We called A-- in Ann Arbor. They were not together, as it turned out. I didn't know how to ask her if they were still together. One of them was a theory-head, but that didn't matter. At least we implicitly agreed that we should all order fish. It seemed a fruitful conversation, though there were only a few points of real congruence. Florida, probably, of course. We had had common experiences in the academic underclass. Before answering me she ordered just what I did. . Another was the ex-partner of a good friend whom we would see the next day. We drove back, wondering about the future of the left but not talking about that, listening to CDs of somnambulistic Detroit Techno, which we agreed made the highwayscape seem even more horizontal than it already appeared. There were two Mike Golds, not one. Then she spent most of the time complaining about racist colleagues who meant well. I hoped you would call me from there, but I knew finding a phone would not be easy, and you don't yet own a cell phone. We called A-- in Ann Arbor. I asked her about him over a sandwich made of fresh ingredients, including slices of fabulously ripe tomato. I entered the room and felt immediately at home. Yet his heart is whole. Knowing three people before starting put me at ease. While she blustered about her department I thought of you in Marfa, Texas, and about art in an unlikely place like that. When we got there, he sat in a chair in a certain way, a way that made him seem like Trostky in Mexico, receiving visitors warmly but really too busy with his writing and thinking to entertain whole-heartedly. Where did such tomatoes come from in Detroit in early April?