This is how Paul Auster entered my life. I�m sure everyone has their story to tell � and now I do too. I could describe how I agonized over each word in that e-mail, but that�s nothing compared to my apprehensions before the actual meeting. Grooming � including wardrobe selection � lasted for more than two hours. I wondered, "What image do I want to convey to Mr. Auster?" Hip? Reserved? Casual professional? Best not to chance it � something noncommittal, and yet complementary to whatever else would be worn in the room. Dark or light? Pastels. On second thought, no pastels. So once every detail from shoelace to cowlick passed a test of strict scrutiny, I settled on tan khakis with a button-down green shirt. (Mint green, of course, not hunter green.) Thus adorned, I hopped on the 1-train at 116^th Street.

HE was dressed unflatteringly in jeans and a black sweatshirt. Greeting me with a warm handshake, he guided me into the kitchen where I met Jack. Or rather, where Jack met me in all his frenzied, slobbering glory. When that terror-stricken contortion overtook my face, Mr. Auster knew: "Do you like dogs, Michael?" "Terrified." And with a flourish, he led Jack out of the room and returned presently, smiling. "Where shall we begin?" I didn�t know if he was talking to me or musing to himself, but I blurted out, "What�s your favorite color?" anyway.

He rolled the words over in his mouth. I was ready to deconstruct his answer � a character from Ghosts, perhaps, or maybe some ordinary hue without overused symbolism attached. Meanwhile, he gestured to a table with black skeletal chairs. Placing a cigarillo in his mouth, he asked, "Do you mind?" When I shook my head, he offered me one. I shook my head again before reconsidering and saying, "Sure." He passed me a lighter after which we sat in silence for a moment. "I don�t know if I have a favorite, but certain shades of blue are�soothing." I coughed � I�d never smoked anything before.

I strung along random questions, pausing between to sort out what I wanted to know next. "What type of novels do you write? How would you categorize your work?" He was patient and looked me directly in the eye when he spoke. He alternated between steady, measured responses and animated, interested conversation. I asked him about Moon Palace, the restaurant, and he recalled his Columbia days. Located at 112^th and Broadway, the restaurant served average Chinese food, he informed me, but at a cost that made it a favorite haunt of college students at all hours. "What everyone really liked about it though were its cheap martinis � two dollars a glass!" At this point, he humorously offered me a drink. I accepted a coke.

"What�s your one guilty pleasure?"

"Do you mind if I ask you a question first?"

"Not at all."

"What type of article are you writing?"

"A book review of Oracle Night."

"Well if you intend to review my book, maybe you should ask � I don�t know � more pertinent questions than my shoe size and my favorite childhood toy." Here he rested his head on his hands, smiling, trailing smoke across his face.

I smiled too. "I like to know my characters inside-out before I write about them."

"My one guilty pleasure is theft. My second is death."

"How do you mean?"

"You�ll find that the most interesting things happen in life � not novels. The people around you every day have different, bizarre, quirky stories to tell. You don�t need your characters to reveal themselves to you, because you know them already. Except most people don�t realize that. So when my writing steals from things I�ve heard and known, my readers genuinely experience surprise at how realistic my descriptions are despite their strange circumstances."

I�d definitely heard that before. I told him so. Then: "Do you really mean that?"

Beat. "No, not entirely." We laughed.

"May I see the rest of your home?"

He didn�t hesitate for a moment. In fact, it appeared that he leapt out of his chair the very instant I conjured the courage to ask. Upstairs and downstairs, he showed me everything. Sophie�s bedroom, his work area, the bathroom, the washing machine � this reminded me of something very unusual. When we reached the basement, I was surprised by how much his work area resembled a basement. There was definitely the corner with bookshelves, stacks of paper, and the device responsible for pressing ink to the sheets that became The New York Trilogy; but, I wouldn�t have been surprised to see a ping-pong table. That expectation didn�t let me wait any longer. "Mr. Auster, what�s the most interesting conversation you�ve ever had?"

Again, he didn�t seem bothered by my silly questions. Perhaps a slight twitch betrayed his calm, collected air, but I probably didn�t notice. He had had his back turned to me, and immediately swiveled and stole across the room to the nearest seat. He indicated that I do likewise. "Her name was Kristen," he began.

Beat. I sucked in a breath because my story started the same way.

"It must�ve been the summer between high school and college. When, for ten weeks, you were free of any obligations or imposed futures. You had a certain immunity with which you could do anything without fear of consequences. Enough exposition. We�d been together � Kristen and I � for quite some time and were living every day like it�d be our last together. I�d go to New York, and then she�d go to New Zealand. The end."

I was overcome by a need to press Auster for more. Just to make sure. "But the story wasn�t about Kristen and yourself," I said. "Kristen never partook in meaningful conversations with you. The two of you only exchanged letters. Endless epistles of powerful expression captured by the pen held to paper by a shaking hand. Blood, sweat, and tears. You were junkies for the written word, and luckily manufactured each others� drug of choice."

Mr. Auster took my cue. "So that�s what led me to her mother, Diane. One day when Kristen and her girl friends made a weekend trip to the shore, I decided to stop by the house. Diane met me at the door at roughly noon. We�d never seen each other before � Kristen had arranged it that way. Diane wore a yellow sundress and greeted me with a cold stare. She guided me into the kitchen where I met Fred, the parrot. With a flourish, she handed me a glass of water and gestured to the kitchen table. Sitting across from her, I didn�t quite know what to say. She made believe that she had an emory board, and examined her fingernails, waiting."

I filled-in the next sequence: "Then you started at the only place possible � your life story. You began with your parents. With New Jersey. Birth, earliest memory, family albums and videos. You chronicled what you perceived as the highlights of your life and experiences by which you defined yourself. You concluded, half-an-hour later by describing your relationship to her daughter, Kristen."

Mr. Auster again: "I remember that brief moment from when I concluded to waiting for her reply as being horrible. Here I�d opened all sorts of wounds to someone I was meeting for the first time. I didn�t really know what to expect. But then she told me her much more developed life story. She grew up on a farm in New Jersey. She married young, but traveled the world awhile before completely settling down. Her stories from Honduras with the Peace Corps were amazing. I�m not at liberty to share them with you, but suffice to say that she spoke freely and longingly about everything. As if she�d had these ideas that she was just waiting to share them with the next person who looked her in the eye."

"What did you do next?"

"What do you think?"

I was almost afraid to say. "She gave you a tour of the house. Every detail � bedroom, office, bathroom, washing machine. You were both awkward about it, but somehow it seemed right. Next thing you know, you were swirling daiquiris with her � except it was just cranberry juice. Being together out of context without either husband or girlfriend was relieving."

Mr. Auster nods. "The tour ends in the basement and we�re playing ping-pong. I knew neither of us had eaten so I gradually worked up the courage to ask her to dinner. I first asked her for the time." Pause. Mr. Auster stretches this out for as long as it�s worth: "It was ten o�clock. Too late for dinner. Sobered, we rushed through a good-bye and made promises to each other, namely: �Don�t tell Kristen.� We said it at the same time."

I really didn�t know what to say to Mr. Auster�s story. So I didn�t say anything.

"Now Michael, I must ask you not to make mention of this. I�ve kept my word to Diane, and anything printed would hazard discovery."

Now the words came to me. "I had a feeling you�d say that." I removed a folded piece of paper from my pocket and offered it to Auster. He took it. "Thank you for allowing me this opportunity, Mr. Auster. Our time together has certainly been�lovely."

As he led me out of the basement, I realized that he did mean what he said about storytelling � the best were the ones you knew already. Passing through the kitchen, I saw my half-empty coke next to the ashtray. I remembered that I also couldn�t finish my drink during my conversation with Diane. When we came to the door, I couldn�t help but feel violated. A story is in between the words. With Diane, our implied bond � mischievous daughter, disloyal girlfriend, Kristen � was the actual focus of our discussion. Diane let me tell my story because, though she already knew it, she wanted me to know that she hated me for it. Mr. Auster hated me as a matter of course. He made a living from telling good stories. Reporters made a living by stealing stories they didn�t know, and acting as if they really knew. So what right did I have to barge into his Brooklyn Heights brownstone demanding a portion of his life? Whose second-most guilty pleasure was death � his or mine? But after he closed the door, I still knew to listen for the unfolding of paper. The deep intake of breath when he read the first lines of my article:

Oracle Night, Paul Auster

Michael Jan, Columbia Daily Spectator