I stoked up for the expedition on hamburgers and eggs and had two beers to celebrate my arrival in the land of no traffic cops. Maybe of no law at all, because I couldn't see how it could ever be administered in the vast blank area stretching above me. I took out a notebook and wrote down a few ideas for an article on policing the wilderness.

"You a writer?"

The waitress put down the check and nodded at the book, as if I hadn't understood. She looked interested, maybe not in writing but in anything different.

"Or are you FBI?"

She smiled enough to indicate a half-joke.

"I'm a food critic," I said.

"How was it?"

"I'll need to see the check before I can make a judgement."

She grunted a more or less friendly grunt.

"Right. So are you a writer?"

"Yes. I freelance for the papers and magazines. You won't have heard of me."

"Why? Because I'm a waitress?"

"Because nobody's heard of me."

It was as true as it needed to be. I made enough money and kept stuff going out, looking for a home, but I wasn't a name. Sonia said it didn't matter and my mother said it didn't matter, often I said it didn't matter, but in the end it mattered. It would be easier to work and to get the commissions if people had heard of me. I could write better stuff about better stuff and I would be known.

"What are you writing about?"

I took my change and left a tip. I held her eye for a moment:

"John Duberry".

She didn't look away and breathed out heavily through her nose.

"You asshole."