The Interview

For a school assignment, Walter, the youngest of the nephews, wants to interview me.

“What’s your profession?” Walter asks.

“I’m a writer,” I say.

“No,” Walter says, “I’m going to call you an author. That sounds better. Authors are better than writers.”

“Okay,” I say. “I’m an author.”

Walter scribbles down a sentence or two. “Do you like your job?”

“I do.”

“You love your job,” Walter says. “That sounds happier.”

I nod. “I love my job.”

“How old are you?”

I have to think about this. “Let’s see … born in 1964 … it’s 2006 … I’m forty-two.”

Walter’s jaw drops. “You don’t just know how old you are? You have to count it up?”

“When you pass a certain age,” I say, “you start wanting to stop counting.”

Walter can’t believe this. “People should know how old they are.”

“Why don’t you ask me some follow-up questions?” I suggest.

“I don’t know what follow-up questions are.”

“Like Larry King. He asks one question, and then, to show he’s listening to the answers, he asks a follow-up question. It’s a second question that asks for more detail than the first.”

Walter considers this. “That takes too much effort.”

“You’ll never be a Larry King,” I say.

Walter shrugs. “At least I know how old I am.”