* * *
—
As Duggan/Hogan took Chad-Kyle out of the office, Valentine gazed at Burroughs, expectantly. Once the shutting of the front door was heard, Burroughs turned to him and said, “You did well. A little over-the-top at the end, maybe, but otherwise a solid performance. You’ve got great instincts.”
“That means a lot to me. Thank you. And I’m sorry I said, ‘Dad.’ ”
“No big deal,” Burroughs said. “Next time you’ll remember not to.”
“I will,” said Valentine. “I’ll make sure to remember. But can I ask, what did you mean by ‘over-the-top’? Like…which part exactly?”
“That America stuff.”
“You mean you think it was too on the nose? Or like I jumped the shark or…?”
“I don’t know what you’re saying, son. I’m not familiar with those terms. The America stuff just struck me as unnecessary. Made you sound a little…meandering, maybe. Then again, you were completely effective. Likely as not, that dipshit thought you were going off the rails and became even more afraid of you than he would’ve if you’d just stayed direct. So more power to you. Having further reflected, I’ve reconsidered. I rescind my critique.”
“No, no,” said Valentine. “You don’t have to spare my feelings. I think I see what you mean, actually. I think I got too lyrical with America and American. In an essay, it’s a great thing to do. It’s pretty much what all the best contemporary essays do. Those words, America and American—they’re so powerful. It’s almost like you can’t write a contemporary lyric essay without them. Not a great one at least. No kidding. No joke. I said so to my writing group a month or so back, and they all thought my observation was really intriguing, and so what we all did in the next couple weeks was we did America- and American-counts on all these different contemporary essays in the book of contemporary essays we’ve been using for the book-club part of our writing group, and it turned out I was really onto something. I mean, it turned out that the essays we loved the most—the ones that we all agreed were the most deep and moving and important—were the ones that most frequently used the words America and American. So anyway, since then, I’ve been trying to jam as many Americas and Americans and also Americanses into my essays as possible, as lyrically as possible, and I’ve been pretty successful, at least according to the writing group, which is really encouraging, but my point is that I think I’ve just gotten so in the habit of using America and American in my essays lately that I guess it must have infected my whole like persona while we were bracing that mark, which just isn’t appropriate. So point taken. Though maybe infected isn’t the right way to think about it, considering that lyricism isn’t a disease, and in many ways, actually, is kind of the opposite of a disease, but—what am I trying to say?”
“Why don’t we talk about this later, Val.”
“Can we?” said Valentine. “I’d love that.”
“Sure,” Burroughs said. Then to me, he said, “You. You nearly killed that little dipshit notary and I just fixed it. Tell me why.”
“Why I nearly killed him?”
“Keep up,” he said.
“Why you fixed it,” I said.
“Your first hint is: it isn’t because I felt it was right to do so.”
“You felt it was wrong?” I said.
“That’s not what I said. Your second hint is: much as I like your novel, and little as I like the dipshit notary, I am neither your friend nor your father, and I don’t do any work for non-friends or non-sons unless those non-friends and non-sons are my employers.”
“You want me to pay you?”
“Your bonus hint is: you could never afford me.”
“So you fixed it because Jonboat asked you to, you’re saying.”
“Now that’s exactly the incorrect answer I was seeking.”
“The incorrect answer.”
“Incorrect inasmuch as it’s incomplete. I’m trying to draw your attention to a distinction here, Belt, an important distinction. Jonboat asked me to fix it. Triple-J asked me to fix it for you. So far, I’m pleased to have been able to fulfill both of their requests without said fulfillment creating any, let’s call them, inter-fulfillment conflicts.”
“I’d like to thank them. And you.”
“You’re failing to appreciate the distinction I’m trying to impress upon you. I can convey your thanks to Jonboat and Triple-J, but for me, your appreciation of the aforementioned distinction is the only thanks I’m looking for.”
“You’re saying I shouldn’t try to thank them.”
“That’s one thing I’m saying.”
“You’re saying Jonboat saw me nearly kill a dipshit, so now he doesn’t want me anywhere near him or his son, but his son still wants me to write the transcript. You feel awkward saying this to me. You wish you didn’t have to, so you’re doing this whole roundabout, break-the-news-slowly thing that you’re doing.”
“I’ve never in my entire life felt awkward saying anything, nor can I speak to my employers’ motives, but you are one hundred percent entirely right about what Trip wants and what his father doesn’t.”
“Okay,” I said, more than a little touched by Burroughs’s attempts to treat me thoughtfully, needless though they were. “So what do I do?”
Burroughs wrote ten digits on the flap of the envelope into which I’d dropped my contract and check. “When you finish the transcript, you call me at that number, we’ll arrange a meet. In the meantime, you’re sore from the tazing, but you’ve had a concussion. Don’t take any aspirin or your brain might bleed. Acetaminophen only.”
“Valentine says I should walk in the sun.”
“The sun’s nice for the mood, but walking will diminish the soreness with or without it.”
“I heard you’re not supposed to go to sleep with a concussion.”
“Your eyes look fine and you aren’t vomiting. Are you feeling dizzy?”
“I’m not feeling dizzy. I do have a headache.”
“A very bad headache?”
“No. Could be sinuses, too. Sometimes in the heat, I get an allergy or something.”
“Sleep all you want. Walk all you can. Don’t take aspirin. Acetaminophen.”
“And that’s Tylenol, right?”