I'm sure I mailed those letters. My car's right outside. I'll be back in a second. Please write that excuse letter for me when I return."

My hot anger turned cold as I waited for the mailman to return.

Again Phillip charged through the door. No bell! No knock!

In his hand were three grimy, blackened, twisted, crumpled and misshapen envelopes with uncancelled stamps and my handwriting on them.

The three missing letters had been found.

"Gee Doc, I'm sorry, it must have slipped my mind. I have so much to think about."

"Phillip," I began, "I have tried to treat you as a responsible person, but you have disappointed me at every turn. I am going to give up on you, as both a patient and as a person that I wish to know. Please leave my office and don't come back."

As he slowly slunk out the door with his head down and his shoulders sagging, I felt badly, but I knew I had done the right thing.

My savior had turned into an oppressor! I thought having Phillip S. as a patient would solve all my problems. Wrong! He manufactured problems and there were more problems heading my way.

One week after my condemnation of Phillip, a well-dressed gentleman appeared in my waiting room. He introduced himself as a postal inspector working for the federal government. He flipped out a shiny badge to prove his status.

"Do you know a Phillip S.?" he queried.

"He used to be one of my patients," I replied sheepishly. The inspector opened a leather file case, and there, pinned to the page, were my handwritten notes for Phillip S.' absences. All seven of them.

I gulped as I stated, "He had a lot of dental problems but I didn't realize I had given excuse letters in such quantity. Most of them were well-deserved. When someone tells you they are in pain, it is hard not to sympathize." I knew my argument was not convincing.

The inspector said that Phillip was not a hardworking, honest employee and these notes were only a minor factor in the case against him. Phillip S.' days as a mailman were numbered. The inspector's last words before he left: "Be more questioning about giving notes in the future." I followed his advice for the next 35 years in my practice.

I realized that Phillip had used me, but it was my fault. I was a willing accomplice.

Phillip S. dropped out of sight. He left the YMCA owing everybody (including me) money. One guy was hit for $20, another guy was out $50, and another was owed $100. I was quite happy the postal inspector did not pursue the questionable notes I had written for Phillip. The money he owed me was trivial in comparison to a federal case of fraud.

Good riddance to Phillip S. but the story is not over. Here comes the punchline.

Skip ahead about two years. My practice was building nicely. Every Christmas my lovely wife Lorraine and I checked into the Plaza Hotel on 59th Street and Central Park South. Nobody made dental appointments at year's end, so we enjoyed New York City for the holidays.

It was a cold, frosty night and my wife and I were returning to our hotel room. A tall, thinly dressed and shivering flower seller was standing near the Plaza Hotel. He was unshaven and appeared down on his luck.

We recognized each other immediately and simultaneously. It was Phillip S.

As my wife and I approached his cardboard box, containing his wares, he reached down and handed Lorraine a beautiful rose.

"Thank you, Phillip," I said softly.

"Thank you Doc. You helped me when I was making a mess of my life. Not many people helped me, but you cared. I remember it well."

"Merry Christmas to you Phillip, and I hope everything works itself out," I said.

The beautiful rose was Phillip's small but earnest way of saying "thanks." I accepted his payment as payment in full.