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Maxfield
    Yamane continued to listen as he sketched. Rory seemed to be one of those people who abhorred the vacuum caused by a conversational lull. He was an enthusiastic speaker and a naturally funny person. Yamane enjoyed his company. As he sketched, imagining the scene in which Rory and his grandparents burst through the roof of their house in a hurricane, he wondered how Rory could be so cheerful.
    The waiter came, bringing the enormous platter of chips. “Don’t look now,” said Rory,
    “but I believe the food police are hot on your trail.”
    “That makes you an accomplice. Quick, let’s get rid of the evidence.” He smiled.
    Rory stopped, his chip halfway to his mouth.
    “What?”
    Rory sat back in his chair. He bit the chip and chewed slowly. “You smiled,” he said, picking up his beer and shaking the lime around in the amber liquid. “You don’t seem to do that often. It’s quite…”
    “So?” Yamane, self-conscious now, dug into his chips. “These are good.”
    “I didn’t think much of the combination at first blush, but I like them,” said Rory.
    “Sometimes things you don’t think could possibly go together are just perfect for each other.
    It always surprises me.”
    “Me too.” Yamane quietly watched his companion eat. He took a sip of his beer. Their food arrived and Yamane removed his long coat and draped it over the empty chair next to him. His crab came whole with a mallet and tongs and crackers for removing the meat. He stood and rolled up the sleeves of the fine white linen shirt he was wearing. With Rory watching, he expertly removed the legs from the crab, using a nutcracker and a shrimp fork to remove the meat. Then he smacked the body with a mallet, separating and plating the meat while placing the shells on the empty appetizer platter for the waiter to remove. He sat back down and prepared to eat.
    “You look like a southern boy doing that. You certainly know your way around a crustacean,” Rory commented.
    “I especially like Dungeness crab.”
    “This is fascinating. Somehow you’ve managed to smash a crab to bits without getting the slightest bit soiled,” Rory said as Yamane delicately wiped what mess there was off the tips of his fingers before picking up his fork. Rory started on his fish.
    “So,” said Yamane. “Don’t you have a million questions for me about art or publishing or something?”
    “How old are you?”
    “I’m thirty-one; I’ll be thirty-two in September.”
    “You don’t look much over twenty-five,” said Rory. “But I knew you were older because I’ve been reading your work for so long. Tell me about the Snoggs. How old were you when you created the Snoggs?”
    Drawn Together
    19
    “I was in high school when I started to draw them. When they started publishing that manga, the Snoggs took on a life of their own and people put so many intensely personal interpretations on it. Suddenly it became a juggernaut and I was sort of helpless against it for a while.” He motioned to the waiter for another beer. “In the beginning, the Snoggs were only little chef characters that danced and went around the world feeding hungry children.
    When it all took off, I felt like the creator of the Barbie doll or something.” Rory grinned. “I worked in a care facility for some homeless children during the hurricane relief effort. Sometimes, when I could, I’d plug my laptop into a car battery charger and run those Snoggs cartoons for the kids. There was one group of three-year-olds who couldn’t wait to do the ‘happy pancake dance’ every day. Say what you like about the Snoggs, but they really make people happy.”
    “I see. And I’m glad; I really am.” Yamane drank his beer. “But do you understand how sometimes people love my work for whatever reason, and then they get all confused and think that I, personally, am a part of the product?” Rory held up both his hands. “Preaching to the choir. I hear you. It’s hard sometimes to