Goldfarb was looking a little sheepish. To be fair, his default look was sheepish, so really, he was just looking a little more sheepish than usual.

He had called and asked if I could meet him at the Firkin. I said sure, let me just see if Lewberg wanted a drink. But Goldfarb said he just wanted to talk to me. Which might have sounded a little ominous coming from someone else but sounded just about right coming from Goldfarb.

Anyways, I got to the Firkin about five minutes early, but Goldfarb was already there. He had ordered me a half of Guinness and was drinking a Diet Coke. He gave me a wave as I sat down, and I saw he had a copy of each of my last two books in front of him. I knew he didn’t want an autograph, because he made no secret of the fact he was not a big fan of my stories. Stories he described as “bathroom reading for people with extra speedy bowels.” So I wondered what he wanted. He didn't make me wait long.

“Sharri said I should talk to you.”

Sharri, “don’t call me Sherry”, was the name of Goldfarb’s new girlfriend. Neither Lewberg nor I risked mispronouncing her name because we both called her Marvin. It was after a guy we grew up with and did not like very much. We called her Marvin in front of Goldfarb too, and he took it in stride. She was manipulative and controlling and really generally unpleasant but was probably one of the most beautiful women Lewberg, Goldfarb and I had ever seen.

Goldfarb told us straight up he wanted to be that guy. Wanted to be the guy every other guy was envious of. He had never been that guy. Lewberg and I were not envious, but Goldfarb was not going to be convinced, and he had suffered through a Sahara-like dry spell, so we figured we would be supportive as long as we didn’t have to spend any time with Marvin.

And Goldfarb was perfectly happy with that arrangement.

But now Marvin, or Sharri, said Goldfarb should talk to me.

I asked him what did Sharri want him to talk to me about.

Goldfarb didn’t say anything. He took a nervous gulp of his Diet Coke and pushed the two books in my direction. He then, with one hand, rifled through the collection. A little like a magician before a card trick.

I picked up one of the books and flipped through the pages. Someone had gone through the book with a yellow highlighter, like the ones we used on textbooks in university, and had highlighted words in the book. Well, not so much words as word. One word.

Goldfarb

I picked up the second book and someone had done the same there too.

Someone.

“Studying for the big midterm, Harold?” I asked with a smile.

“Here’s the thing,” said Goldfarb slowly and carefully. “Sharri thinks my stories are carrying you. That without my stories, not my stories but the stories about me and the stories in which I figure, and these are her words, not mine, you would be left with, just to repeat, these are her words, with a pile of dog shit.”

Goldfarb looked down at his now-empty glass of Diet Coke. He wouldn't look me in the eye.

“Harold,” I said. “You don’t really believe that. Marvin, I mean Sharri, is just trying to get in your head. These stories are about all of us. You are just part of them.”

Goldfarb shook his head. “No, no,” he said. And he reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. “Kirkus said, ‘and a man named Harold Goldfarb headlines a series of hilarious stories.’” Goldfarb put the paper back in his pocket. He looked up at me and, with the word choking in his mouth, repeated, “Headlines.” I felt bad for him. I had never seen him look more uncomfortable.

“Okay, Harold,” I said. “What does Sharri want?”

Goldfarb looked up and said, “Really?”

And I said yes.

Goldfarb said, “She wants a collection of Goldfarb stories. And she wants my name to be in the title.”

“She wants your name to be in the title?”

“Yes.”

“Does Sharri have a title in mind?” I asked.

Goldfarb said, “She’s partial to The Goldfarb Chronicles.”

“The Goldfarb Chronicles?”

“Yes.”

“With just stories about you?”

“Sharri says you can throw in some Lewberg stories too. She says he is the yin to my yang.”

“Lewberg is the yin to your yang?”

“That’s what Sharri says,” Goldfarb whispered.

“The Goldfarb Chronicles,” I said. “Okay, Harold, I’ll do it.”

Goldfarb flagged down a waitress and ordered a double whiskey. He looked greatly relieved.

He said, “Really?”

I said, “Sure. It’s not the worst idea in the world. You and Lewberg appear in a lot of the stories.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

“Ok. Do you want me to send her a draught?”

“Sharri doesn’t read,” said Goldfarb. “She’s only going to look at the title.”

“And the title is?”

“The Goldfarb Chronicles and Other Stories.” Goldfarb seemed very pleased with himself.

I said, “Okay. Done.”

He said, “Really?”

I said, “Sure. What the hell.”

He said, “Thanks, man. I really appreciate it. I just don’t think I can handle being alone again. You know.”

I said, “No worries, Harold. I’ve got your back.”

He said, “Thanks.”

I called Lewberg and told him the deal.

Lewberg said, “That Marvin is really doing a number on him.”

I said, “I know. Got him all wrapped up around her gorgeous fingers. You should have seen him. Looked like he was going to cry.”

“Jesus, poor Harold.”

“I know.”

“And you’re okay with this?”

I said, “What do I care. Nobody reads these books anyway. But it just grates me that Marvin is going to get her way.”

“Yeah,” said Lewberg, “I hear you. But it is a pretty good title. The Goldfarb Chronicles and Other Stories.”

“Yeah,” I agreed. “It’s not bad.”

“Maybe it should be The Goldfarb and Lewberg Chronicles and Other Stories.”

I said “I don’t think so.”

“Let me ask you this,” said Lewberg. “What about the cover photo?”

“The cover photo?”

“Yeah. He gave you the name he wanted as a title. Did he say anything about the cover photo?”

I thought about it. He hadn’t mentioned anything about the cover photo.

I said, “He didn’t say anything about the cover photo.”

And Lewberg said, “Let me take care of it.”

I’m not sure if Marvin ever even saw the picture of Lewberg at the cottage that I decided to use on the cover. She broke up with Goldfarb about two weeks before the book came out. Goldfarb was mostly relieved. He never got the level of envy from other men he had hoped for. He was mostly reminded he was dating a woman nobody liked that much. He told me to forget about the book title one evening over another drink at the Firkin. But the book was done by then and to be perfectly honest, we liked the title, and Lewberg’s photo, which was meant to be a joke just to stick it to Marvin, was kinda growing on us. So we decided to keep the title and the photo.

Goldfarb wasn’t really thrilled that people would think he looked like Lewberg, and Lewberg, after sobering up, wasn’t really thrilled people would think he was Goldfarb, but neither really cared enough to ask me to change it.

So here it is.

The Goldfarb Chronicles and Other Stories. Goldfarb was looking a little sheepish. To be fair, his default look was sheepish, so really, he was just looking a little more sheepish than usual.

He had called and asked if I could meet him at the Firkin. I said sure, let me just see if Lewberg wanted a drink. But Goldfarb said he just wanted to talk to me. Which might have sounded a little ominous coming from someone else but sounded just about right coming from Goldfarb.

Anyways, I got to the Firkin about five minutes early, but Goldfarb was already there. He had ordered me a half of Guinness and was drinking a Diet Coke. He gave me a wave as I sat down, and I saw he had a copy of each of my last two books in front of him. I knew he didn’t want an autograph, because he made no secret of the fact he was not a big fan of my stories. Stories he described as “bathroom reading for people with extra speedy bowels.” So I wondered what he wanted. He didn't make me wait long.

“Sharri said I should talk to you.”

Sharri, “don’t call me Sherry”, was the name of Goldfarb’s new girlfriend. Neither Lewberg nor I risked mispronouncing her name because we both called her Marvin. It was after a guy we grew up with and did not like very much. We called her Marvin in front of Goldfarb too, and he took it in stride. She was manipulative and controlling and really generally unpleasant but was probably one of the most beautiful women Lewberg, Goldfarb and I had ever seen.

Goldfarb told us straight up he wanted to be that guy. Wanted to be the guy every other guy was envious of. He had never been that guy. Lewberg and I were not envious, but Goldfarb was not going to be convinced, and he had suffered through a Sahara-like dry spell, so we figured we would be supportive as long as we didn’t have to spend any time with Marvin.

And Goldfarb was perfectly happy with that arrangement.

But now Marvin, or Sharri, said Goldfarb should talk to me.

I asked him what did Sharri want him to talk to me about.

Goldfarb didn’t say anything. He took a nervous gulp of his Diet Coke and pushed the two books in my direction. He then, with one hand, rifled through the collection. A little like a magician before a card trick.

I picked up one of the books and flipped through the pages. Someone had gone through the book with a yellow highlighter, like the ones we used on textbooks in university, and had highlighted words in the book. Well, not so much words as word. One word.

Goldfarb

I picked up the second book and someone had done the same there too.

Someone.

“Studying for the big midterm, Harold?” I asked with a smile.

“Here’s the thing,” said Goldfarb slowly and carefully. “Sharri thinks my stories are carrying you. That without my stories, not my stories but the stories about me and the stories in which I figure, and these are her words, not mine, you would be left with, just to repeat, these are her words, with a pile of dog shit.”

Goldfarb looked down at his now-empty glass of Diet Coke. He wouldn't look me in the eye.

“Harold,” I said. “You don’t really believe that. Marvin, I mean Sharri, is just trying to get in your head. These stories are about all of us. You are just part of them.”

Goldfarb shook his head. “No, no,” he said. And he reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. “Kirkus said, ‘and a man named Harold Goldfarb headlines a series of hilarious stories.’” Goldfarb put the paper back in his pocket. He looked up at me and, with the word choking in his mouth, repeated, “Headlines.” I felt bad for him. I had never seen him look more uncomfortable.

“Okay, Harold,” I said. “What does Sharri want?”

Goldfarb looked up and said, “Really?”

And I said yes.

Goldfarb said, “She wants a collection of Goldfarb stories. And she wants my name to be in the title.”

“She wants your name to be in the title?”

“Yes.”

“Does Sharri have a title in mind?” I asked.

Goldfarb said, “She’s partial to The Goldfarb Chronicles.”

“The Goldfarb Chronicles?”

“Yes.”

“With just stories about you?”

“Sharri says you can throw in some Lewberg stories too. She says he is the yin to my yang.”

“Lewberg is the yin to your yang?”

“That’s what Sharri says,” Goldfarb whispered.

“The Goldfarb Chronicles,” I said. “Okay, Harold, I’ll do it.”

Goldfarb flagged down a waitress and ordered a double whiskey. He looked greatly relieved.

He said, “Really?”

I said, “Sure. It’s not the worst idea in the world. You and Lewberg appear in a lot of the stories.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

“Ok. Do you want me to send her a draught?”

“Sharri doesn’t read,” said Goldfarb. “She’s only going to look at the title.”

“And the title is?”

“The Goldfarb Chronicles and Other Stories.” Goldfarb seemed very pleased with himself.

I said, “Okay. Done.”

He said, “Really?”

I said, “Sure. What the hell.”

He said, “Thanks, man. I really appreciate it. I just don’t think I can handle being alone again. You know.”

I said, “No worries, Harold. I’ve got your back.”

He said, “Thanks.”

I called Lewberg and told him the deal.

Lewberg said, “That Marvin is really doing a number on him.”

I said, “I know. Got him all wrapped up around her gorgeous fingers. You should have seen him. Looked like he was going to cry.”

“Jesus, poor Harold.”

“I know.”

“And you’re okay with this?”

I said, “What do I care. Nobody reads these books anyway. But it just grates me that Marvin is going to get her way.”

“Yeah,” said Lewberg, “I hear you. But it is a pretty good title. The Goldfarb Chronicles and Other Stories.”

“Yeah,” I agreed. “It’s not bad.”

“Maybe it should be The Goldfarb and Lewberg Chronicles and Other Stories.”

I said “I don’t think so.”

“Let me ask you this,” said Lewberg. “What about the cover photo?”

“The cover photo?”

“Yeah. He gave you the name he wanted as a title. Did he say anything about the cover photo?”

I thought about it. He hadn’t mentioned anything about the cover photo.

I said, “He didn’t say anything about the cover photo.”

And Lewberg said, “Let me take care of it.”

I’m not sure if Marvin ever even saw the picture of Lewberg at the cottage that I decided to use on the cover. She broke up with Goldfarb about two weeks before the book came out. Goldfarb was mostly relieved. He never got the level of envy from other men he had hoped for. He was mostly reminded he was dating a woman nobody liked that much. He told me to forget about the book title one evening over another drink at the Firkin. But the book was done by then and to be perfectly honest, we liked the title, and Lewberg’s photo, which was meant to be a joke just to stick it to Marvin, was kinda growing on us. So we decided to keep the title and the photo.

Goldfarb wasn’t really thrilled that people would think he looked like Lewberg, and Lewberg, after sobering up, wasn’t really thrilled people would think he was Goldfarb, but neither really cared enough to ask me to change it.

So here it is.

The Goldfarb Chronicles and Other Stories.