“Weird,” Zooey said, “Did you meet him?!”

“Yeah, creepy part is…he’s practically our age,” Fritz said.

“Ruins my fantasy, I imagined him as some 40-ish Buddhist drunk French man,” Zooey said dissapointedly.

“Not every secluded writer is the twin of the late Jack Kerouac,” Fritz said unamused.

“He’s not dead!” Zooey cried, “He’s just …missing.”

“That’s what you said about Elvis and Joe Strummer and Ian Curtis and Che Guevara,” Fritz said.

“I have my theories!” She said loudly.

“Can I please get back to the point?” Fritz questioned.

“Seriously,” he continued, “We meet in this crappy cafe joint across town and he meets me up at the bar. He was wearing these outrageous pants, they were bright red, like the ones David Bowie wore when he sang ‘Rebel Rebel’ on that show…what was it called?”

“Top Pops? I love that appearance he did!” Zooey chimed in.

“Yeah, that one,” Fritz said, “So, I hand over the manuscript…and he hands me some rusty mailbox key and leaves…”