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on arguing.”
    He drove on a few blocks and parked again, this time in front of a tavern. We went in and took a booth. I said, “Listen, Arch, I want to ask you a question. How well did we get along? Were we close to one another?”
    “No, not especially. But we didn’t quarrel either. We just didn’t see a lot of each other because we didn’t have much in common. You probably think I’m a loafer and a lousy playwright—although you’re too damn polite to say so. I think you’re a Rotarian and a dope to have been working when you didn’t have to—or at least you could have picked out something more respectable to shoot for than writing advertising. You’ve always admitted it’s a lousy racket.”
    “Have I?” I thought it over and then said, “Well, why shouldn’t I have? I guess it is. But it’s a legal and reasonably honest way to earn a living and if I don’t write it somebody else will—and maybe worse.”
    He snorted. “Maybe you’ve forgotten the facts of yourlife, but not your corny opinions. You’ve said that before, almost word for word. Listen, how’d you like to go hunting with me tomorrow? Shoot some rabbits, maybe.”
    It was such a sudden change of topic that I had to read just my mental processes to think about it. Then I said, “I don’t think so, Arch. What have I got against rabbits that I want to shoot any of them?”
    “I knew you’d say that, and in almost those words. Just wanted to test you, Rod. Your—”
    The bartender came over and took our order and when he left, Arch went on. “Your opinions are the same on everything. You never did like hunting, even fishing.”
    I opened my mouth to give him an argument against them and then decided I’d probably already done so. Instead I said, “Why the hell would my opinions change? I’m the same guy that I was, no matter what I remember or don’t remember.”
    “You sure are. I’ll bet you’ve decided to go back to your job, despite that inheritance.”
    “Why not? I can’t live the rest of my life on nineteen thousand dollars or whatever it’ll be. I’ve still got to make a living, don’t I? Oh, with a backlog like that I might decide eventually to go in business for myself in something or other—but I sure as hell wouldn’t decide on anything like that while I’m all mixed up and disoriented. And meanwhile—hell, I’d rather have something to do than sit on my tail.”
    Arch sighed. “Yes, the same guy. You’re the same guy.”
    Our drinks came and when the bartender had gone away, he said, “I guess that answers your question as to why we weren’t close, Rod. We’re so damn near opposites. Now me, I’m going to stretch my share of the inheritance to live about five years on—and keep on writing plays. I’ll be able to do it better, too, living somewhere alone, out of that house and out from under Grandma’s thumb.”
    “And after the five years, what?”
    “Your faith is touching. I
might
be in the big time by then. If not—” He shrugged. “—well, if I have to go to work, I will, but I’m damned if I work until and unless I have to.” He grinned. “You’ve heard my opinions before, and even if you don’t remember them you’d disagree withme just as strongly about them as you did before. So let’s not go into that again. Let’s get to the main point. Why won’t you be sensible and see a psychiatrist?”
    “I’m not sure myself,” I said. “But I know damned well I’m not going to, so can’t we just lay off the subject?”
    He sighed deeply. “All right, I know that if you get stubborn about something I might as well argue with a lamp post. But tell me, and be honest, why don’t you want your memory back?”
    “I do. I just don’t want to go to a psychoanalyst.”
    He didn’t say anything and I didn’t. We sat there and sipped our drinks, concentrating on them as though it was important that we drink them attentively.
    Then Arch ran a hand over his crew cut and looked at me