“The seventies. Thirty years ago. That’s when I knew you.”

“Thirty years ago? That’s a long time. So how old am I now?”

“I don’t know. Sixty-five?”

“Old man. See that’s the problem. Time won’t stop. And if it won’t stop, then where the fuck are you? Or when the fuck are you? Good as dead. Everything dies. So why not now?” “Not that old. You remember Jack?” “Don’t remember anyone.” “No one?” “I remember Nixon. Bob Dylan. Lyndon Johnson.” “The Vietnam War.” “All the wars. I remember all the wars. Except one.” A young attendant entered the room and loitered by the window, as if waiting for me to leave. I said, “You need John?” The young man replied, “You’re Richard Morris, aren’t you?” “Yes.” I assumed my poker face. You never know what’s coming from people who recognize you. “I’m Theo. Very happy to meet you.” He extended a hand. We shook. “You know John, of course.” With a wave of my hand, I indicated John in his wheelchair. “Oh sure. But John says he doesn’t know me. Right, John?” John kept his eyes lowered and grumbled, “Never met you in my life.” “Okay, okay, don’t get all riled up, big guy. I’m only stopping by for a minute.” The attendant glanced at me.

John glowered. “All the guessing games. Okay, I give up. Who are you?”

“You know who I am, John, and if you don’t, I’m not going to make it easy for you, you fucking asshole.” The young man delivered this statement evenly with no anger, then turned to me. “Can you step out with me for a sec, Mr. Morris?” Theo gave me a confiding glance.

John growled, “No smoking.”

Theo said, “I know, I know, John. Relax. I’m not talking to you.”

As we left the room I said to John, “I gotta go, man, see you tomorrow.”

John smiled at me, a tired, yellow grin. “Thanks for dropping by, young scholar.”

In the parking lot, the kid lit a cigarette and said, “Mom said you drove up to visit John. She always talks about you guys hanging out in the bad old days. I thought she was bullshitting me. I love your work, man.”

He looked about twenty-seven or-eight. Was this John’s son? Was ’Gitte pregnant the last time I saw her in Brooklyn? I said, “John made a big impression on me when I was your age.”

“Yeah? Made a big impression on me too. Guy wasn’t really a father figure in the traditional sense. When I left home, I didn’t have to deal with his crap anymore. We lost touch. Then he got sick. I don’t visit that much. But Mom said you’d be here, so I thought, I have to meet my hero.”

“Hero?”

“Dude, don’t get me started.”

“You live up here?”

“Up here? In northern Appalachia? Nah, I live in the city. Brooklyn. Greenpoint. Trying to make my bones, you know? You have an apartment on the Upper West Side, right?”