Mr. Mellows squirms his 6-foot 5-inch hulk onto a flimsy wooden chair. The low tabletop presses down on his knees. A bare 40-watt fluorescent light in the center of the ceiling flickers from the ceiling in the barren room; brown stains mar the blond, dusty hardwood floor. The gray paint on the walls is peeling. A cockroach lies belly-up near the warped door with an empty hole where the doorknob used to be. A dark cloud eclipses the sun, sharpening the relief of the crack in the glass pane of the curtainless window.

In a plastic-framed print on the wall, a young woman wearing a straw hat with a pink ribbon milks a Jersey cow in a barn surrounded by aspens bearing golden autumn leaves. Rocks with red and copper-green veins protrude from a creek.

A young reporter from the Front Royal Magazine sits across from Mr. Mellows. He centers his horn-rimmed glasses against the ridge of his nose and reviews his notes. It has taken him almost a year to arrange this interview with the Mr. Mellows of United Steel Corporation. He hopes a successful interview will improve his chances of being selected for a community events reporter by the Potomac Gazette – a more illustrious publication.

Mr. Mellows scans the room, scratches his neck and runs his fingers through his thinning hair. His eyes lock on the farm girl gripping the udders of the cow.

“Makes me envious,” he says, sweating in the July humidity of Washington.

“What’s that?”

“The print. Is that the life, or what? A sweet girl, countryside, nature.”

“Yes, sir. Know what you mean. Let’s get to work.”

The reporter reads his first prepared first question.

“Mr. Mellows isn’t your real name, is it? What’s your birth name?”

“That’s irrelevant, isn’t it?” answers Mr. Mellows. “I answer to Mr. Mellows. I made Mr. Mellows who he is.”

The reporter searches for a response.

“But, sir, people want to know more about you. Nobody even knows your first name.”

“First name, last name, middle initial. Big deal.”

Appearing slightly flustered, the reporter presses on. “My name is Bob,” he says.

“Just Bob?” asks Mr. Mellows.

“Ringling. Bob Ringling.”

“Related to the circus family?”

“Not really. Everybody asks me that. Gets annoying.”

“See what I mean? Why don’t you call yourself Bob Circling, eliminate the annoyance, Pick your own name.”

The reporter scratches his chin. “I thought I was interviewing you.”

“Yes, correct. But I’m not sure why. What have I done worth an interview?” Mr. Mellows asks with false modesty.

The reporter shakes his head. “You’re on TV, on billboards; there’s even talk of you being selected by Time magazine as the Man of the Year.”

“Ridiculous. I’ll never beat out Mayor Gargano. Do you know that his wife’s a Rockefeller?”

The reporter ignores the question and looks at the second question on his list. “The rumor is that your parents emigrated from Europe just before World War II.

Is that true?”

“Excuse me for switching the subject, but why is everything so run down here?  The place looks like a war zone.”