He looked at their blank faces. Janis came in from the kitchen, as she always did when the real shouting started.

“Oh my God,” Todd said shrilly. “None of you knows what I’m talking about, do you? You haven’t the foggiest fucking idea.”

“We should continue this another time,” said Joe, who felt he’d had enough. It was difficult listening to Todd like this when you had some idea what he was talking about. This was worse, because it was incomprehensible as well as unpleasant. “Mike, can you give Billy a ride, you’re nearest.”

Todd stood up. He tilted his head back.

“Hesitantly, the store clerk repeated to the woman what he thought he’d heard her say. ‘You want to buy a handsaw so you can cut off your ring finger?’ he said. ‘That’s right,’ said the woman, and what scared the clerk was how calm she sounded. ‘I can’t do that, ma’am,’ said the clerk and, because he was a fair man, he added, ‘And what’s more, I’m going to telephone to all the other stores around here to alert them concerning your attempted purchase.’”

Todd ceased reciting. He looked at the blank faces staring back at him.

“Jesus,” he said. “You call yourselves writers.”

He turned to Janis.

“You know it, don’t you?”

Janis, startled to be asked her opinion, stammered out a no.

“Right. Okay. Not one of you has read, or heard of, All My Colors.”

“All my what?” said Mike, emboldened by the room’s general ignorance.

Todd turned to him. “All My Colors, Mike. All My Colors. By Jake Turner.”

More blank looks.

“Oh, don’t tell me you haven’t heard of Jake fucking Turner,” said Todd, his voice a weird mixture of sarcasm, contempt, and genuine bewilderment. “I mean, Joe, Mike, sure, your knowledge of literary history is woeful, but Billy…”

Billy looked up, fearfully.

“Jake Turner, Billy. He was a Kerouac junkie just like you, am I right?”

“I don’t know of him,” said Billy.

“Christ,” said Todd. “Jake Turner!”

He addressed the room.

“All My Colors, Whitney Press, 1966. It was in the New York Times top ten list for two years. And not one of you has heard of it.”

Todd sighed. He’d done enough for art and literature for one evening. And he was tired. Tired of being the smartest guy in the room. Tired of being surrounded by the ignorant.

“Get out,” he said, waving a dismissive hand.

Janis hurried everyone to the door, and no one lingered.

*  *  *

“You think I was too hard on them?” said Todd as he brushed his teeth at the bathroom mirror.

Janis was trying to unzip her own dress because if Todd did it, he’d break it.

“You’re always too hard on them,” she said. Todd heard it as praise.