All Apologies to L. Cohen by Simon Thompson So I said to her, "Suzanne, you've got to be at least half crazy to live down by the river, what with the glue factory and all. Didn't you invest those royalty cheques like I told you to?" Jesus, she could have been living in Mount Royal by now. To tell you the truth, she isn't much of a beauty anymore; dry gray hair, greenish skin and a nasty cough. I guess a steady diet of tea and oranges would do that to anyone. And to make matters worse, she stared at me the whole time I was down there. God! I never should have told her about that wavelength thing. Of course she asked if I had seen Len around, but how could I tell her he lives on top of a mountain with some sweet naif he calls his bodhisahtva? So I said to her, "Look, it's been twenty or thirty years now. Lenny's not coming back here." You should have seen the place: scraps of cardboard, old shoes, a shopping cart full of beer cans; a real rag and bone shop. And her, sitting in the middle of it all staring like a deaf mute in a rainstorm. It was enough to give a guy a headache. You know? A real pain.