In response to my item yesterday about the long-buried trauma I committed to Frankie Foer’s psyche by an elevator encounter with me in 1995, FF says that the memory of the incident was so traumatic he will have nightmares because I recovered it for him. Evidently the horror to which he was subjected involved spittle hitting his glasses — a detail that strikes me as probably a fanciful addition to his horrific recovered memory. But still. Let me state for the record, however, that if, in the 22 seconds or so in which I issued my objection to being labeled the possessor of a Stalinist aesthetic — a charge which he evidently still believes is nothing to be disturbed by, since in fact he didn’t mean it, as he probably means almost nothing he says — I inadvertently dampened Frankie’s spectacles, I do apologize. There was really no need for nightmares then or now, my boy. I see now that in your world — Frankie’s world — it’s meet and proper for you to dish it out whenever you choose, but under no circumstances should anyone expect you to take it. You might get a nosebleed or something. Come to New York and I will buy you an ice-cream cone, Frankie. You can even have sprinkles if you want them. And then maybe you will feel all better that the mean man in the elevator wasn’t nice to you that time.