Oatczuk peers up at me from behind his desk. He purses his lips as if he wants to say something but can’t quite put the words together yet.
“So, Oatczuk,” I press on, “any ideas on where I might start looking? Since you two are like this?” I raise up my right hand, make a gesture of togetherness by crossing the index and middle fingers.
The professor exhales. Profoundly.
“This isn’t about money, Moonlight.”
“What isn’t about money?” I know precisely what he’s getting at, but I’m giving him a hard time. Just because. Moonlight the Ball Buster.
“Writing. It’s not about money. It’s about a calling. What we have instead of religion. Or in the place of it, anyway. A song inside of us that needs to be sung.”
“Which is why you’ve chosen not to make money at it.
