P.P.P.S. My own baby (the novel) is now three-quarters finished. I’ve got the voice down and the characters have taken on a life of their own. I’ll just see where it leads. It’s great fun, only they don’t like to print fat books anymore because of the paper costs. Well, it’s too good not to print. I’ve gotten so high on this goddamn book that I know soon I’m going to get exactly that low. It’s some kind of universal law. I mean, with the baby—you have hope and joy. You have unconditional love looking at you. What a great Christmas present, huh? I was secretly regretting this whole thing until I got your message today. Now I’m truly glad. I had a rare unselfish moment. Careful there, Ace. The next thing you know, you’ll be volunteering at soup kitchens. LOL.

Yours, the one and the only,

Aceman

P.S. What actually did you name her? Forget what I said about not wanting to know; I want to know.

to: CC14

subject: Love You Madly, Need You Badly

date sent: December 31, 1999

Dear Carol,

Why aren’t you answering my messages? Did your computer crash with the millennium bug? Total cataclysm isn’t supposed to happen until tomorrow. Are you okay? What’s going on? Your phone number, I see, is hereby unlisted. I called the goddamn hospital—I even called Bob, who refuses to spill. Does he know that we fucked seven ways till Sunday? Did you meet some new guy? Why are you hiding from me? I can’t really, in all modesty, imagine you met a *neater* guy than me. So what the fuck is going on? Do I have to fucking drive to Iowa City and hunt you down? Christ, baby, you’re making me crazy! So what is up?

Don’t think I failed to sense a shift coming. Actually, I expected you to pull some shit like this.