“I mean we did the math once—well, Dad did the math, and the research, too—and he’s one of the top—and this estimate’s conservative—he’s one of the top twenty thousand largest men on the planet, and that includes the not-the-least-bit-fearsome morbidly obese types in wheelchairs or wheelbeds or whatever, and I’m up there too, not quite as high as Dad, but top twenty-four/twenty-five thousand or so, and maybe that doesn’t seem so impressive at first cause it means twenty-five thousandish guys out there are as big or bigger than me, and plus you just met my brothers, who are two of those guys, so your perspective’s probably temporarily skewed, but even if it isn’t skewed, twenty-five thousand—that’s a lot of people, that’s almost half as many people as live in Wheelatine, but still, I’m saying. Still. When you think of it in terms of the world’s population, it’s pretty astounding, twenty-five thousand. It means that only like seven or so guys out of every million is as big or bigger than me. Something like that. And then you think: How many of those guys are trained to even a tenth the extent that I’m trained? Not too many. Maybe one in a hundred? One in a thousand? What was I getting at? What I was getting at is you look to me like someone who probably, in most situations, if the need arose, could take care of himself, and I don’t want you to think I think that if you were my size and you had my training that you’d be any kind of easy guy to handle, if, for some reason, it came to that. You wouldn’t, I don’t think. You might even handle me. So no disrespect, I’m saying, is intended by my staring so unflappably at you, okay, Mr. Magnet? I’m just a writer trying to do his day job. At least that’s my fantasy, that this is a day job.
“It isn’t a bad job, I’m not saying that. It’s kind of a great job. I’m pretty much set like in terms of money for the rest of my life if I keep this job, and I’d probably keep it even if I got famous as a published writer, but that’s how I know that my intentions are pure when it comes to lyric essays. It’s a calling, you know? I wouldn’t be a lyric essayist if I didn’t feel deep inside that I had to to fully actualize myself, which is, incidentally, what a lot of my lyric essays are about: me and my feeling that I need to write lyric essays. And also America. Being American. I find the two topics to be pretty closely tied. Anyway, it’s really a good thing for me to meet you cause you’re just, like, this man, standing there, like me, who’s standing here across from you. Size and training aside, we’re not all that different, and that helps me to understand something really important: that a writer’s just a person, a regular person who spends his time writing. I know that probably sounds obvious to you, but you’re already a writer, and your perspective isn’t skewed like mine. I mean the only writer I’ve ever met is Ms. Henry. Just imagine how skewed your perspective on what a writer is would be if Ms. Henry were the only writer you’d ever met. And then imagine the second writer you ever meet is you, just a regular person. It would give you all kinds of new self-confidence. I mean, it’s giving me all kinds of new self-confidence. Seeing you standing there, I’m standing here thinking, ‘You can do this, Valentine. If he can do this, you can do this. You can make it as a lyric essayist.’ You know, it’s funny. When I heard you were coming here, I thought of all these questions I wanted to ask you about writing. About what kind of writing you did, and if you had any advice on how best to write and how much to revise and that kind of thing, but now, with all this new self-esteem I’ve already got from just seeing you standing there, I don’t even think I want to ask you that stuff. Looking at you, I know I can figure all of it out by myself. Thank you for that. Thank you for the confidence. But there was other stuff, too, that I wanted to ask you, when I heard you were coming. Stuff about Dad. Hogan said Dad said you knew him back when he was Mr. Pellmore-Jason’s driver and I wonder if you’ve got any insights to share about what he was like, and I’m hoping you could tell me some things I can use in this lyric essay I’m working on about my relationship with him and America. Like, let’s be honest, I’m hoping you can tell me some ways that Dad was similar to how I am now. He always tells me he was, always says he was more like me than my brothers, but sometimes…I don’t know. Sometimes I think it’s just cause I’m the only brother with an artistic temperament, and he’s just being nice so I don’t feel lesser-than or have like an emotional breakdown or—one sec.” He held his hand to his ear and said into his collar, “Yeah. I hear you…I said that I heard you the first time, Duggan. And I really gotta say, man, when you eavesdrop through my mic, it makes me feel lesser-…Oh. So finish then…But he knows, though. It’s obvious. Everyone knows as soon as they look at me. At any of us. It couldn’t be more obvious…Okay. That’s fair. You make a good point.” He closed a fist around the part of his collar into which he’d spoken, and lowered his voice. “That was Duggan,” he told me, “being all, ‘Valentine, quit yapping at the guest, and quit calling Burroughs “Dad,” cause it isn’t professional.’ ”
“I don’t mind,” I said.
“I appreciate your saying that,” Valentine said, “but it’s not about you. The truth is I was wrong. I can’t be breaking protocols. I lack the experience to know when it’s kosher to. I have a lot to learn. I’m still in training. Three more years to go. I’m really stupid, sometimes. I hate myself a little. I read a while back that the most important thing for a writer was to have a good day job that affords him time to write, and Ms. Henry once told me the same thing, too, so I’m sure you’d agree, and, here I am, a lyric essayist who’s got a good day job that affords him time to essay, and I’m screwing it up. I’m betraying my art. I’m ashamed of myself.”
“Well—”
He unhanded his collar and said “Okay” into it. “You’re clear,” he told me, and unhooked the velvet rope.
Exiting the scanner, I wanted to console him. I whispered a lie. “As far as I’m able to make out,” I whispered, “you’re way more like Burroughs was than Hogan or Duggan.”
Valentine’s eyes seemed to smile at the corners, but he said, rather stagily, “Please keep your distance from my ear, Mr. Magnet.”
Duggan walked over from the other side of Pellmore Place. He handed me the bin with the box of Crunch and my pocket things in it, and, while I was holding it, he bangled my wrist.
“What’s that?” I said.
“Security bangle,” he said, and took the bin back.
“What’s it for?” I said.
“Security,” he said.
“Is it a tracking thing?” I said. “Like Triple-J’s necklace?”
“It’s to wear til you leave.”
“Can I remove it?” I said.
“Maybe, but you shouldn’t.”