I am on the phone —
With a journalist.
He is having a minor psychotic break. Maybe a major psychotic break. He has forgotten how to write.
This happens. I know a guy who has written seventeen published novels but every time he starts a new one he does not remember how to write a book.
This is different.
I am, at the time, on deadline, with forty-eight hours till turn in. So it is maybe not convenient to spend hours [and it is hours] talking someone off a ledge. But, I do.
The reporter is doing a story on a school. One of those new age very artsy schools that are private and expensive and somewhat outside normal curiculum except for meeting state imposed curiculum guidelines [maybe] which have gotten to be pretty loose. A kid died at the school. He is investigating the school. Looking for something wrong. His assignment is roast the school. He is looking for something bad. And cannot find it.
And the info drops adult instructors are dancing naked with teen students around a campfire and also having sex with students.
I say, Well that is maybe your angle.
He says, Huh?
I say, It is inappropriate for adult teaching faculty to dance naked with teenage students and have sex with them.
He says, “It is?”
I know two things at this moment: One, I will never date this man; two, something is seriously wrong with the environment he grew up in.