“Howard West probably went to Harvard and has a degree in History.”
“You may be right. Why can’t you do that?”
“I would if I was a man.”
“No, not the road part, just get your writing on a disk and sell it. If you sell them for 10 bucks, and you sell….”
“You mean my columns?”
“Whatever! You’ve been writing since I met you for Christ’s sake.”
“More Magazine publishes me, and they're mainstream media. I could do a collection of columns, or even a book. Why didn’t I think of that?”
“You need to be published. You'll feel more confidence."
I took out my phone and scrolled through the numbers until I got to John, and then I deleted it. Maybe it was the dead cats in the road, or the poor teenager back in Anza without any future ahead of her but the donuts, or the clarity of a cobalt blue evening sky staring down at me that got me to move over to the other side of the double yellow line, and let John go.
“I’m starving, why didn’t I bring any snacks? “
“We’ll stop up here in Anza.”
“How do you know Anza.”
“I just do. You don’t want to know.”
“Rudy. ... I really don’t care.”
I threw my head back and laughed without a sound.
“Stop, there’s the store.”
“You know what else?”
“She couldn’t understand why I cared about you so much.”
“That’s a good ending.”
My phone rang, an unknown number; never pick those ones up, could be the guy who said his father killed Ben Siegel.
“I can’t stop now. We’re on the freeway nutcase. Who called?”
To be continued.