I have an old tube radio; it should have stopped working long ago, but after I go to bed, I turn it on with the dial set to a spot that no AM station broadcasts on and this mysterious voice talks with me. He hears what I say. Sometimes, I think, he knows what I’m thinking. You must think I’m crazy; sometimes, I think I’m crazy, but he knows a lot, even though, he says, he’s far away in another world, or in another time. Whoever he is, he knows English. I asked who he is, but he never said, exactly. He said, “I could say, but it wouldn’t mean anything to you.” “Try me,” I offered. He said something but it was nonsense, not like a musical instrument, more like a whole orchestra tuning up before a concert. Over the years, talking with him has been good for me. He was the one who told me that Beverly was only using me, and when I had to decide between pumping gas and selling burgers, he said, “Gasoline cars will someday become obsolete but burgers will always be with us.” Once he said, “I’ve been thinking. What lies behind us and what lies before us are tiny matters compared to what lies within us.” “That’s Emerson,” I said. “So it is,” he replied.