Walker's job was to rewrite people's backstories. He had started out forging documents, then moved on to inventing anecdotes for politicians, scripting dates and interviews, that sort of thing. Now every character was clamouring for his services.
'The whole thing's a fiction, anyway,' he said.
We were in his office. It was a dark afternoon, and I was watching the raindrop shadows travelling down his face. I wondered whether he was happy.
How did I know he hadn't made up his story? That he really was who he said he was?
'Of course I made it up, kid. You think I waste all the good storylines on strangers?.
But I like you, so here's the deal. I'll give you the gist of it, the bare bones.
You find it works, we'll flesh it out together, and you can pay me what you like. How's that sound?"
I couldn't deny that it sounded fair.
'So, what's the problem? Nothing criminal, I hope?"
I shook my head. No, no, it wasn't anything like that. I had always been too good for my own good.
'Ah, a bit of excitement then? You wanna be someone who's up for anything, someone who knows how to have a grand old time, an inspiration to others!'
Yes, that was it. A life worth writing about.
Mr. Walker laughed. 'Anything worth writing about is worth rewriting,' he said, descending upon his typewriter.
That's my story, and I'm sticking to it.
