I understand from his tone that it is pointless to deny the claim. “It is nothing personal, I assure you.” “What, then?” “These are major life decisions I am facing. I need to be confident of your authenticity.” “And you doubt this?” “I suppose not,” I answer sheepishly. “I’m not sure. I’m not sure about anything at this point.” “Would you like me to relate to you the details of your first romantic experience with Becky Goldstein? Would you like me to describe the comic book you wrote in first grade in which the Muppets of Sesame Street had secret lives as superheroes, and Ernie and Bert possessed the special power to clean at faster-than-light speed? Would you like me to discuss the state of your bunions?” “None of that will be necessary,” I say. These are all embarrassing matters, none more so than the Becky Goldstein incident. “Well, then,” I-60 says.
