My Imaginary Conversation with Bobby Wightman-Cervantes

     Actually, I stopped at the Brownsville Public Library to use the computer room, but the young man in charge of the room said all the computers were taken and three other people were waiting ahead of me.  So I wandered  past the card catalogue to the long table in front of the research volumes, the kind you can use in the library, but not check out.  I contemplated perusing an 80's collection of "Motorcycle Digest" to see if I could find a review of a Kawasaki LTD 454 when someone caught my eye.
      He looked like pictures I had seen of famous blogger Bobby Wightman-Cervantes.  He was bespectacled, hunched over some large volume.  Flat on his table I could make out "Landmark Court Cases of the 1940's," a well-worn leather volume.  Underneath that book I noticed "Cosmopolitan" March1996-September 1998".   I hesitated to approach him, not sure of his response.
     "Pardon me.  Are you, by any chance, Mr. Wightman-Cervantes?"   The researcher peered over his glasses, smiled and then smiled more broadly.  "Jim Barton?  Mean Mister Brownsville?"  Extending his hand: " Call me Bobby."  He gestured toward the vacant chair across the table from him.  "I've read your new blog.  It's developing nicely.  5,000 page-views in the first month.  Not bad.  You've been on the city's ass.  I like that."
     "Well", I started.  "I never fail to read BROWNSVILLE VOICE.  You uncover details no one else seems to find.  I consider you a research tool.  I read you and Jerry Mchale first thing every morning."
     Bobby drew a breath.  "Jerry has sort of lost his way.  He's lazy.  Rather than do investigative journalism like me, he simply makes up quotes.  There is nothing I hate more than imaginary quotes.  I mean.  Is that journalism?  Hell no!  Then he adds that smut he calls art.  Believe me.  I know the difference between smut and art.  His shit is pure smut.  I don't want to use the term pornography because of my respect for the first amendment, but let's just leave it at smut."
   I sort of gathered myself, mentioning something about Nena waiting for me in the lobby.  "Keep in touch." whispered Bobby.  "I will."
      "Oh, Jim.  Can you give me directions to Tad Hasse's Cheese Shop?  I've developed a craving for smoked gouda.  It's down by Market Square, right?   I never go down there. . . . . ."