I had no "Doubt" that the briefcase I found on the sidewalk while jogging on "Revolutionary Road," the briefcase with the imprinted, small-letter words, "The Curious Case of Benjamin Button," belonged to "The Wrestler" of that same name. A little research revealed that Button-Wrestler lived "In Bruges," a snooty neighborhood in the north section of my city. I hopped into my "Gran Torino," and arrived at his house in about a half-hour.
"Frost/Nixon" appeared on the nametag of the dour-looking, heavy-eyebrowed butler who answered Button's doorbell. "Mr. Button's 'Rachel Getting Married,'" coldly announced the butler, "so he is busy and cannot be disturbed. Give me the briefcase," he frostily ordered.
"No, no, Nixon," growled the voice in the hallway behind the butler, "let 'The Visitor' in, dude." It was The Wrestler himself, an aging, battle-scarred hulk who looked like---hmm, I'll guess, somewhat like---the actor we haven't seen in years, Mickey Rourke. "Thanks, oldtimer," Button said to me, "for returning my briefcase. Come in for a few minutes. Can I offer you coffe, tea, 'Milk'?"
I was surprised; Button struck me more as the beer-whiskey type.
"Surprised?" he asked. "Don't be. People think I'm some kind of 'Slumdog Millionaire,' but I'm more of 'The Reader' type. In fact, when you rang the doorbell, I was reading St. John of the Cross' 'Dark Knight (of the Soul'), kind of to prepare me for Rachel's wedding and for meeting my new, numbskull son-in-law."
I gratefully declined his offer, seeing that he was indeed a busy man. That didn't stop him from slipping me a 100-dollar bill as he received his briefcase from me. I sang all the way home, even while crossing "Frozen River," feeling as lucky as "Last Chance Harvey." That's my story, and I'm sticking to it.