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advantage to chatting up someone who couldn’t help him in his intended career. Mumbling, ‘Good to meet you,’ Danny rose and moved on to a man in a blue, yellow and red checkered sports jacket sitting behind me.
    The boy introduced himself and the two chatted in low tones. So quiet, in fact, that I couldn’t hear them from just one row away, despite my best efforts. As I started to swivel back forward, I saw the seated man nod toward Potter’s back.
    â€˜The kid’s got balls, I’ll give him that,’ Prudence said as the boy stood up and continued on, working his way toward the back of the bus. Every few seats he stopped to introduce himself. ‘And sending an unpublished manuscript to a reviewer? Talk about a death wish.’
    â€˜I assume that’s not done?’ I asked.
    The princess shrugged. ‘What’s the point? Unless, of course, you’re the type who gets a kick out of having your unborn child torn apart by jackals.’ She turned and glanced at the magazine held by the jackal in question. ‘No offense, Larry.’
    â€˜None taken,’ Potter said mildly from behind it, seeming pleased by the comparison.
    â€˜Please leave the boy – is it Danny? – alone.’ Grace, kindergarten teacher and apparent defender of the young, spoke up. ‘Who amongst us hasn’t deluded ourselves into thinking we’re the next Hemingway or Christie, just waiting to be discovered?’
    A collective sigh – or maybe it was a whimper – came from the assorted aspiring writers seated around me.
    I repressed a grin. ‘I suppose it would be logical to think that someone like Mr Potter would be just the person – in fact, that he could feel honored – to do just that.’
    â€˜Not if you knew him,’ a voice behind us muttered.
    â€˜So is the kid’s stuff any good, Larry?’ Prudence asked.
    I saw Potter roll his eyes behind the magazine before he finally lowered it to address the question. ‘And how would I know that?’
    â€˜This Danny sent you a manuscript, or so he said.’
    â€˜And perhaps he truly did, but you can’t honestly begin to believe that I open and read what the vast unwashed mail me
un
solicited, do you?’
    In these days of electronic bills and bill paying, I barely got any postal mail. What I did get were obvious solicitations which I had no trouble discarding. I couldn’t imagine, though, not opening something that was obviously personally addressed to me from one human being to another.
    â€˜Really?’ I asked with the innocence of the uninformed. ‘What do you do with it?’
    â€˜Either write “return to sender” on the envelope and give it back to the postal worker, or simply toss the thing, unopened.’
    â€˜Michael York’ leaned forward to address us. ‘In truth, since September 11, 2001, and the anthrax scare, publishers don’t open mail unless it’s from a reputable literary agent.’
    â€˜Are you a publisher?’ I asked.
    â€˜No. A “reputable literary agent.”’ The man cracked a small smile, but didn’t extend his hand. ‘I hope you’ll forgive me for not shaking hands, but I fear contagion.’
    â€˜Oh, I’m sorry,’ I said, though he hadn’t shown any symptoms. ‘You’re not feeling well?’
    â€˜No, no. I’m just fine,’ the agent said, hands still rotating his hat like the steering wheel of a car doing perpetual doughnuts. ‘Now.’
    â€˜Our Carson is not only a renowned agent, but a renowned germaphobe,’ Potter said dryly.
    Ahh, I got it. Not being contagious, the agent really
did
‘fear contagion.’
    â€˜I haven’t shaken hands with anyone for over ten years,’ Carson said proudly.
    â€˜Truly?’ I was trying to imagine the business meetings and conferences, parties and receptions the agent must have been invited to