...and then blew it.
From the essay...
What would be the publication date? This I had ready: “January 1, 1997.” Six months off.
“That’s my birthday.”
“I think I knew that.” In fact, I had chosen it for that reason.
We wrapped up a few details, and bussed our trays. I stopped to stare at the waterfall outside the cafeteria, which flows over a set of stone steps right up against a glass wall. Suddenly, Salinger wheeled around. “What are you looking at? Answer quick, without thinking!”
Taken aback, I stammered, “I like that waterfall.” He seemed mollified. In a moment I understood: Had I paused so he could be secretly photographed? A friend later told me that such pictures can be sold for large sums.
Money, though, was not on my mind, nor on his. There was never talk of an advance, and although he did not want the book aggressively priced, he had told his agent, generously, to let me make some money on it. I worked out that I could sell the book for $15.95.
After refusing my offer of a ride, J. D. Salinger walked energetically across the Mall. I was both relieved and sad to see him go, and wondered if this would be the only time we would meet.
A series of letters followed. They were remarkably open, even garrulous, with notes on family life, social observations, gripes about train travel, little jokes about himself. He mentioned working on Glass-family stories, but told me nothing about what he’d written after Hapworth. I certainly didn’t ask.
Around this time, I unwittingly made the first move that would unravel the whole deal.
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