I asked a few teachers at Spinoza HS br the meaning of life br shouldn’t have br the answers not suited to my style br like br money, pussy, power, smart kids, br a plasma TV fully paid for, br meeting Madonna. br My quest lasted a week br when Bill Greve said, br “How come you didn’t ask me, Bernstein? ” br Because I didn’t want to hear br the answer br I said to myself br after all br his wife of eight years br ran off with a man br whose name Greve never found out br leaving him with a disabled daughter br brain hurt br when deprived of oxygen br at birth br and a mother now 83 br suffering from dementia br developed soon after her husband br passed away br finally the list completed br when he slipped on ice br injuring his back br with only pain killers br keeping him from total destruction. br Not answering my question br he said, “You? ” br “The meaning of life? ” br “I need to know, ” he whispered. br Never should have started this business br I moaned to myself br and now Greve trembling before me. br In any case whatever I said br wouldn’t ease his pain br life didn’t work that way br still Martin Buber, a hero from my college days, br insisted on a response to a soul br who called out to you br so I said, “Just gotta go on.” br Then that slight turn of the lips br his breath heaved into a sigh, br “I’ll try.