two million a day. Do you know what it is for the News? Close to three a week.” Michael turned around and I could see that he was wearing his half-rimmed reading glasses. “That means that on any given day for every individual who believes that there is order in the universe and that it can be observed in this world through the laws of economics, history, and geopolitical diplomacy, there are nearly two who believe that a potato chip in the shape of Elvis’s head will tell them their lucky lottery numbers. You, my dear, are presumably one of the outnumbered former group, and it behooves you to pay attention to those other patterns.”
“So which are you?” I asked, not at all convinced that his math or the numbers he was spouting were accurate, but dying to know what he was up to.
“Neither. I sit back and remark, that is all.”
That little beauty was too good to let go unchallenged. “Oh, c’mon, Michael, confess. Are you secretly hoping that pyramid power and garlic will keep you alive till you’re a hundred and fifty—?”
Coffee sloshed as he shuddered. “Gods forbid!”
“—Or do you think that true immortality lies in the size of your stock portfolio?”
“If you really are that curious, I will tell you.” Michael got up and refilled his cup. “I am—” he took a sip “—a post-post modern, post-Hegelian nihilist.”
I set my coffee cup down abruptly. “Excuse me?”
He mopped up the coffee that he had sloshed onto the table with a handkerchief from his raincoat pocket. “I don’t believe it matters whether truth is personal or universal, and I don’t believe that even if we find out for ourselves, it makes one jot of difference. What I am is merely an ardent admirer of the meaningless cosmic joke.”
“What you are is a bullshit artist!”
Michael smiled beguilingly over his half-glasses and I couldn’t help but notice how the sun caught the blue in his eyes. “Ah, but it is such lovely, deeply considered bullshit. And my publisher cries for it.” He took a sip, pulled his overcoat more tightly around him, and then thought about his words. “Not that that matters either.”
Now awake and eager to begin the day’s work, I went over to the sink and rinsed out my cup. But I couldn’t resist one shot at Michael; he made it too easy. “Hey, Michael?”
He’d begun to settle back into his meditations. “Hmm?”
“Have a nice day!”
The day promised to be a beauty, and even though I had to button up my overcoat all the way, I could tell that spring was chasing the winter cold away. Although I was in such a rush to get at the Chandler journal that I wanted to run to the annex, I forced myself to walk calmly. I’d decided not to drive for a number of reasons: for one thing, Bessy was sounding increasingly rough, and she needed the break. For another, I thought that the walk home would help clear my head at the end of the day, and I also didn’t want to sweat through my good clothes or turn an ankle by hurrying too much on shoes not made for hurrying. There’s some unwritten rule in library or archival research that says the researcher dresses nicely, professionally. This is in spite of the fact that there’s not going to be any real audience to see you, that working with old books can get pretty grubby—what with decaying dyed leather and brittle yellow pages that are turning to dust—and that it would just be more comfortable to wear jeans and a sweatshirt instead of a skirt and heels. I don’t make these rules, I just go along with them when it…suits me.
My walk also gave me a moment to enjoy the scenery and to make my plans for the day. I was afraid that at least a part of the morning would be taken up with introductions to the staff and to the library protocols. With any luck, I’d be able to look at the journal before lunchtime. I resolved to be patient until then, even though I was dying to see it; the only reason I’d found myself able to leave so late was that I knew the library wasn’t open on the weekend. I had been told over the phone that it contained more than cursory entries; this was a relief, as so many early journals were nothing but glorified weather reports rather than what we think of as