Geary Boulevard, San Francisco, 1984. It was a big deal. Queen Elizabeth was coming to San Francisco to visit with President Reagan. Some days before the event, Secret Service men came to visit us.

They were examining every building along Geary Boulevard, inside and out. The reason being that, after attending a function downdown, Prez and Queen would motorcade along Geary Boulevard to a fancy do at the Palace of the Legion of Honor, out by the ocean.

As a perfect sniper site, they examined our office, even climbing to the roof. Network OPs (operators) were interviewed. They were looking for suspicious characters. I guess they found none, for they moved on.

During this time I was developing the Line Seizer, an electronic device, and so I was wearing overalls that night, because I was a computer guy. We had advance warning because Pauly O’Brien, our client who lived in a cheap hotel downtown, called us when the Queen’s limo passed his window.

In our second story office, we crowded to the windows. First came a battalion of motorcycle cops, stopping side-street traffic as far as the eye could see. Into this quiet and empty lane cruised a long black limosine.

The Queen wore a charming gown, somewhat formal, in a robins-egg blue, and a small hat with half-veil. Sitting inside with the light turned on, so that we could see her waving to all of us. Very considerate. She was using the official Queeny-wave, where the hand, held upright, rotates from side to side at the wrist. All lined up, we waved back the same way.

Oh, us Network OPs had a fine view! Then she was gone.

According to our advanced scout, the President was cruising about five minutes behind. But phones got very busy just then, and several OPs had to go take calls. In fact, I was the only one at the window when the President’s Limo came gliding down the road, with six Secret Servicemen somehow standing on the outside of the car.

I threw the narrow window open, grabbed the sill, and leaned far out into the evening, to shoot the bird at the President. Four of the Secret Servicemen jumped, and grabbed for their guns.

However, they did not shoot me, and in a moment the President was out of bird range. I didn’t feel nearly as elated as I thought I would; Instead, I felt like a stupid smartass.

San Anselmo, 2001. Larry is a retired doctor, now about 90. Given that his name is Larry, perhaps it’s to be expected that he named his dogs Moe and Curley.

But, sad to say, Moe and Curley had passed on, and when Larry got another dog, he named the new dog Huey Lewis. I don’t think Larry is a big rock fan, so I’m guessing he just liked the sound of the name.

Now, the dog, Huey Lewis, is crazy about Larry, and at the dog park, if Larry goes to the bath room, Huey Lewis jitters at the gate on tiptoes, whining, till Larry returns. “Ah, be quiet!” grouses Larry, “Ya big baby!” Because, frankly, Larry’s sometimes kind of grouchy.

Larry is sitting on the bench, chatting with the dogwalker. Huey Lewis, idolizing Larry, flops his big head on Larry’s knee. “Aw, gimme a break!” growls Larry. Huey Lewis loves it. Larry’s not picking on Huey Lewis; Larry’s grouchy with the humans, too, some days. I’m not sure they like it as much as Huey Lewis does.

Now, here’s the wierd part. Huey Lewis — the rock singer — also lives in this neighborhood. He has a small dog with a big name — Maximillian? Balthazar? — and, when he’s in town, sometimes he brings Max to the same dog park.

And so it happened that, one day in the Spring, Huey Lewis, the singer, is playing with his dog at the same time that Larry decides it’s time to leave. Huey Lewis, the dog, is gamboling with a Bernese out in the field. Larry gets up.

“Huey Lewis!”

Huey Lewis, the singer, looks up. Larry’s looking in a different direction, now waving.

“Huey Lewis, dammit!” he yells. “Come ON!”

Huey Lewis, the singer, makes a gesture of puzzlement. Larry sees it, scowls. Larry gives an irritated ‘go-away’ wave.

“Not you!” he growls at the singer, and turns to go. “Huey Lewis!“

San Francisco, 1982: The staff at Network Answering Service were clamoring for raises. But we had no more funds. We had as many clients as we could handle, and our signups just replaced clients who left through natural causes. What to do?

My wife Lori booked a CPA consultant. After examining our books, he suggested the obvious. “You need to raise your rates,” he said. “They’re just too low.”

Well, of course they were, but I was terrified.

I could see it so clearly …

In 1976, when we started, I’d figured that, because we’d built our answering service on Call-Forwarding, we had no switchboard expense. Because of our operator-team method, each pair of operators could handle almost 300 clients. Very efficient. Other companies charged $30-$40 monthly. Our price was $14.76 to $17.76.

With these rates and good service, we grew quickly, but now we’d come to an impasse.

Now, looky back, it’s hard to imagine my fear. But then I saw it clear as clockwork. We would raise the rates, and immediately all the clients would leave. As simple as that. We’d be ruined. The clients were never going to pay more! It would never work!

Under unrelenting pressure from Lori, and implaccable assurance from the CPA, I yielded, with poor grace. Announced 30 days in advance, we raised the rates to $21.77. There was no exodus. A tiny twinkling of grumbles, and mostly a gaping yawn of indifference. $17, $21, what’s the difference?

I learned three things: First, you can raise the rates, and life goes on. Secondly, that clients will make any adjustments within three months. That is, if you offer some alternative, then within three months, everyone who is going to change will have done so. Third, just because I thought $21.77 sounded expensive didn’t mean the world felt the same. Just because I was a cheapskate didn’t make everybody else one! In short, we raised the rates, and no problem.

Some years later, my friend Oz called me up. He was agonizing over changing his rates. They’d been the same for years and years. If he changed these rates, he knew for certain, all his customers would leave. But all his costs had gone up; he was at an impasse. He was in agony. I laughed. I told him this story. Worrying at 90 miles per hour, he went off to try it, and called back later, wondering what all the fuss was.

What fools we are! How amazing it is that the deepest ignorance is so totally full of theories and beliefs!

There is just nothing quite so amusing as the pain of another. Even if the other is yourself, years ago.