The reporter is quiet, distant. His gaze turns to the print of the girl milking the cow. “She is lovely, isn’t she? I mean the scene and everything,” he says.

“Yes, indeed. Wouldn’t it be nice to live among the aspens, milking cows and chasing butterflies?” answers Mr. Mellows. He looks past the framed print to the dead cockroach on the floor.

“You’re divorced, Mr. Mellows?” asks the reporter.

“Yeah, a long time ago. You married?”

“No, no…not… yet,” says the reporter. “Do you have any children?” he asks.

“A daughter, Cynthia. She has two kids…oops, three. I forgot the little one, almost a year old now. Cute little guy, at least when I saw him six months ago. It’s hard to get time to go to Chicago. Anyway, we must close now. Got your story? Business is waiting.”

Mr. Mellows puts on his jacket and brushes the dust off the lapel.

“What a spot you picked for the interview! Filthy. I hope it’s sold before it deteriorates any more. So, what are you going to say about me?” He looks at his Rolex.

The reporter clips his pen in his shirt pocket. He picks up his notes, pauses and places them back on the table.

“I wrote down what you said, Mr. Mellows.”

The reporter gets up and tucks in his shirt. He walks to the print and stares at the pretty girl. “Beautiful, isn’t she?”

“That’s a bit much, son, but I know what you mean.”

“Thanks for the interview, Mr. Mellows. I can’t begin to tell you how grateful I am for your time, and your insight. It’s been…useful.”

He moves towards the door without his notes.

“Certainly. Not so fast. Will I see the story before it’s published? I don’t want any wrong statements to appear.”

“The story is on the table, sir. I’ve got to go before it’s too late.”

“Wait. Where are you going? Too late for what?  Don’t you need your notes?”

“Not where I’m going. I’ve got my eye on this small farm in the country about 100 miles from here, close to where Becky lives. I’m on my way to buy it before someone else has the same idea. It’s a great…opportunity. Becky loves it. Do you know a cheap place around here where I can buy an engagement ring?” the reporter asks.

He goes out the door and begins to walk down the stairs.

Mr. Mellows stands alone in the doorway.

“Charles Melinski,” he shouts to the reporter. “My friends call me Chuck. My parents came from Poland. My mother never climbed trees. She died three years ago.”

The reporter stops and looks back over his shoulder. He smiles. Mr. Mellows is standing still at the head of the stairs, his tall frame bearing down on his right leg riddled with nerve pain.

“Thank you, Mr. Mellows,” answers the reporter as he steps out the front door of the building onto the sidewalk.

Mr. Mellows yells at the top of his lungs, “You’re an optimist, young man! An Optimist, with a capital O!”

A car horn drowns out his voice, and the reporter disappears from sight.