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I was impressed with the piece. José was writing in the language of hip-hop. He had a clear sense of intended audience. And he was good with metaphor.

There were some glaring factual errors that I hoped to take up with him, but in the meantime, the verbal battery went on. “You gotsta have street cred ta fuck with my shit. Man, they’d tear your punk ass up on the mothafuckin’ block.”

“You little bitch,” I interjected. “I was listening to rap music while you were still shitting your diapers.” I was genuinely irritated, but I was also taking a calculated risk. When I lived on the Rosebud Reservation I had worked part-time as a substitute teacher, and I quickly learned that one way to win the respect of a streetwise teen was to get in his face.

Occasionally, though, the strategy backfired.

José wasn’t laughing. He jumped out of his chair and stood over me, butterfly knife resting at his hip. “You calling me a little bitch?’

“That’s right,” I said. “Professionals understand that editing is part of the business.”