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“I get it. I let her help me a couple of months ago. It was humiliating.”
“Not exactly an endorsement,” I tell him.
“Oh, no. Not because of Brooklyn—nothing she said. It’s just that we’re friends. I kind of wonder if seeing my chaos changed her opinion of me.”
“Well, if it did, I wouldn’t think she’s that much of a friend.”
“Funny. That’s what she said. I think you’ll like her. You two have a lot in common.”
“Is that so?” I inquire.
“Well, yeah. You’re named after a president and she writes about them.”
Two of the articles I read by Brooklyn were about the current president’s flailing administration. Both her research and her prose impressed me. I’m not convinced because my father named me after Jimmy Carter I belong on the same political playing field as Brooklyn. I find politics interesting. I’ve never had a desire to make my living from, around, or in the political sphere. “That’s an interesting observation,” I say.
“Plus, you love New York.”
I do.
“Ali told me your family is from Brooklyn.”
My great-great grandparents were from Brooklyn. My family is from the Connecticut suburbs. I don’t correct Dixon—exactly. “My dad’s family lived there for a couple of generations,” I reply. Like tens of thousands of Irish immigrants. I leave that part out.
“See? You’ve got a place to start!” Dixon’s enthusiasm makes me wonder if he and Ali are co-conspirators in a plot against me.
“I guess we’ll see,” I reply.
“What about you? Aside from organizational chaos, how’s the war in your neck of the woods?” he asks.
“Same day, different deadline.”
“The life of an author.”
“It’s sexy,” I reply.
“Oh, yeah? Anyone new on the horizon?”
Here we go. No, Dixon. No one new, old, or moderately interesting. And no, I am not and never will be interested in Ali. Relax. “If you mean have I met any women, no.”
“With your fan club?”
“I don’t have a fan club.”
“False modesty? Ali tells me there’s an entire page devoted to your fans on Facebook.”
“Readers, Dixon.”
“Right. Fans! I’ll bet there are a few ladies in that club whose fantasies go beyond your novels.”
Yes. Actually, there is. We call those stalkers.
“Hey!” Ali bellows. “Carter, can you get the ribs for me?”
“Duty calls,” I tell him. Saved from the grilling by the grilling. Ironic.
***
“Oh, shit! Ali, have you seen my phone?”
