"Nope."
"Just tell me."
"It doesn't matter. I'm in my car."
"Which one?"
"My Minor, all right. What's it to ya?"
"You're... you're just sitting in it?"
"Look, Skeet: I've got things to do, k?"
"You're busy?"
"Sorta."
"Sorta?"
"Yeah, I'm busy."
"Doing what?"
"If you must know, I was typing."
"On your laptop?"
"I think they're calling them 'notebooks' nowadays."
"K."
"Skeeter: is there somethi--"
"Typing what?"
"Doesn't matter. Whaddya want?"
"Nothing."
"So why'd you call?"
"See what you're doing."
"I'm doing fine, k?"
"Erm, I didn't call to see how you're doing, I called to see what you're doing."
"I'm in the front seat, composing, occasionally glancing up the street at a split-level home with frilly curtains over its garage window."
"Why?"
"I just... found a spot. I couldn't concentrate around the house. So I'm here."
"OK."
"Look, Skeeter: I'm runnin' outta minutes here. And bars."
"Your bars have gone down? Since we started talking?"
"Yeah. I lost a bar."
"Why are you looking at some house?"
"I'm not looking at it. It's just there. I just happen to be parked down the street from it."
"You're still in town?"
"Yeah. You?"
"Home. You know: day off and all."
"Cool."
"So whatcha typin'?"
"Nothing."
"What?"
"Just some... stuff. Nevermind."
"Like what?"
"It's kind of a reporting piece."
"Oh, it's for your site! You're still doing that thing, huh?"
"No, it's not for my site."
"It's not? What... what are you doing?"
"Just jotting down some notes. That's all."
"What kinda notes?"
"Just... it's kind of a volunteer news reporting slash 'crime-fighting' quasi-neighborhood watch deal."
"You're on the clock?"
"I'd be in a company car if I were, k? And I already told you I'm in my Minor."
"So you're not on the clock?"
"No. It's all volunteer work."
"Fiction?"
"It's what's known as journalism. All non-fiction."
"Oh, that reminds me. I was online last night and found this--"
"What?"
"You just reminded me of it. I saw this deal on Stephen King. About where he--"
"Oh, for crying out loud. You crack me up, Skeet. I tell you about writing something non-fictional--that's non-fiction, as in: true, factual, not fictional, hello?--and you bring up a fiction writer."
"Let me finish."
"Whatever. Yeah. Fine."
"So I'm surfing around and I find this thing about how Stephen King was investigated. Got in trouble. Arrested."
"What? Give me a freakin' break."
"No. He was. Really."
"How come I didn't know about this?"
"It happened a long time ago. He was using a pen name."
"What, Richard Bachman?"
"No. It was before that. He had a different pen name. But it was, in fact, Stephen King."
"Oh wait: let me guess. He in effect confessed to a bunch of heinous crimes, like he wrote in the first person about committing them, like 'I did this evil thing' and 'I did that other sick hideous thing'; am I right so far?"
"OK, look: if you're gonna make fun of--"
"What? Skeet? You there?... Skeeter? If you can hear me, call back, eh?"
"Can you hear me now?"
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