“I will! I will! I’ll certainly do that for you, Bob,” he said, and so I was glad I’d put it that way. “And now, what I called you about is this.” And he chuckled. “Oh, don’t worry, no politics. Here’s the thing. I’ve got this really terrifically talented boy working for me now, Bob. This boy’s an artist.”

And great God, what a sickly, intricate thing a writer’s heart is! Because do you know what I felt when he said that? I felt a twinge of jealousy. “Artist,” was he? I’d show them who the hell the artist was around this little writing establishment.

But right away Bernie started talking about “strips” and “layouts,” so I was able to retire my competitive zeal in favor of the old, reliable ironic detachment. What a relief!

“Oh, an artist, you mean. A comic-strip artist.”