The man who had paid for our cab asked me if I considered myself a memoirist, and I said with a small smile, “Isn’t everyone?” The man said, “There is something dangerous about it. It makes me uneasy. I almost immediately worry how you’d portray me. Not knowing what you would write … I feel like I should behave.” I looked sideways at Gala before I said anything. “That seems a little funny. Shouldn’t you be concerned with that even off the record?” As the men continued to speak, I wrote a note in my phone. It’s inconspicuous; I look as though I am being aloof and texting, but I am noticing and
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