My friend’s wife, Rachel, told me about Albert, the boy who walks backwards, one time I was in London. It was around the same time when I was permanently anxious, due in no small part to a recurring dream I was having where I fall down some stairs. We were waiting on a delivery of Chinese food and I was wondering which credit card was least likely to ricochet when it came the time to pay for the glutinous proportions we had ordered when Rachel suddenly felt the need to mention Albert. “What?” I said, when nothing else was forthcoming. She might as well have said when the bell rings . That would have generated an equal amount of anticipation for what should come next: when the bell rings, what ? “He’s Albert,” she reiterated, “the boy who walks backwards. That’s it.” After probing a little bit more, I didn't get any worthwhile information. Rachel and her husband to’d and fro’d to the kitchen table, crossing each other’s paths in opposite directions as they stocked the table w