Hit him with a thumbs-up and went over to the table, setting my bag beneath and leaning against it.

He kept wanting to tell me about MFA programs.

“You heard of the Iowa Writers’ Workshop? My friend Jerry, the playwright…”

But I wanted to know what was good with him.

Took a good twenty to pry it out.

How he’d lost his spot a little while back.

Had been crashing with a friend, but then his friend moved.

Now he was just floating, waiting to hear back from places.

“That all your stuff?” I asked, eying the bags.

“Just about,” he said. “But you know UPenn? I think UPenn might have a good writing program. Jerry used to read at the…Kelly Writers House? Was that it? Something like—”

I finally had to go “Dude, I don’t give a shit about MFA programs. I’m not interested in writing for people who already read. Who consider themselves ‘literary.’ More ‘literature’ means more insulated, masturbatory bullshit completely irrelevant to the culture. I’m tryna write for people who don’t read. Who don’t give a shit about books.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it.

“All these things you’re harping on are disadvantages. All an MFA writer bio credit signals is that you’re churning out more derivative crap. That you’re out of touch with the people.”

“What people?” he asked, genuinely clueless.

I actually rambled to this dude about ‘the book I was working on.’ About ‘the time I almost walked across the country.’

That I had an ‘editor-agent-friend’ editing it.

At this Wawa. At midnight. On a Friday.

He was like That’s great. But stories. You need to write stories. To get your name out there.

It was almost 1 a.m. by the time I’d heard Jerry’s Yaddo story for the third time and turned Postmates back on, hoping to get saved by a ding.

Some show had just ended and a new wave of drunk folks filed in.

One group was three girls, three guys; fly outfits and ’dos, kicks and lineups, respectively.

The girls horseplaying about something or other as they passed, through a narrow corridor of space amidst the mayhem all around.

One playfully pushing another like Shut up, you fkn stoopid, the pushed girl sorta brushing against my big-ass Postmates bag, which I’d put back on since I was about to dip.

Seymour lifted up his coffee and stepped back, exaggerating ‘trying to not spill it,’ even though I took the entire brunt of the hit.

He looked back at the crew as they headed for the sammie counter, his face a fear/indignation combo.

Leaned in conspiratorially.

“Tellin ya, that’s what’s wrong with this city. With this country. Look at them! Animals, all of them.”

“All of who?” I said.

But I knew how he meant it.

“Alright bro,” I said, tugging on my backpack straps.

“Wait—you’re going?”