No longer wanting to be in the presence of the judgmental and stuffy ‘superblond’ Holmes, Sam dashed out to the delicatessen Feingold’s, owned by his family ‘friend,’ the excitable, hyperactive, and decidedly immature older gentleman named Harvey Feingold. A balding man in his sixties, Harvey, as he liked to be called even by his younger customers and friends, acted more like a young man in his twenties (come to think of it, he acted much like Sam and his friends), with his ludicrous, almost random sense of humour, hearty laugh, and penchant for gossip.
Sam was about to have the discussion of his life now, with his best friend Joel and the “big shot” playwright Fedor Aleksandrovich Samsonov. Fedor, affectionately known by family and friends as Fedya, was one of those little guys who had made it. A big, stern middle-aged man with a pronounced brow ridge, curly black hair, and a nice little mustache, Fedya, like many of Sam’s fr