James Tate: Heather’s Man

     A man stopped me on the street and said,

“Aren’t you Victor Hewitt?” “That’s me,” I

said, “how did you know that?” “I’m a friend

of Julian’s,” he said. “I don’t know any Julian,”

I said. “Julian’s Heather’s friend,” he said.

“Heather Eston?” I asked. “Yeah, I think that’s 

her name,” he said. “So why are you stopping me?”

I asked. “Heather showed me a picture of you,” he

said. “Heather has a picture of me? I barely know

Heather Eston,” I said. “Yeah, it was a funny

picture, too. You had some fruit on your head

or something,” he said. “I never had any fruit

on my head,” I said. “That’s not something I would

do. I’m a serious guy, I don’t put fruit on my

head.” “Whatever,” he said. “Heather said you

might know somebody who could help me do a job.”

“What kind of job?” I said. “Just a job, you know.

A job,” he said. “I know somebody who could

help you build a boat. I know somebody

who could help you build a mandolin,” I said. “Very

funny,” he said, “but I’m a serious man, too.

And I think you’re the wrong Victor Hewitt,

or you’re no Victor Hewitt at all.” “I find

both thoughts very interesting, Bruno. I really

do,” I said. Hey, how’d you know my name is

Bruno?” he said, “I never told you my name.”

“Heather told me,” I said. “Wow,” he said, looking

like he was trying to entertain a really big

thought, “and I thought I just made her up.”

“You did, Bruno,” I said, “and so did I. When

two people like us work together, you see how

powerful that can be. I’m definitely interested

in working with you on that job. What are we

going to do, free mice from a lab?” “You’re

beautiful!” he said, laughing, while nearly

suffocating me with his fraternal bear hug.