Henry Needledorf's Nuclear Ambitions
by Bill Shein

Increasingly, at comic-book stores and at work, on street corners and in the grocery checkout line, people approach me — Henry Needledorf, a shy Manhattan temp worker — to ask, very pointedly, if I plan to give up my nuclear ambitions.

Which is, of course, precisely the reason that not long ago I revealed to the world the various "nuclear-program-related activities" that I have undertaken. Because let's face it: Once a man reveals that he does, in fact, have nuclear ambitions, he can no longer be ignored, discounted, or described in his ex-girlfriend's blog as "100-percent nutter, a freak, but gentle as a kitten" — at least not without repercussions.

To steal a phrase, after a man makes known even the most vague and nonspecific nuclear ambitions, attention must be paid.

Many wonder what inspired me to have my own nuclear ambitions. Shouldn't I be content with my share of today's existing, taxpayer-financed American nuclear reality? Because that's not just some vague ambition, but instead, a tangible arsenal of thermonuclear weapons ready to set the atmosphere on fire with just a few diplomatic missteps, one presidential entry of codes, and a command to "TURN YOUR KEY, SIR!"

The reason is simple. Today, Rodney Dangerfield's comic lament has become universal: Unless a man can claim something like nuclear ambitions, he just don't get no respect.

Take that day in August. I was crammed into an economy-class seat aboard Niger Airways flight 2321, en route to the capital city of Niamey to purchase enough uranium-rich yellowcake to fill the Book-of-the-Month Club gym bag stowed securely under my seat.

In a moment of self-doubt, I thought, "Why am I doing this? Why do I even have nuclear ambitions? Perhaps I should use my time more constructively, say, by becoming an humanitarian aid worker, or perhaps the submissive man-slave of a wealthy widow."

But then I remembered the anger I felt when the ticket agent refused me an exit-row seat because I wasn't a "platinum" frequent flier. Even after displaying the scars from four arthroscopic knee surgeries, and an x-ray film clearly showing steel rods in my spine, she said, "There's really nothing I can do, sir."

Clutching my gym bag, and fully aware of the substance that would soon stretch its leatherette vinyl to the limit, I said — quietly, to myself — "Next time, when my nuclear ambitions are well known, you will find something you can do, little lady!"

Whether it's the supervisor at ConglomoCorp who rides me all day, or the car salesman who robs me blind, or the blogging ex-girlfriend who puts the kibosh on my efforts to reconcile, I know that "nuclear ambitions" will be my ace in the hole.

Because when people encounter a man known to have nuclear ambitions, they can't look the other way. They have no choice but to wonder, with cold-sweat-producing fear, if his longstanding nuclear ambitions have become terrifying nuclear reality — even if his arms are as thin as pencils, his mustache as wispy as a teen's.

What might convince me to give up my nuclear ambitions? I'm not sure. In the past, six-party talks produced a flimsy promise not to invade my house, but that never seemed relevant. Let 'em have the place, I said, including the leaky roof and second mortgage.

And, frankly, the standing offer of $300 million worth of wheat — per year — in exchange for allowing Mohamed El Baradei and his U.N. boys to set up shop in my guest room is an absurdly round solution to a square problem. Especially when you consider my well-known gluten allergy.

Sure, there are other ways to earn respect on this crazy blue marble, like, by becoming a billionaire heiress, or a reality-TV star, or a billionaire-heiress reality-TV star.

But for me, it's nuclear ambitions, because I want to be able to say, yes, that's right, I am the person you saw on "The Situation Room with Wolf Blitzer." I am indeed the 43-year-old temp (typing, light phones, filing) who has nuclear ambitions. And you know what that means? You will throw in the floor mats and electric seat-warmers at no charge, my friend. And you, over there, you will sell me a first-edition Batman comic at a fair price — and you'll do it right now.

What's that, pal? Yeah, you. The one smiling, nodding, and backing away slowly. You think I'm bluffing? You think this is all a joke, some kind of stunt meant only to secure floor mats and comic books and ex-girlfriends?

Trust me — and I say this for everyone's sake — you should take my nuclear ambitions seriously. Because as the secretary of state once said, you don't want the smoking gun to be a mushroom cloud.

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Bill Shein has never met Henry Needledorf.

(This column originally appeared in the Berkshire Eagle newspaper on January 15, 2006. Join a discussion about this column in Bill's blog. And read Bill's previous column, "What is TimesSelect?").