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“You want to tell me you’re not in a fifty-percent tax
bracket, Steve-O?”
I was silent. He knew I was.
“And,” he said gently, “it was really just about $769.50,
wasn’t it?”
I nodded reluctantly. Maine has an income tax which
requires residents in my bracket to pay ten percent of their
federal taxes to the state. Ten percent of $855 is $85.50.
“How long did it take you to write this story?” Wyatt
persisted.
“About a week,” I said ungraciously. It was really more
like two, with a couple of rewrites added in, but I wasn’t
going to tell Wyatt that.
“So you made $769.50 that week,” he said. “You know
how much a plumber makes per week in New York, Steve-
O?”
“No,” I said. I hate people who call me Steve-O. “And
neither do you.”
“Sure I do,” he said. “About $769.50, after taxes. And so,
far as I can see, what you got there is a dead loss.” He
laughed like hell and then asked if I had any more beer in
the fridge. I said no.
I’m going to send goodbuddy Wyatt a copy of this book
with a little note. The note will say: I am not going to tell you
how much I was paid for this book, but I’ll tell you this,
Wyatt: my total take on “Word Processor of the Gods”—
net—is now just over twenty-three hundred dollars, not
even counting the $769.50 you hee-hawed so over at my
house at the lake. I will sign the note Steve-O and add a